a-chugga-chug-a

Not THAT kind of chugga chug! Although it is Friday night.... But no- a chugga chug of the heartbeat sort! Major excitement today. On a weak moment on Wednesday, I decided I absolutely positively had to have a doppler machine. They can be rented online for $20-40 per month, and as I thought ahead to the long, torturous month between my 12 week and 16 week appointments, I realized I'd need some reassurance. I'd tried to hold myself back, figuring it may cause more worry than excitement. But in my new, positive way of thinking- I hopped online and minutes later, it was on its way. And this morning, on my doorstep! I coulda kissed the UPS guy!

It didn't start off very well. I moved the listener-thingamabobber all over my gel caked stomach, and heard only my own (rapidly increasing) heart beat and lots of background digestive noise (thanks to that Cap'n Crunch breakfast, perhaps). The cats crouched nearby, taking turns having moments of bravery and sneaking toward the alien sounding machine, taking a verrrry cautious sniff, and retreating with haste back to the safety of the corner of the bed. After 10 minutes of searching, the worry crept in. See, I'd rented one of these things before. Back in my first pregnancy, I ordered one with so much excitement around 9 weeks. I couldn't wait to listen with J before bedtime, and just figured it would be a fun thing to do. I finally tried it out at the 10 week mark......nothing. At that time I was still blissfully naive and figured it was just too early, I'd bring it out the next week. Instead, I ended up packaging it back up in a Vicodin haze and slamming it out on the porch for pick up a few days after my D&C. So as I laid there today, the bad thoughts crept in. After taking a break, during which I chugged more water than it would take to fill a wading pool (they say a full bladder helps), I was back at it. Seconds later, THERE IT WAS! Clearly not my own (much slower around 70)- it was baby's!!! Chugging away at 170-178, way up on the high end. If you believe the old wive's tale (which, for what it's worth, I do not) that's firmly in "girl" range. Time will tell.

So, so exciting. Oddly enough, this feels more official to me than that 15,000 ultrasounds we've had so far. I can't explain why....but something about this makes me feel really pregnant. For me, it was much like the moment most women have when the second line appears on the stick. That "wow, we're going to have a baby, for real" rush. And wow, is that exciting.

Now, somebody hide that damn thing so I don't start carrying it around in my purse, just in case I get stuck in traffic or the line at Panera Bread is too long. Kidding.......

home again

I'm home! After five fun filled days under the California...er....clouds, I'm back. The trip, as expected, was fantastic. Nothing better than spending time with my family, and we had a great time looking at houses and narrowing down the areas of interest for mom and dad. But flying, I could do without. When we got to the airport yesterday morning, I breezed up to the self check in kiosk and was alarmed to receive a printout reading "see agent" instead of the anticipated boarding pass. Damn. Flight cancelled. I was rebooked, but the next two flights to Dallas were full, leaving me on the third option, 5 hours later. 5 hours in the entertainment challenged Orange County airport. By the time I boarded I'd read half of my book, read each word of my Us Weekly and In Touch magazines, gone back to the newstand for a Reader's Digest (desperate times), back once more for a local newspaper (desperate measures), and clogged both mine and Cinco's arteries with two McDonald's cheeseburgers and a medium fry. I figured I'd snooze through the flight, since it was about naptime anyway.

The bratty 2 year old behind me had different plans. As soon as I laid eyes on the tottering munchkin, I pretty much knew I was screwed. He looked owly and I swear he stared me down as he waddled past my seat. Just moments later, he was in the throes of a MAJOR temper tantrum, complete with gaspy breaths and shrieks that sent dogs barking miles from the runway, and kicks to the back of my seat that would have been helpful had I been choking or something, with their heimlich effect. And as I learned from his mother's pleas for his cooperation, his name was Braden. Braden's mom enrolled immediately in my shit list with her feeble attempt to silence B-man's tantrum- teach him how to work the seat back tray. The seat tray on MY seat back, mind you. For ten minutes, I worked through the jolting that resulted from Braden releasing the tray with a crash and kicking the tray back into place...deep breath, happy place, deep breath. But then, I'd pretty much freaking had it and shot his mom a look that made it clear I didn't find Braden's trick as cute as she did. To which she responded by looking at me as if I'd just stomped on the head Braden's kitten- I was an evil, child hating wench, obviously. Because anyone who truly loves children would be *totally* okay with being thrown all about in her $400 plane seat because someone didn't get his nap. Right?

The fun didn't end with Braden. There was also a barking puggle three seats over who escaped mid flight, an angry mother berating her kids for the world to hear because they wouldn't "JUST TRY ONE MORE TIME TO PEE BECAUSE YOU'RE REALLY MAKNG ME MAD RIGHT NOW", and the same angry woman telling her husband "THEY WOULDN'T BE SUCH BRATS IF YOU WEREN'T SO FUCKING INDUGLENT". We were in row 24, folks, and that last bit was spewed at such high volume I'm fairly certain the pilots heard. It was super awesome, I tell ya. Did I mention the urine on the bathroom floor? The stinky, sticky urine that held my flip flop firmly to the ground and induced another round of gagging and nausea? We really need to strike it rich and buy a plane. This public flying stuff's just not working for me. And at least then, when it's *my* precious darling having a total toddler meltdown, we won't be ruining anyone else's flight with our seat back tray acrobatic act.

Otherwise, all is well. I had another ultrasound the day before leaving for California, and things looked very good with the little one. When I told the nurse practicioner how excited I was that we'd made it this far, she smiled and assured me to "relax, because you'll be carrying this one for the long run". Hearing that from the mouth of a medical professional was so, so wonderful. The ultrasound pictures show what looks like an actual BABY! He/she was dancing all about, arms and legs moving....it was miraculous. Here's the latest picture of the little munchkin just over a week ago, at 9 weeks 4 days.

valentine's redemption

I'm not a Valentine's girl. It was all fun and games in elementary school. Build a cool cardboard mailbox adorned with construction paper hearts and glitter, diligently go down the class list addressing a valentine to each and every classmate in my best cursive (saving the grodiest looking valentine for Matt Kro, aka the booger picking kid), ending the day with a sugar high that sent shudders through the mommies in the carpool line. But in junior high, Valentine's Day turned into a "prettiest girl" contest where we all waited, breathless, to see who would gather the biggest bundle of carnations sent by fickle, squeaky voiced boys....I could just do without that kind of stress. Or carnations for that matter- the floral equivelant of beer can coozies and mullets doesn't exactly spell romance to me. Then came high school, and the disgraceful (albeit temporary) V-Day dumping from my tempermental high school boyfriend. Add in the fact that I don't look good in red, and that I have a general distaste for having my emotions manipulated by a greeting card company...just not my style. Then came Valentine's Day 2006, and the heartbreaking passing of my Grandma Rita. Put a fork in it. Done. Mark me firmly in the anti-V-Day camp.

However, I think that after today, I'll rethink my position. Something great happened today. Another ultrasound, another milestone passed, another peek at our rapidly growing little one! There were LEGS! In my belly! How weirdly fascinating is that? We saw a great heartbeat, a little wiggle, and our already over acheiving little embryo growing one day ahead of schedule. But before this, when I got to the doctor's office, they were clearly running behind. I got into an exam room and waited. And waited. And in that time, worry mounted. But then I thought, for the 10th time in one short morning, of my Grandma Rita. Strong doesn't touch the will this woman possessed. I know that today, of all days, she's watching over her loved ones. Reminding us not to be sad, not to dwell, not to waste a single day with worry when there's so much joy to be experienced. And I felt her there, in that quiet exam room, her trademark calmness bringing my heart rate down. And when the news was good (so good) I felt her spirit there, too. Patting my hand, rolling her eyes a bit at my tendency to panic, reminding me to keep the faith. The only tears I shed after my appointment were for her, or moreso, for me for missing her. Sadness that she won't be knitting an afghan for this baby, that I won't be calling her with this wonderful news of her first great grandchild. And since my radio is psychic lately, as I merged onto the interstate, on came the perfect song to turn the tears into sobs. Although my white, midwestern, conservative Grandma Rita had very little in common with Puff Daddy or his murdered pal Notorious B.I.G., the song still fits. That is, if you remove the whole "bust in the six, shop for new clothes and kicks" business (since neither I nor my grandmother, nor anyone from the state of North Dakota for that matter, would even know how to begin to "bust in a six"). So on this Valentine's Day, I rethink my position. Not on carnations, not on Hallmark's reign of terror....but on the possibility of sunshine on an otherwise gray sky day. On the power of hope, of love, of Rita-sized strength. And I send up my love- to Grandma Rita, to Turkey baby, to Grover. XOXO. And yes....Happy Valentine's Day.

It's kind of hard wit you not around
Know you in heaven smilin' down
Watchin' us while we pray for you
Everyday we pray for you
Till the day we meet again
In my heart is where I'll keep you friend
Memories give me the strength I need to proceed
Strength I need to believe
.............
Still can't believe you're gone
Give anything to hear half your breath
I know you still livin' your life after death
Every step I take
Every move I make
Every single day
Every time I pray I'll be missing you
Thinking of the day
When you went away
What a life to take
What a bond to break
I'll be missing you
Somebody tell me why
One day morning
When this life is over
I know I'll see your face
Every night I pray
Every step I take
Every move I make
Every single day

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PSYswqi9ZhQ

no quiero taco bell

Note to the pregnants: don't listen to that crazy chihuahua.

I forced myself out to Target this morning. Yesterday, my morning (ha- morning) sickness was minimal. I don't know if it was the massive heart attack in the morning and the resulting couch coma in the afternoon that distracted me, but I felt okay. (By okay, I mean not gagging ALL day and eating from two food groups.) I told J this morning, when I awoke pretty sure I'd been transplanted onto a rocking, barf inducing cruise ship while I slept, that I think Cinco is pissed. "You're not going to have faith that I'm in here and doing well? You wanna freak out like that? FINE! Here I am! Happy now?" Hoo, boy. It's been one of those days where showering is only possible from the comfort of my bum on the questionably clean shower floor. But I needed things, so to Target I went. I wound up in the grocery department for bread (amazing how many loafs you burn through eating toast for all three meals) and my stomach rolled. I needed food, and nothing healthy was remotely appealing. Really, just thinking of anything healthy made me gag over the grassy spot in the Target parking lot.

To Taco Bell I went. I'd get tomatoes in my taco and call it a veggie serving. Big mistake. Just the smell was enough to make my stomach audibly grumble, and I ate it anyway. Not good. The experience reminded me of my mom, 18 years ago, pregnant with my baby brother. Bless her heart, sick as could be, she took my sister and I to the mall and (at our begging, whining, and pleading I'm sure) took us to Arby's for lunch. We were just settling in at our table when mom dropped our tray and BOLTED. I can still see her long, permed hair and stone washed maternity jeans rounding the corner, away from Arby's and her two bewildered daughters, en route to the completely inconvenient bathroom at the far corner of Kirkwood Mall. I remember looking at my side pony tailed little sister, obliviously digging into the curly fries, and wondering in my eight year old mind why on EARTH anyone would want a baby in their tummy if public puking were a part of it. So thank goodness I did the drive through thing, and the gagging was done with only the cats as my witnesses. On that note, I nap.

the evidence

2.11.08 ultrasound (week 8)

2.7.08 ultrasound, week 7

hello, baby

All right, I'm out of hiding. And first, let me say thank you, thank you, thank you to those of you who emailed me- wondering where I was, sending thoughts and prayers, making sure I was okay as the "kirbyman" post sat growing stale at the top of my blog. I appreciate it!

Explanation for the absence.....I AM PREGNANT. Just in case the above picture containing post was confusing to you, that is a baby, and it's in my uterus, kicking my ass. Feel free to scroll down and see the posts I wrote but didn't publish in the earliest days, too afraid to publish a thing and have to retract, but needing a place to release some of the anxiety. So far, so good. Not out of the 1st tri, not safe, but thriving and optimistic. As of today, 8 weeks 2 days. We had an ultrasound this morning. This morning was rough. I had my first OB appointment scheduled for today at 8:00am. J took the day off, and I spent the weekend in worry. Here we were again- week 8. If you've been paying attention, week 8 has not been a good one in the past. We've never had a heartbeat in week 8. I had some slight pain, although pain seems too strong a word- I had discomfort. Gas pains were a likely suspect, as were growing pains- each of the 25 pregnancy books I scoured for reassurance at Borders on Saturday said growing pains were to be expected starting about this time. But later, when darkness and paranoia set in, to Google I went. I don't suggest that the pregnant among us Google "cramps, pregnancy" unless you'd like to send yourself into a tear streaked tailspin. Which, naturally, I did. Then came this morning. I rose early, wanting to shower and look nice for my first real appointment. And there, in the bathroom, it happened- spotting. Not heavy, not dark....but it was there. Twice. I sat, frozen, numb. I actually said the words "there it is". I stared at the evidence, moved to the floor, and sat there staring at the wall. I woke J, and when I broke the news to him the confidence I seek from his eyes wasn't there. In its place was the look I imagine best described as 'deer in the headlights'. At a loss for words. I dressed quickly, nary a comb through the hair, and went downstairs to call mom. No confidence in that always reassuring voice either- rightfully so- we were all sure this was bad. (And later today, I found out mom started packing her suitcase and looking for flights to Austin after my call, and sent my brother off to school with a warning that she'd be halfway to Texas by the time he got home. How much do I love my mom for that kind of love?)

The doctors office, as always, was packed when we arrived. I pleaded with the receptionist to call a nurse to come and get us, and I must have looked desperate because the usually surly girl did as she was told. Anyway- to the point. The nurse assured me there were plenty of explanations, most harmless. The doctor came in moments later, full of his characteristic soft spoken cheer. Then he CONGRATULATED J. At this point I wondered if my doctor was a fruit loop. Or high. For real. I wondered if he was on pot, as seconds earlier we heard the nurse brief him the the hall, muffled by the traffic in the hallway and a heavy door ("something something two miscarriages something something extremely upset something something spotting something"). But he saunters in anyway, all country gentleman, happy as can be. I'm sure I looked puzzled at best, scornful at worst- didn't he know that SPOTTING IS ALWAYS BAD NO MATTER WHAT? If you're a confirmed neurotic freak, that is. Why take cues from the super experienced OB, when I've got my own pessimism and Google education backing up my fears? After the fastest pap smear in history, before J or I could even see a baby on the screen, he's telling us "here's the heartbeat, and a beautiful baby". WHAT? And there it was. Bigger than last week, the start of arms and legs, an umbilical cord, even a quick wiggle of movement. Heartbeat 169, on the higher end of the expected 120-170.

I was truthfully too busy sobbing to take in much after that. Thank GOD. Despite my struggles to remain faithful this year...seriously, thank you God. The doctor, again full of congratulatory smiles, assured us that this is as close to "out of the woods" as we'll get. 98%, he says. Statistics, still, are hard for me. I've heard statistics before, comforted myself with their enormosity...and they haven't been good to me. But I'm inclined to believe this doctor. He's a specialist. He's been in People magazine. He doesn't seem the type to go around spreading bullshit. He leaves the room and the beaming nurse sits down with her paperwork. They have to enjoy the scares that end happily. She explained each visit from here on out, testing we can choose to do, and which appointments were with the doctor and would likely be an hour or more delayed. She rolled her eyes while explaining everything related to pregnancy eating online was wrong, and to eat whatever I like- lunch meat won't be killing anyone. With a stern warning to "stay off the internet", they sent me on my way. (Blogs aren't "internet", right?)

For my own "emotional well being", they set me up with another scan on Thursday, and other the following Wednesday. The doctor was sure to say this was for mental health- reassuring because he likely felt they were medically unnecessary, but sad because I'm pretty sure I was awarded the "Crazy of the Morning" award today! Back in the car, we stared at each other, in disbelief. We'd exited that car an hour earlier, feeling like POWs marching to a certain death. And here we were, ultrasound photos in hand, still pregnant. Still pregnant!!

So there it is. Praying types, pray. Voo doo dancing types, dance. Or just send up a good thought that things continue so well (and if you want to add a word about NO MORE SCARY FREAKING SPOTTING feel free). Baby Cinco (Uno, Dos, Tres, Cuatro were already taken by the furry children) is alive and well and with any luck, a big believer in statistics.