My ice cream fetish has caught up with me.
I/my body failed the 1 hour glucose screening test yesterday. Boo!! It may have something to do with my zero exercise in the past 90 days, coupled with my advanced maternal age. Oh yeah, and the daily dark chocolate fix and my addiction to cereal (really, just granola but apparently too sweet). I spent the last 6 hours researching gd. I don't need more worry!
I'm cutting way back on my habit. I will do the 3-hour test in two weeks. I'm also irritated about how uncomfortable I will be in the lab (the most uncomfortable chairs ever) during the test, and how freaking hungry I will be. Best I can do is bring a book and a pillow for my back. And have a Big Mac waiting for me in the car when it's over.
On a happier note, my doc was really optimistic at yesterday's appointment. She is ok with me going for short walks once I hit 30 weeks. I cannot wait. I am so excited about walking with Kaleo and his Papa in the neighborhood, smelling the spring flowers, feeling the wind in my hair, and getting out of this bed. I won't train for that half marathon just yet (I have delusions that I'll do one in Santa Cruz next spring), but it will be nice to have some blood circulating in my chunky legs.
Speaking of which -- I am a chunk. I have never been a chunk. I know I need to get over it, that this is temporary but still. I looked at my ass in the mirror the other day and nearly fainted. The chunkiness makes these support hose that much harder to yank on every day. In the grand scheme of things that can go wrong in a pregnancy, this is so nothing to worry about.
Big field trip this weekend: visit the girls and Target. We're running out of toilet paper.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Tribute
Two years ago, a very loved and spoiled kitty left this world.
We went to the pet store (where the rescue organizations were displaying their eligible adoptees) fully intending to come home with a dog. And this big 8-year-old cat with big feet, which after much internet research we figured was a Ragdoll (although the foster mom said he was a Himalayan, but his face wasn't flat), fooled us by sitting quietly on our laps. Three hours and covered in three layers of fur later, we read and signed the paperwork, handed over the adoption fee, purchased the necessary cat paraphernalia, and went home.
Elvis (also called Mr. Elvis) was my 2nd kitty, wannabe dad's first. He was probably cursing the whole way home, having never had a cat, never thinking he would ever have a cat, but he never complained. Later on, as we both grew to love this kitty, wannabe dad would say "Did you ever think we would have a cat named Elvis?" with a huge smile on his face.
Elvis and wannabe dad were buddies. They kept each other company (wannabe dad worked from home). Elvis jumped up on the bed whenever wannabe dad tapped the side of the bed, and got in the habit of sleeping on wannabe dad's chest (all 16 lbs). Elvis would sit on my lap for hours and loved being held. Everyone who met him just loved his sweetness.
Six months later during a vet visit to check out a sick Elvis, an ultrasound and xray revealed that he had a massive benign tumor attached to his liver. No wonder he "yelped" when I brushed him in a certain spot - the tumor was pushing his organs around. And his "belly" (which felt like harder than muscle) stuck out from the sides of him which was not normal. We had spent over $1K for the u/s and xray and weren't in a position to pay for the tumor removal. We decided to wait and see if the tumor would grow.
Over the course of the next five months we noticed that Elvis would meow really loudly right before using his litterbox. We took him in for another scan and sure enough the tumor was continuing to grow and push on his organs -- the organs were in strange places as shown on the xray. We scheduled the surgery, and wannabe dad had a bad feeling that morning. We gave Elvis lots of kisses but I didn't say a proper goodbye.
Wannabe dad had a tough time sleeping for the next few weeks. There was one night recently when I heard him tap on the side of the bed (he doesn't remember). So weird. We did that big guy right by rescuing three more kitties, and we hope that he's sending his kitty love to all of us from pet heaven.
My office gave me a gerbera daisy plant, which I think is still alive in the garden (haven't been outside lately!). It's a nice remembrance of such a nice kitty.
We went to the pet store (where the rescue organizations were displaying their eligible adoptees) fully intending to come home with a dog. And this big 8-year-old cat with big feet, which after much internet research we figured was a Ragdoll (although the foster mom said he was a Himalayan, but his face wasn't flat), fooled us by sitting quietly on our laps. Three hours and covered in three layers of fur later, we read and signed the paperwork, handed over the adoption fee, purchased the necessary cat paraphernalia, and went home.
Elvis (also called Mr. Elvis) was my 2nd kitty, wannabe dad's first. He was probably cursing the whole way home, having never had a cat, never thinking he would ever have a cat, but he never complained. Later on, as we both grew to love this kitty, wannabe dad would say "Did you ever think we would have a cat named Elvis?" with a huge smile on his face.
Elvis and wannabe dad were buddies. They kept each other company (wannabe dad worked from home). Elvis jumped up on the bed whenever wannabe dad tapped the side of the bed, and got in the habit of sleeping on wannabe dad's chest (all 16 lbs). Elvis would sit on my lap for hours and loved being held. Everyone who met him just loved his sweetness.
Kiss my belly!
Six months later during a vet visit to check out a sick Elvis, an ultrasound and xray revealed that he had a massive benign tumor attached to his liver. No wonder he "yelped" when I brushed him in a certain spot - the tumor was pushing his organs around. And his "belly" (which felt like harder than muscle) stuck out from the sides of him which was not normal. We had spent over $1K for the u/s and xray and weren't in a position to pay for the tumor removal. We decided to wait and see if the tumor would grow.
Over the course of the next five months we noticed that Elvis would meow really loudly right before using his litterbox. We took him in for another scan and sure enough the tumor was continuing to grow and push on his organs -- the organs were in strange places as shown on the xray. We scheduled the surgery, and wannabe dad had a bad feeling that morning. We gave Elvis lots of kisses but I didn't say a proper goodbye.
I love the sun.
Wannabe dad had a tough time sleeping for the next few weeks. There was one night recently when I heard him tap on the side of the bed (he doesn't remember). So weird. We did that big guy right by rescuing three more kitties, and we hope that he's sending his kitty love to all of us from pet heaven.
My office gave me a gerbera daisy plant, which I think is still alive in the garden (haven't been outside lately!). It's a nice remembrance of such a nice kitty.
We love you, Mr. Elvis!
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Gravity
So overrated.
If it weren't for gravity, my cervix wouldn't have its ugly label of 'incompetent.'
My sciatic nerves wouldn't be taking the beating they are now.
These shoulders and neck wouldn't have to bear the sailor knots intricately woven in the muscle tissue.
Atrophied arms would enjoy some lightness of being.
Pounding headache would be a passing fancy.
Everything I do that has become a huge chore would be taken care of with a light tap.
Some calculations:
Number of days lying down (I counted these instead of sheep last night): 84
Number of days remaining (I am getting up at 36 weeks, dammit): 64
Pounds gained: 18
Percent of muscle lost: feels like 40%
Gallons of ice cream eaten: 1/2
Number of driving days: 0
Gallons of water consumed: 1890
Gallons of water flushed: 1892
Number of sleepless nights: 26
Baby's average heartbeat: 158 bpm
Height of belly wave action: 2-4 feet, glassy
Percent of wannabe dad's support provided: 1 million%
Number of names picked out: 1 first, 1 middle
Percent of time spent worrying: 60%
Number of things purchased for baby: 0
Happiness level today (0-not happy, 5-happy): 2, mostly due to the extreme muscle pains experienced this week
If it weren't for gravity, my cervix wouldn't have its ugly label of 'incompetent.'
My sciatic nerves wouldn't be taking the beating they are now.
These shoulders and neck wouldn't have to bear the sailor knots intricately woven in the muscle tissue.
Atrophied arms would enjoy some lightness of being.
Pounding headache would be a passing fancy.
Everything I do that has become a huge chore would be taken care of with a light tap.
Some calculations:
Number of days lying down (I counted these instead of sheep last night): 84
Number of days remaining (I am getting up at 36 weeks, dammit): 64
Pounds gained: 18
Percent of muscle lost: feels like 40%
Gallons of ice cream eaten: 1/2
Number of driving days: 0
Gallons of water consumed: 1890
Gallons of water flushed: 1892
Number of sleepless nights: 26
Baby's average heartbeat: 158 bpm
Height of belly wave action: 2-4 feet, glassy
Percent of wannabe dad's support provided: 1 million%
Number of names picked out: 1 first, 1 middle
Percent of time spent worrying: 60%
Number of things purchased for baby: 0
Happiness level today (0-not happy, 5-happy): 2, mostly due to the extreme muscle pains experienced this week
Friday, April 18, 2008
Outside
It seems all of our neighbors got together to oil up their lawnmowers and have a field day today. In our quiet little suburb the whirring vibrating sounds of gas lawnmowers and leaf blowers are disturbing my normally silent day, the smell of man machine exhaust floats through my house, added to the whining of the dog because his toys are outside and he's inside and he wants to be outside plus there's too much pretty grass out there that he needs to roll around in and those holes that he started digging and nosing earlier in the week are too shallow to just leave alone.
There's a plane overhead.
The yard will most definitely go to the crapper this summer. We have someone come and mow and do some light trimming but the big stuff like checking the irrigation and planting and bug control is usually done by me. This year there will be no tomatoes coming from my garden, just the resilient overgrown rosemary, green onions, two kinds of oregano, and maybe strawberries if the slugs don't get them first. Need to ask the garden guy how much he'll charge to be me.
The pink roses I planted for wannabe dad's bday last year are growing nicely. I bought a pot of beautiful red roses at that time but was too lazy to get them in the ground. Ugh. Add that to the list.
We had the foresight to clean out the garage last December. At least that's not on my list, but all the crap stored in boxes that I will never use again is.
Just some ramblings on a finally Friday. Tomorrow I get my 17p shot. Yay. Now for some ice cream.
There's a plane overhead.
The yard will most definitely go to the crapper this summer. We have someone come and mow and do some light trimming but the big stuff like checking the irrigation and planting and bug control is usually done by me. This year there will be no tomatoes coming from my garden, just the resilient overgrown rosemary, green onions, two kinds of oregano, and maybe strawberries if the slugs don't get them first. Need to ask the garden guy how much he'll charge to be me.
The pink roses I planted for wannabe dad's bday last year are growing nicely. I bought a pot of beautiful red roses at that time but was too lazy to get them in the ground. Ugh. Add that to the list.
We had the foresight to clean out the garage last December. At least that's not on my list, but all the crap stored in boxes that I will never use again is.
Just some ramblings on a finally Friday. Tomorrow I get my 17p shot. Yay. Now for some ice cream.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Skills
It was a rented car, a two-door convertible, driven by the then boyfriend on a weekend trip to the Big Island of Hawaii. We were on the way back to the Kona airport after visiting Kilauea volcano. At least 200 miles from the airport we stopped for gas. I got out of the car to...I think it was to clean the windows...but managed to leave my right pinky finger behind in the door when I closed it. That door was heavy, it trapped the tiny first digit, lifted the nail, blood blood blood drops, a trail through the sleepy mart as I walked in the door to the cashier to ask for napkins.
No hospital for at least 150 miles, we were told, but found a fire department several miles down the road. Two firemen tended to my poor finger, which was throbbing like a motherf*cker, wrapped it up nicely, then sent us on our way. Long story short, got to the hospital, xray found a tiny fracture on the fingertip, antiobiotic shot in the finger, tetanus shot in my hip, and a new bandage. Got on the plane and got home.
But this post isn't about the finger.
It's about the skills I learned because of the finger.
Wait, one last story about the finger. Two weeks later I attended a bridal shower, a small affair of 6 ladies including the bride. Or 5. Anyway, the maid of honor was kind enough to get the bride a stripper sent to the home of the moh in the broad daylight of a Sunday afternoon. I am not a prude, but I just was not into it, especially since for the last two weeks I was nursing my damn finger and walked around with my hand elevated. So it was my reluctant turn on the stripper's lap, and there's a picture of me being bounced up and down with my right hand elevated, my pinky finger sticking up, a huge this-is-a-really-funny-image-smile on my face. (I swear I didn't enjoy the bouncing, it made my finger throb. Plus, his lap was prickly since he probably shaved his legs a few or more days ago.)
In the month or so that it took the finger to heal, I learned to brush my teeth with my left hand, accommodate my job duties sans right pinky finger, and dare I admit, wipe. Yes, I became proficient at wiping with my left hand. A friend even asked me, "So do you...with your left hand?" "Yes!" I declared. I really had no choice, plus I wanted to avoid any cross contamination. She was amazed. I was amazed. It took 29 years to switch hands.
Super fast forward to '06. I picked up a few skills during my last forced bedrest that are applicable today: patience, asking for help (It starts with: "please pass the bedpan, and stand there so you can empty it for me. Wait, hand me the roll of toilet paper and a baby wipe. Thanks."), wriggling my way up onto my elbows from a lying on my back position to sitting up, eating and drinking and burping lying down, patience, lying down for hours, for days, letting go of the small stuff like crumbs on my chest, and patience.
So what if all the kitchen utensils aren't in their correct drawers. So what if all the towels end up on the guest room bed instead of the linen closet. So what if there's a pile of crap in the laundry room that doesn't even belong there (this is the first point of entry from the garage, and whatever is in anyone's hands ends up on a small counterspace in there and never leaves). So what if my closet is strewn about with winter sweaters, scarves, and various clothes and shoes (heels) that I won't be wearing for the next year. Overgrown eyebrows, head, legs and pits. Whatever. I have some grand plan in my mind that I will take care of this stuff, then make the mistake of telling wannabe dad my plans, and he nixes it. "The only thing you will be doing is growing Chuck."
Let's elaborate on the list: Letting go of feeling useful. And clean.
It's a redirection thing. Change of mindset. I am useful. I am keeping baby safe by minimizing my activities. An organized house and being perfectly groomed will not grow the baby. Repeat this to self daily or more often as needed.
Meanwhile, those darn contractions have calmed, I'm sure a temporary thing, but some respite until the next phone call. Chuck's movements are more pronounced, the waves he makes of my belly are eerie and could be set to music. It feels like he's positioned on a diagonal, kicking near my right hip instead of my cervix, and to the left of my bellybutton. He's usually very active in the mid-morning, afternoon, after dinner, around midnight, and 3 a.m.
Tomorrow is 26 weeks. Wow.
No hospital for at least 150 miles, we were told, but found a fire department several miles down the road. Two firemen tended to my poor finger, which was throbbing like a motherf*cker, wrapped it up nicely, then sent us on our way. Long story short, got to the hospital, xray found a tiny fracture on the fingertip, antiobiotic shot in the finger, tetanus shot in my hip, and a new bandage. Got on the plane and got home.
But this post isn't about the finger.
It's about the skills I learned because of the finger.
Wait, one last story about the finger. Two weeks later I attended a bridal shower, a small affair of 6 ladies including the bride. Or 5. Anyway, the maid of honor was kind enough to get the bride a stripper sent to the home of the moh in the broad daylight of a Sunday afternoon. I am not a prude, but I just was not into it, especially since for the last two weeks I was nursing my damn finger and walked around with my hand elevated. So it was my reluctant turn on the stripper's lap, and there's a picture of me being bounced up and down with my right hand elevated, my pinky finger sticking up, a huge this-is-a-really-funny-image-smile on my face. (I swear I didn't enjoy the bouncing, it made my finger throb. Plus, his lap was prickly since he probably shaved his legs a few or more days ago.)
In the month or so that it took the finger to heal, I learned to brush my teeth with my left hand, accommodate my job duties sans right pinky finger, and dare I admit, wipe. Yes, I became proficient at wiping with my left hand. A friend even asked me, "So do you...with your left hand?" "Yes!" I declared. I really had no choice, plus I wanted to avoid any cross contamination. She was amazed. I was amazed. It took 29 years to switch hands.
Super fast forward to '06. I picked up a few skills during my last forced bedrest that are applicable today: patience, asking for help (It starts with: "please pass the bedpan, and stand there so you can empty it for me. Wait, hand me the roll of toilet paper and a baby wipe. Thanks."), wriggling my way up onto my elbows from a lying on my back position to sitting up, eating and drinking and burping lying down, patience, lying down for hours, for days, letting go of the small stuff like crumbs on my chest, and patience.
So what if all the kitchen utensils aren't in their correct drawers. So what if all the towels end up on the guest room bed instead of the linen closet. So what if there's a pile of crap in the laundry room that doesn't even belong there (this is the first point of entry from the garage, and whatever is in anyone's hands ends up on a small counterspace in there and never leaves). So what if my closet is strewn about with winter sweaters, scarves, and various clothes and shoes (heels) that I won't be wearing for the next year. Overgrown eyebrows, head, legs and pits. Whatever. I have some grand plan in my mind that I will take care of this stuff, then make the mistake of telling wannabe dad my plans, and he nixes it. "The only thing you will be doing is growing Chuck."
Let's elaborate on the list: Letting go of feeling useful. And clean.
It's a redirection thing. Change of mindset. I am useful. I am keeping baby safe by minimizing my activities. An organized house and being perfectly groomed will not grow the baby. Repeat this to self daily or more often as needed.
Meanwhile, those darn contractions have calmed, I'm sure a temporary thing, but some respite until the next phone call. Chuck's movements are more pronounced, the waves he makes of my belly are eerie and could be set to music. It feels like he's positioned on a diagonal, kicking near my right hip instead of my cervix, and to the left of my bellybutton. He's usually very active in the mid-morning, afternoon, after dinner, around midnight, and 3 a.m.
Tomorrow is 26 weeks. Wow.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Relieved
It's getting difficult to type lying down, with the keyboard on my lap, with my belly blocking it, my arms elevated to reach it. It's not a wireless keyboard although it's very lightweight, and as needed I can lay on my left side with my legs pulled up so the keyboard can be propped up. That's easy to do when there isn't a cat on my lap or I risk kicking the sleepy kitty ("shleepy keety" in my house).
I'm distracted after spending a short time in L&D last night. It was only 1130 when I finally resolved to call my OB after experiencing 6 b-h ctx in an hour. This was the 2nd set of 6 that I had felt in an hour, with that first set felt in mid-afternoon. I told myself that I would call her if it happened again. I swore to myself that I would call. After wannabe dad had drifted off to sleep (amazing how quickly he does that), I was kept awake by a combination of the ctx and firm kicking. Thinking I could stave off the ctx by emptying my bladder, I did that three times in 20 minutes. Tightening. Pressure, but no pain. I switched on my lamp to write down the time, counted 6, then woke him up and called my doc.
We were instructed to go to the hospital, which is about 20-25 min away (I had never been to this L&D). We fumbled around our room getting dressed (the difficulty with OPMC is not knowing right off the bat what is available/appropriate to wear and what fits), admiring the cuteness of two sleepy bedcats, taking a few seconds to rub their fuzzy bellies. It was cold outside of the covers, and wannabe dad started breathing heavily. Fully dressed, he jumped back in bed shivering, pulled the covers over his shoulders, closed his eyes, started breathing in and exhaling through his mouth. He's been through this get-to-the-hospital-as-fast-as-you-can before, and a short anxiety spell had kicked in. I reassured him that I wasn't worried, that we were just going to get things checked out down there. Doc said she wasn't worried, and I told him that. Within a minute he was ok.
Thankfully it was a quiet evening and I was situated in a room right away for monitoring. I changed into a gown (memories), slipped into the elastic band and pulled it over my belly (memories), and two sticky sensors were placed on my belly (memories). I didn't freak out but I didn't attribute it to naivety.
Using a dry, cold speculum the nurse did a fFN swab (no lube on the speculum b/c of the test) and a manual cervical exam (with lube - yeah!). I swear she tickled my tonsils. She didn't get that good of a look at my cervix because of the discharge down there (normal), but she said it felt closed and normal. The stitch was doing its thing. After an hour wait indulging in late night cable shows (we only have bare bones cable at home) the fFN results came back negative. The ctx monitor picked up only 4 in an hour. I had the option of getting a terbutaline shot but given the fFN results and the cervical exam declined it. We got home, relieved.
"Thank you," I said to wannabe dad. "Thank God," he said, then fell asleep.
My doc monitored me again this morning (regular appointment -- how convenient!) and everything still looks good. She did admit that she was worried to receive a call from me, but was glad that I called. She said I don't have to apologize for calling, ever. She put me on much stricter bedrest from now on to see if that won't quiet the ctx (note to self: put on support hose), with the immediate goal of getting to 28 weeks.
I need a nap, for the next two and a half weeks please.
I'm distracted after spending a short time in L&D last night. It was only 1130 when I finally resolved to call my OB after experiencing 6 b-h ctx in an hour. This was the 2nd set of 6 that I had felt in an hour, with that first set felt in mid-afternoon. I told myself that I would call her if it happened again. I swore to myself that I would call. After wannabe dad had drifted off to sleep (amazing how quickly he does that), I was kept awake by a combination of the ctx and firm kicking. Thinking I could stave off the ctx by emptying my bladder, I did that three times in 20 minutes. Tightening. Pressure, but no pain. I switched on my lamp to write down the time, counted 6, then woke him up and called my doc.
We were instructed to go to the hospital, which is about 20-25 min away (I had never been to this L&D). We fumbled around our room getting dressed (the difficulty with OPMC is not knowing right off the bat what is available/appropriate to wear and what fits), admiring the cuteness of two sleepy bedcats, taking a few seconds to rub their fuzzy bellies. It was cold outside of the covers, and wannabe dad started breathing heavily. Fully dressed, he jumped back in bed shivering, pulled the covers over his shoulders, closed his eyes, started breathing in and exhaling through his mouth. He's been through this get-to-the-hospital-as-fast-as-you-can before, and a short anxiety spell had kicked in. I reassured him that I wasn't worried, that we were just going to get things checked out down there. Doc said she wasn't worried, and I told him that. Within a minute he was ok.
Thankfully it was a quiet evening and I was situated in a room right away for monitoring. I changed into a gown (memories), slipped into the elastic band and pulled it over my belly (memories), and two sticky sensors were placed on my belly (memories). I didn't freak out but I didn't attribute it to naivety.
Using a dry, cold speculum the nurse did a fFN swab (no lube on the speculum b/c of the test) and a manual cervical exam (with lube - yeah!). I swear she tickled my tonsils. She didn't get that good of a look at my cervix because of the discharge down there (normal), but she said it felt closed and normal. The stitch was doing its thing. After an hour wait indulging in late night cable shows (we only have bare bones cable at home) the fFN results came back negative. The ctx monitor picked up only 4 in an hour. I had the option of getting a terbutaline shot but given the fFN results and the cervical exam declined it. We got home, relieved.
"Thank you," I said to wannabe dad. "Thank God," he said, then fell asleep.
My doc monitored me again this morning (regular appointment -- how convenient!) and everything still looks good. She did admit that she was worried to receive a call from me, but was glad that I called. She said I don't have to apologize for calling, ever. She put me on much stricter bedrest from now on to see if that won't quiet the ctx (note to self: put on support hose), with the immediate goal of getting to 28 weeks.
I need a nap, for the next two and a half weeks please.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Exhale
But not all the way, of course.
Today at 24 weeks and 6 days, I am the most pregnant I have ever been.
Tomorrow I get to say that I'm 25 weeks, and will continue to be the most pregnant I've ever been. It feels good (but don't tell the universe or everything will go haywire).
The worry that has been plaguing me about the baby (I'm still worried about other shit that makes up my life) is inching its way down, miniscule bit by miniscule bit. I have been fervently keeping track of the B-H contractions by writing down the time in a notebook each time I feel one. There have been times when I had 5 in an hour, though I was instructed to call if I had more than 4. Am I tempting fate? Those few times I had 5 in an hour I just couldn't get my bladder empty enough, going just 10 and 15 minutes after the last trip. There is apparently in my body a fine balance between an overly full bladder and dehydration and when the contractions happen.
I distinctly don't remember any ctx with the twins, but that's when I didn't know any better. Now I know too much, dammit.
I started notating the contractions so that if it wasn't compelling enough for me to call, wannabe dad would do it.
I don't know why I'm not more paranoid to call my doc for every little thing. She told me to call for any reason. I promised myself not to be so g-d timid this time around. Good asian girl upbringing needs to go out the window.
I have no pain, no change in discharge, no heaviness, no bleeding or spotting, baby has been kicking my cervix and rectum for the better part of a week. The weekly headaches that plagued me for the first month post-cerclage are pretty darn scarce. The gas is plentiful and baaaaad.
And I found out that wearing OPMC (other people's maternity clothes) is a psychological positive. There's no baggage with these clothes. There's no "I only got to wear this once" or any pictures of me in these clothes while pg with the twins. Sure, the clothes are worn and stretched out, some are pilly, the pants are crop on me (the donor is 4" shorter than me, or more -- it's a blessing because summers here are deathly hot), definitely comfortable, but what it does for my head I am so grateful for.
(Although -- I did wear a shirt from my small stash the other day that says "hapai", which in Hawaiian means pg, and my friend asked where I got the shirt. "I got it two years ago in Hawaii when I was pregnant with Cerina and Nadia." She's a dear family friend, she gave me a big hug and said "it's cute!")
We haven't visited the girls in two weeks. There goes my mama guilt again. I know they wouldn't want me to risk anything with their baby brother. I think we can go when I get to 28 weeks or better. I am very much looking forward to both.
Today at 24 weeks and 6 days, I am the most pregnant I have ever been.
Tomorrow I get to say that I'm 25 weeks, and will continue to be the most pregnant I've ever been. It feels good (but don't tell the universe or everything will go haywire).
The worry that has been plaguing me about the baby (I'm still worried about other shit that makes up my life) is inching its way down, miniscule bit by miniscule bit. I have been fervently keeping track of the B-H contractions by writing down the time in a notebook each time I feel one. There have been times when I had 5 in an hour, though I was instructed to call if I had more than 4. Am I tempting fate? Those few times I had 5 in an hour I just couldn't get my bladder empty enough, going just 10 and 15 minutes after the last trip. There is apparently in my body a fine balance between an overly full bladder and dehydration and when the contractions happen.
I distinctly don't remember any ctx with the twins, but that's when I didn't know any better. Now I know too much, dammit.
I started notating the contractions so that if it wasn't compelling enough for me to call, wannabe dad would do it.
I don't know why I'm not more paranoid to call my doc for every little thing. She told me to call for any reason. I promised myself not to be so g-d timid this time around. Good asian girl upbringing needs to go out the window.
I have no pain, no change in discharge, no heaviness, no bleeding or spotting, baby has been kicking my cervix and rectum for the better part of a week. The weekly headaches that plagued me for the first month post-cerclage are pretty darn scarce. The gas is plentiful and baaaaad.
And I found out that wearing OPMC (other people's maternity clothes) is a psychological positive. There's no baggage with these clothes. There's no "I only got to wear this once" or any pictures of me in these clothes while pg with the twins. Sure, the clothes are worn and stretched out, some are pilly, the pants are crop on me (the donor is 4" shorter than me, or more -- it's a blessing because summers here are deathly hot), definitely comfortable, but what it does for my head I am so grateful for.
(Although -- I did wear a shirt from my small stash the other day that says "hapai", which in Hawaiian means pg, and my friend asked where I got the shirt. "I got it two years ago in Hawaii when I was pregnant with Cerina and Nadia." She's a dear family friend, she gave me a big hug and said "it's cute!")
We haven't visited the girls in two weeks. There goes my mama guilt again. I know they wouldn't want me to risk anything with their baby brother. I think we can go when I get to 28 weeks or better. I am very much looking forward to both.
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