Karma

I'll admit it. Once, when I was not pregnant, I made a joke about a pregnant woman's size. And for that, karma is repaying me IN FULL.
For all of you who have never been pregnant, let me give you a little insight. When a woman gets pregnant, her body starts changing from day one. Her boobs change. Her skin changes. Her hair changes. And of course, she gains weight. Some woman gain it all in their stomachs; some all the way around the midsection. But undoubtedly, once enough weight has been gained around the middle, the legs have to bulk up a little bit to support the now completely ridiculous basketball up top. These changes happen a little bit everyday. So we pregnant women wake up and have no idea how much bigger, wider, or heavier we will be. And while a lot of the time we feel magical and amazing, there are some days it is downright depressing to watch your favorite shirt or pair of yoga pants move to the "not-pregnant" pile.

• That all being said, it is never, under any circumstance, funny to call a pregnant girl fatty. 
• Don't ask her how many she has in there, either. If there's more than one and she wants you to know that, she'll tell you. 
• Don't joke about the new, wider gate she's undoubtedly walking with. If she doesn't walk that way, she'll fall over and that's too many jokes. 
• Even if you like her new ass, legs, or belly, she doesn't want to know that you can tell the difference, so don't comment. 
• Stop asking her how she feels. Just take a guess at what 20 pounds suddenly gained all in one spot would make you feel like. Then pick something up off the ground for her or get her some ice chips.
• There is no need to offer her more food. Just because she's pregnant, it doesn't mean that she has lost the ability to communicate hunger. She'll let you know.
• When you hug her, don't shout things like, "Woah!" or, "Look out!" She's aware there is now a person between herself and everyone else she comes into contact with. 

What you can do is offer her a hand when she tries to get up off a cushy couch. You can also tell her she looks beautiful, amazing, or like she's glowing. That's really all you need to remember. Resume life with that nugget in your pocket

Tell Me When He Kicks

Dear friends (and husband) who want to feel the baby kick,

When I feel the baby kick, I don't mind letting you know. In fact, I'll gleefully shout it out! "He's kicking!" However, if you want to feel the baby kicking, there's no go-button. I can't make him kick, and I can't guarantee that he will kick in the same place. So you can put your hand on my stomach and wait, but there's a good chance you won't feel anything within the first 10 seconds (because that's when your attention span seems to expire when it comes to waiting for babies to kick). You will have to wait minutes, maybe even a full half an hour before you can give up knowing you gave it your best shot.
And by the way, if you tell me you can't keep "holding your arm like that" because it's "uncomfortable" while waiting for the baby to kick, may I remind you that it is ME that the baby is actually kicking? I don't want to hear how uncomfortable your arm is.

Best,
Erin

A Movement

When they tell you it's "so amazing" to feel your baby moving inside of you, there's no way to truly understand it until you feel it. I wake up constantly at night to change positions, and if I wait a few moments, he usually changes positions, too! He giggles after I eat and stretches while I watch TV. There's nothing like it in the world, and now knowing that "he" is a "he", I feel so much more connected and in love.

What they don't tell you is that you can feel the baby move even when you're peeing. Yeah, that's right. On the toilet. Especially if it's a big pee, assumedly because the pee was taking up a lot of room and he can stretch out after I empty it all out. I usually have to lean forward a little bit to fully empty my bladder so that I only have to go 17 times a day as opposed to 20. That makes me feel like I'm squishing my baby UP AGAINST my pee, and I feel horrible about that. My baby is better than being squished against pee. And don't even get me started about the poo. (Too late, you got me started.) Something about my uterus taking up the majority of my abdominal cavity squishes my intestines, so now I can FEEL my poo moving through my tummy. And I'm pretty sure if I can feel it, he can probably feel it. And that's horrible. My baby is stuck being pushed around by poo and pee. If he can get pushed around by that stuff, what happens when he's out and has to face the kids at school? Is he going to have a complex about the fact that he couldn't even stand up to poo and pee?!?! IS HE GOING TO BE THE KID THAT GETS BEAT UP EVERYDAY AND HAS TO BE HOMESCHOOLED????

This is the stuff you have time to think about in the bathroom while praying that the leafy greens and stool softeners prevent the dreaded hemorrhoids everyone warns you about. Pregnancy really is a miracle.

The Answer

Thanks so much to my husband for editing this video together. I warn you, there's a chance you'll get teary when you watch this. Unless this isn't your child and you're not pregnant, then it might just be cute.

And now what we've all been waiting for...




*Note - Youtube doesn't like the fact that David used a song in this video he didn't write, produce, and perform himself; so if this video is no longer available in a few hours, we will be replacing it very soon with another version.

I'll Give you Three Guesses

On my way home from the week 13 ultrasound, I called my sister-in-law and asked her to Google the Chinese Gender Prediction Calendar. It just so happens there are about 15 websites offering this service (which makes it EVEN MORE credible, right?!). Four out of five of them said girl. With all the signs pointing to girl, we STILL didn't believe it. I refused to buy pink things and David continued to refer to "the baby" as opposed to using a pronoun, though we both admit to slipping in a "she" now and then.

So when it came time this week to REALLY find out the gender, we went in with a clear mind and low expectations, as often times these little babies cross their legs or turn away in modesty. But we did see a lot of cool stuff.

We saw our baby's foot.

And our baby's head.

And our baby, the thumbsucker.

And now we know for SURE that our baby is a ...

Well, can you tell?

We're not Painting Yet

I went in for a few tests and an ultrasound to ensure there were no blaring abnormalities at 13 weeks. (You saw the video here.)  We were thrilled that all tests came back normal, but we were haunted by a short exchange with the ultrasound technician. 

Ultrasound Tech: Do you want to know if I see anything between the legs?

Erin: YES! Right? Don't we?

David: Yeah, sure, if they can tell us.

Ultrasound Tech: Ok, let me see. (She paused the picture.) See that? If I had to guess, I would say that's labia.

Erin: Really?

(David sat in the corner chuckling.)

Ultrasound Tech: Yep. Don't go painting rooms or anything, but usually when it looks like that, it's labia.

(David chuckles again.)

Erin: Oh my gosh. A girl?! 

Ultrasound Tech: That would be my guess! It's too early to verify, though. You'll know for sure in about 6 weeks.

Erin: Woooow!!!! That's what the gender predictor kit said, too! Well, it said girl first. 

(David chuckles.)

Ultrasound Tech: Oh, those are so fake. You didn't buy one of those, did you?

Erin: Yeah. I did. 

Ultrasound Tech: If you want to try it, the Chinese Gender Calendar is way more accurate. I have no idea why it works, but it does. Just Google it.

Erin: Ok! I will! Thanks for the advice!

(She left the room and I looked at David, who started laughing out loud.)

Erin: A girl!

David: Ha, I know.

Erin: Still laughing?

David: Yeah.

Erin: Labia?

David: Hahaha, yes. Yes. Everytime.

Erin: Real mature, babe.

Girl or Boy?

So between my boobs growing to the size of melons and my stomach expanding STRAIGHT out in front of me, my lower back was starting to bend under the pressure. There have been mornings I wake up and literally can't stand up straight for several minutes while I whine and bump into walls trying to get to the bathroom.

I'm lucky enough to have a wonderful friend who is a chiropractor and works frequently with pregnant women. I don't know if she has magic hands, but my back is always better after she works on me. She has that perfect combination of technical know-how and spiritual connection to the body that leaves me feeling so relaxed, I sleep on her couch for an hour after every session. During our last session, she asked me if I found out whether or not I was having a boy or a girl. I told her I didn't know yet, so she told me her premonition: girl. This made me giggle. The thought of the shoes and hair accessories alone...OH SO FUN!

Which reminds me, gender prediction tests. Have you seen these? They're ridiculous. You can't possibly think their real. A small cup with "magic crystals" inside that change color when combined with urine to determine the sex of your baby. DUMB.  And certainly not accurate enough to spend $40 on one at CVS. I mean, it's literally a pee-in-a-cup test to determine the genetic make-up of your BABY. PAH-LEASE.

So I bought one. I rolled out of bed and went straight to the bathroom to deposit my urine onto the magical crystals. I got the camera ready and told David to stand-by as I was about to inform him as to whether he was having a son or a daughter. The crystals IMMEDIATELY made the urine change color.  I took a picture. I mean, it was pretty clear:

Girl, right? That's what I thought, too. We danced around and giggled and shouted, "BABY GIRL!" David took about 20 pictures. We went into the kitchen to grab cups of coffee (yes, mine was decaf, relax), and returned to the bathroom a few minutes later to giggle some more. That's when we saw this:

No longer so clear is it? Now it looks a little more green than orange in spots. It was then I decided to read the directions, because that's how I roll. "Wait 10 minutes before you read the results." It had been approximately 10 minutes by this point, and the results were much less clear than when I first peed in the cup. Now it was sort of half boy, half girl. 

HOLY SHIT. HALF BOY/HALF GIRL?! That's like a mother's worst nightmare! Will I have to be one of those women who is forced to CHOOSE the sex of their baby because they came out with both sets and inevitably I'll choose the wrong gender and my child will grow up resenting me AND him/herself and want to be the other sex and will end up in a drag show in San Francisco with a name like Mango Scrumptious? Not that there's anything wrong with that...BUT IT'S CERTAINLY NOT A MOTHER'S DREAM.

Ok, deep breaths. Maybe the test malfunctioned. Maybe I got bad crystals. Or maybe it was right in the first place, girl, and then slowly changed color because of an environmental change like the AC kicking on. 

The moral: Do not buy the gender predictor tests. As if listeria, genetic mutations, and anemia weren't enough, I now fear my child is a hermaphrodite and I'm completely flustered trying to figure out how we'll afford round trip airfare to San Francisco twice a year.

Another Reason Why my Husband is Cute

We went to a beautiful baby shower last weekend and we were one of, I believe, eight visibly pregnant couples there. It was nuts.

David: Do you want a cupcake?

Erin: Let's wait, I think there's a line.

David: Oh yeah, all the preggos are up there.

Erin: I can't believe there are so many pregnant women here! There must by eight of us!

David: Well, what do you expect?

Erin: What do you mean?

David: It's a baby shower.

(I waited for him to laugh, or acknowledge that this was a punch line to a joke.)

Erin: Seriously?

David: What?

Erin: You don't have to be pregnant to come to someone ELSE'S baby shower.

David: Oh. I didn't think of that.

Falling Short

I guess I can't wear my favorite Sister Hazel shirt anymore. At least, not in public.

The Reactions

One thing that amazes me about being pregnant and starting to "show" is how much people want to talk about it. A pregnant woman is either as an anomaly or a fellow club member. Moms love to ask me how far along I am or when I am due. They are the ones who rub my belly without asking, which I'm not saying bothers me.
Men are a little more hesitant about asking or talking about it. What they do instead is open doors or allow me to do things first that really aren't necessary, like choosing my apples from the produce stand or taking a menu at a restaurant. Men are mostly concerned that pregnant women get place to place safely and have constant access to food. I guess it's an instinct?
But there are always the women with an opinion. These are the ones you have to watch out for. This week in line at the grocery store, a girl in front of me chatted with the checker about how she gave up full sugar Mountain Dew for diet because she was breast-feeding. Am I going to judge her? Nope. I judged pregnant women for eating Chef Boyardee until I got pregnant. I no longer judge any of them. But then, the checker had to have an opinion. "Well, I don't think you're supposed to drink caffeine when you're pregnant." The breast-feeding mother laughed it off, obviously having dealt with The Opinion before.
"Yeah, they say a lot of things. My kids are all fine."
"Well," The Opinion went on, "doctors are concerned about growth restriction when it comes to pregnancy and caffeine."
Breast-feeding Mom, again, ignored the obviously wide open door to take The Opinion down and shrugged. I, being a new mom and new member of the club, felt the need to step in. "I'm pregnant and I have some form of caffeine everyday. My baby's doing fine."
Breast-feeding Mom looked back at me and smiled. "I'm pretty sure I had a beer or two, as well!" She laughed and walked off. That's right girl! I thought it, I didn't say it. Now it was just me and The Opinion.
"My friend is pregnant and she told me she can't have any caffeine and absolutely no alcohol," The Opinion announced.
I think I puffed up. "There are a lot of opinions and a lot of data, but fortunately for us, we all get to make the choice for ourselves."
The Opinion shook her head. "I just can't see putting my baby at risk."
Lucky for her, she was bagging my groceries when she said that and the transaction was over. It didn't leave me enough time to shove my Ramen Noodles down her throat. So, I looked The Opinion square in the eyes and said, "You know, like I said, it's up to each of us individually. But I can assure you, somewhere in Italy right now there is a pregnant woman eating a delicious piece of unpasteurized cheese with her glass of wine." And I waddled away.

Pickles and Chocolate

"People think that their cravings are significant, but studies show no link between cravings and nutritional requirements," one doctor says. "If people craved what the body needs, we would all eat more broccoli and less chocolate. There's no scientific explanation for food cravings. There's no data saying that what a woman craves is related to something her body or baby needs, and there's no data to support that typical pregnancy food cravings are harmful, either."

Eat that, haters.

How to Bother a Pregnant Woman

My sister-in-law and friends convinced me it was ok to start buying maternity clothes.
Maternity clothes = I can no longer fit into regular clothes = wow I'm getting big.
I finally embraced it. I went to a popular high-end maternity store to look through the sale section. My main objective was to purchase shorts. Summer in Florida won't be pretty with an extra creature inside of me. The least amount of clothing possible without making one of the local news station's top evening stories was the goal.
Just when I found a pair of shorts, the dreaded, "Are you finding everything okay?" popped up behind me. Uggggharrrgrahaaaargh!! LEAVE ME ALONE!
"Yes, I'm all set, thanks." "Are you finding everything okay?" walked away and I was again alone with my sale rack.
I picked out another pair of shorts a few moments later and "Are you finding everything okay?" swooped in again. "Can I get you a fitting room for the clothing you've chosen?"
"Sure." I kept it short and sweet with the hope that she would just walk away. And did she? I'll give you three guesses.
She went on, "You know, the secret belly-suction-magical-flap (I'm paraphrasing what the thing was called because whatever it was sounded equally ridiculous to what I just typed) on some of these shorts are really preferred by most pregnant women. I see you chose a shorter ruin-your-life-and-kill-your-baby belly flap (again, paraphrasing) which can sometimes ride up and make you uncomfortable. Would you like me to get you a pair with a secret belly-suction-magical-flap so you can try them on?"
"Sure." Whatever. Just go away and let me shop.
The entire time I shopped, "Are you finding everything okay?" loomed. She watched every choice I made. It had been a while since someone on commission followed me so closely in a store that I wanted to turn around and shout, "NOBODY DOES THIS ANYMORE LADY. NOT EVEN CAR SALESMAN."
I took an extra long time wandering around the store to see if I could lose her and resume my normal shopping pattern. After about 20 minutes, I gave up. "Um, Tracy was it?"
"Oh yes! Here, right here! I went ahead and chose a few items similar to the ones you chose and added them to the room."
"Oh, ok. Thanks."
I walked into the dressing room after having chosen 3 pairs of shorts and 2 shirts. Guess what was hanging on the rack? NINE pairs of shorts, TWO pairs of jeans, and FOUR shirts. I couldn't even remember what items I'd chosen anymore. I stood there, staring at the clothes I didn't choose, seething with rage. Who the hell does she think she is? I don't need a personal shopper. I don't need someone telling me what to buy. I DON'T NEED TRACY IN MY DRESSING ROOM.
"Everything fitting ok?"
"YES, YES FINE."
I will still standing in my regular clothes staring at all the shorts. Finally, I picked up the first pair. I had no idea whether they were a magical flap or a kill-your-baby flap. I tried them on. They didn't fit. I took them off. I did that a few more times, wondering which ones I chose. Then I figured it out. Price tags. I chose shorts that cost $20. Tracy chose shorts that cost $90!!! NINETY FREAKING DOLLARS. FOR A PAIR OF SHORTS THAT I CAN WEAR FOR 6 MONTHS. I hated Tracy. I hated her shorts, and her jeans, and her tops. I grabbed the pair of shorts I originally chose and headed to the register.
"Oh, you chose these? Well, as long as they were comfortable for you. Can I get you a few more in other colors or..."
"No, no thank you."
"Are you sure, because the Spring line has..."
"NO. Tracy, I can't afford more than one pair."
"Oh. Ok." Tracy rang up my shorts. I looked at the little screen and watched prices twice as much as the tags read whizzing by.
"Um, Tracy? Are these the right price?" Tracy didn't answer me. She didn't even look at me. She just hurriedly put a bunch of numbers into the computer and the right prices came up. What if I wasn't looking? Would she have totally over-charged me?
After pretending that didn't just happen, she asked for my address. "Why do you need my address?"
"So that we can add you to our mailing list."
"I don't want to be on your mailing list. Do you still need my address?"
"No, ma'am. Can I please have your email address?"
"Why do you need my email address?"
"So that we can send you coupons. We send out over $400 worth of coupons and discounts to our customers every year."
"Well, I'm only going to be pregnant until September, so I can't imagine I'll be using maternity store coupons for an entire year."
Tracy finished ringing me up and handed me my bag. I'm pretty sure she was still talking when I walked out. I bought one pair of shorts and a shirt, and promptly went home and ordered an entire maternity wardrobe at Old Navy Online. Not a single virtual employee bothered me.