I found out I was pregnant the day before my birthday.
There is no strange, freaked-out giddiness quite like seeing the faint second line on a pregnancy test (if, of course, that was something you were hoping for). I passed several people throughout the day after that moment, thinking, I am housing a second life within my body and NONE OF THESE PEOPLE KNOW. My little life-altering secret.
Glowing with secrets.
I woke up on Birthday Morn with the rosy thought that nobody could top the gift of the little person inside of me. The world was glowing and I was a mother and life was oh so grand. Of course, there were a few bummer moments--realizing that I couldn't drink kombucha any more or having to take my giant bottle of sangria over to Maria Daley's house because it was making me sad--but THE WORLD WAS STILL GLOWING.
That week, baby was also given its first nickname, Aurora, by its Auntie Christina (who is trying to name all of the children in our friend group after Disney characters), and many nicknames have since followed.
Man, I miss that time.
Cue pregnancy week five, which was also the first week of school. Enter soreness, jetlag-like sudden exhaustion, lightheadedness, ravenous hunger, and mood swings.
Of course, who wouldn't have mood swings when their body suddenly betrays them?
I did try to be healthy. One day, I started a yoga video...and turned it off ten minutes later with a yell of, "I HATE YOGA!" I cursed at two juice bottles that wouldn't open when I tried to make a smoothie. I got mad at Josh when he tried to go to sleep before me and when he came home too late with the peanut butter I had asked for.
We also spent a lot of money on groceries I ended up hating.
Week six brought with it General Nausea and his troops, who happily set up camp between Ravenous Pit and Food Aversion Forest. I had to take my first morning off from school because I felt like the specter of death. It was also the week that I discovered a strong dislike for some of my staple foods: spinach, avocado, turkey deli meat, and eggs (though I was honestly only in into them for the runny yolks, which pregnant people CANNOT HAVE). On the flip side, I went through three or four days of NEEDING salty meat--even daydreaming about salty meat and putting "SALTY MEAT" on my grocery list--and then hating it.
We finally got to see Pequita for first time on week seven. Jen Greene, one of dad's nurse practitioners, had set up an elaborate scheme to help us surprise dad in the ultrasound room at the office. Our plan was successful and we ruined his entire day with happiness. Mom was the next to be surprised, which we did with a "late birthday present" and a card. Less reaction, just as much happiness (I think).
Mom's card.
Week eight was a time of excusing my sickly looks and munchies with allergies, lack of sleep, and "Oh.....I didn't eat breakfast?"
(Though I never skip breakfast.) (Besides, the cruel tick of pregnancy is that if you don't eat, you feel more nauseous.)
We surprised Josh's mom by lying about giving her a candle we didn't want--what was in the box was not a candle, and her first words were, "Oh no---hahahaha."
I think she knows something I don't.
It was also the week when I craved cake so hard that I actually caught myself perusing images of birthday cakes on google late on a Friday night.
I got the cake.
Week nine was the worst, but I blame half of that on bus duty and having to test kindergarteners at school. The exhaustion of it all culminated on a Thursday full of meetings, between which I took a nap on a beanbag chair for the first time in my school career.
However, it was also the week of our second baby appointment (the "real" one), where we got to see little Rory Squatch wiggle around and be all cute and alive and so forth.
I also took Friday off to sit on my couch and watch Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. And for the first time ever, I cried during that movie, even though I had no sad emotions of which to speak. I found tears leaking out of my eyes for no good reason at all.
Oh, and I dreamed that I gave birth to a cat that hated me. Pregnancy is weird.
The joy of carbs.
Week ten brought a slight relief in nausea, but replaced it with other stomach problems. It was also the week of Preggie Pop Drops and raspberry cravings.
My husband is a saint.
Week eleven was when I fully realized my frustration at Baby Buster. Josh had changed his phone background to a picture of the ultrasound (HOW ADORABLE), but when I tried to do the same, I found that I was upset at my fetus for making me ill and I did NOT care to look at it multiple times a day.
Week twelve was the week that I ate five sandwiches from Firehouse Subs (not in one sitting) and woke up with nightmares several times (a shark ate the neighbor's Dalmatian and I could NOT go back to sleep).
That Sunday, I forgot to brings snacks with me to church. By sermon time, I was getting hungry, so I snuck back to the children's area to hunt for crackers. LO AND BEHOLD, a table full of donuts was laid out before me. You bet your bottom dollar that I noshed a chocolate-iced donut alone in that empty room through the first half of the sermon.
This week is number thirteen. I am fully back into salty meats. The dizziness and breathlessness have begun to overtake me, but slow-release iron supplements seem to be helping. I also discovered the sweet comfort of maternity pants (why do people ever get rid of these?) and chopped off my hair. And I had a dream that I gave birth to healthy baby at 3 months (and was praying thanks to the Lord for a short pregnancy), named him Steven, and dropped him off at my parents's house, where he was kept in Jack's crate and fed twice a day.
I love my little Future President, and I am grateful that my misery means that my baby is probably healthy. I don't take the ability to carry it for granted. But when anyone tells me about how much they loooooooved being pregnant, the animal inside of me that yelled, "I HATE YOGA!" at a computer screen creeps up to the surface (only to be stifled with, "How nice!"). I'm honestly just wishing I could stick my bambino in a fish tank, where I could greet it every morning with a tap on the glass and a smile while I ate my breakfast of runny eggs on toast.
Am I excited or thrilled at this point? Not really, but I'll get there. If our baby is anything like either of us were, the months after pregnancy will be filled with a lot of crying. But I truly, truly love this 3-inch-long human and I know that feeling like a human garbage disposal for nine months will all be worth it. I look forward to all of the weird facial expressions it will make and all of the bizarre things it's bound to say. And I get most emotional when I think of teaching it about Jesus, whose sovereign hand has been over it since the beginning.
Oh, and for the record--we don't know the gender, and none of the aforementioned names are on our list. But Josh is hoping for a boy and I'm pulling for a girl, either of which will be the victim of many lessons on presidents.
And last night's dream featured tiny pandas being hunted by cats in church. I grabbed a cat by the nape of the neck and whispered, "I know that a whole bunch of you could come to my house and try to hurt me, but I know a plenty of ways to kill a cat and I'm not afraid of you." The cats left. The tiny pandas could go back home.
There is no strange, freaked-out giddiness quite like seeing the faint second line on a pregnancy test (if, of course, that was something you were hoping for). I passed several people throughout the day after that moment, thinking, I am housing a second life within my body and NONE OF THESE PEOPLE KNOW. My little life-altering secret.
I woke up on Birthday Morn with the rosy thought that nobody could top the gift of the little person inside of me. The world was glowing and I was a mother and life was oh so grand. Of course, there were a few bummer moments--realizing that I couldn't drink kombucha any more or having to take my giant bottle of sangria over to Maria Daley's house because it was making me sad--but THE WORLD WAS STILL GLOWING.
That week, baby was also given its first nickname, Aurora, by its Auntie Christina (who is trying to name all of the children in our friend group after Disney characters), and many nicknames have since followed.
Man, I miss that time.
Cue pregnancy week five, which was also the first week of school. Enter soreness, jetlag-like sudden exhaustion, lightheadedness, ravenous hunger, and mood swings.
Of course, who wouldn't have mood swings when their body suddenly betrays them?
I did try to be healthy. One day, I started a yoga video...and turned it off ten minutes later with a yell of, "I HATE YOGA!" I cursed at two juice bottles that wouldn't open when I tried to make a smoothie. I got mad at Josh when he tried to go to sleep before me and when he came home too late with the peanut butter I had asked for.
We also spent a lot of money on groceries I ended up hating.
Week six brought with it General Nausea and his troops, who happily set up camp between Ravenous Pit and Food Aversion Forest. I had to take my first morning off from school because I felt like the specter of death. It was also the week that I discovered a strong dislike for some of my staple foods: spinach, avocado, turkey deli meat, and eggs (though I was honestly only in into them for the runny yolks, which pregnant people CANNOT HAVE). On the flip side, I went through three or four days of NEEDING salty meat--even daydreaming about salty meat and putting "SALTY MEAT" on my grocery list--and then hating it.
We finally got to see Pequita for first time on week seven. Jen Greene, one of dad's nurse practitioners, had set up an elaborate scheme to help us surprise dad in the ultrasound room at the office. Our plan was successful and we ruined his entire day with happiness. Mom was the next to be surprised, which we did with a "late birthday present" and a card. Less reaction, just as much happiness (I think).
Mom's card.
Week eight was a time of excusing my sickly looks and munchies with allergies, lack of sleep, and "Oh.....I didn't eat breakfast?"
(Though I never skip breakfast.) (Besides, the cruel tick of pregnancy is that if you don't eat, you feel more nauseous.)
We surprised Josh's mom by lying about giving her a candle we didn't want--what was in the box was not a candle, and her first words were, "Oh no---hahahaha."
I think she knows something I don't.
It was also the week when I craved cake so hard that I actually caught myself perusing images of birthday cakes on google late on a Friday night.
I got the cake.
Week nine was the worst, but I blame half of that on bus duty and having to test kindergarteners at school. The exhaustion of it all culminated on a Thursday full of meetings, between which I took a nap on a beanbag chair for the first time in my school career.
However, it was also the week of our second baby appointment (the "real" one), where we got to see little Rory Squatch wiggle around and be all cute and alive and so forth.
Oh, and I dreamed that I gave birth to a cat that hated me. Pregnancy is weird.
The joy of carbs.
Week ten brought a slight relief in nausea, but replaced it with other stomach problems. It was also the week of Preggie Pop Drops and raspberry cravings.
My husband is a saint.
Week eleven was when I fully realized my frustration at Baby Buster. Josh had changed his phone background to a picture of the ultrasound (HOW ADORABLE), but when I tried to do the same, I found that I was upset at my fetus for making me ill and I did NOT care to look at it multiple times a day.
Week twelve was the week that I ate five sandwiches from Firehouse Subs (not in one sitting) and woke up with nightmares several times (a shark ate the neighbor's Dalmatian and I could NOT go back to sleep).
That Sunday, I forgot to brings snacks with me to church. By sermon time, I was getting hungry, so I snuck back to the children's area to hunt for crackers. LO AND BEHOLD, a table full of donuts was laid out before me. You bet your bottom dollar that I noshed a chocolate-iced donut alone in that empty room through the first half of the sermon.
This week is number thirteen. I am fully back into salty meats. The dizziness and breathlessness have begun to overtake me, but slow-release iron supplements seem to be helping. I also discovered the sweet comfort of maternity pants (why do people ever get rid of these?) and chopped off my hair. And I had a dream that I gave birth to healthy baby at 3 months (and was praying thanks to the Lord for a short pregnancy), named him Steven, and dropped him off at my parents's house, where he was kept in Jack's crate and fed twice a day.
I love my little Future President, and I am grateful that my misery means that my baby is probably healthy. I don't take the ability to carry it for granted. But when anyone tells me about how much they loooooooved being pregnant, the animal inside of me that yelled, "I HATE YOGA!" at a computer screen creeps up to the surface (only to be stifled with, "How nice!"). I'm honestly just wishing I could stick my bambino in a fish tank, where I could greet it every morning with a tap on the glass and a smile while I ate my breakfast of runny eggs on toast.
Am I excited or thrilled at this point? Not really, but I'll get there. If our baby is anything like either of us were, the months after pregnancy will be filled with a lot of crying. But I truly, truly love this 3-inch-long human and I know that feeling like a human garbage disposal for nine months will all be worth it. I look forward to all of the weird facial expressions it will make and all of the bizarre things it's bound to say. And I get most emotional when I think of teaching it about Jesus, whose sovereign hand has been over it since the beginning.
Oh, and for the record--we don't know the gender, and none of the aforementioned names are on our list. But Josh is hoping for a boy and I'm pulling for a girl, either of which will be the victim of many lessons on presidents.
And last night's dream featured tiny pandas being hunted by cats in church. I grabbed a cat by the nape of the neck and whispered, "I know that a whole bunch of you could come to my house and try to hurt me, but I know a plenty of ways to kill a cat and I'm not afraid of you." The cats left. The tiny pandas could go back home.
