My doc introduced me to a new concept at my last visit: the difference between gestational age in chronology and size. For example, I'm 20 weeks along now and the twins are each measuring a few days more than that themselves. But because of the double occupancy, I'm measuring 30 weeks according to my uterus and belly.
On the one hand, it scares the bejeezus out of me that I've gotten so big so quickly. What will the next 20 weeks look like? Can I make it that far?
On the other, I'm quite proud that I've managed to grow as well as I have...more like the twins have grown so well (they're both weighing 11 oz!)...without gaining any more than 10 lbs. and considering that I stayed so sick for the first 16 weeks.
I've literally gone from the appearance of a girl with no preggo eggo to what looks like a chick 7 months along in just a few weeks! I went from coworkers who had no clue I was pregnant one week to thinking I was ready to pop the next. I'm packing a mean front hump these days.
It's an incredibly surreal feeling to have your body and appearance change so drastically so quickly. The only comparison I have is how you don't recognize yourself when passing your reflection in a mirror after coloring your hair. I have the same sensation each time I pull back the shower curtain after bathing. Who is that swollen naked chick in my bathroom?! The hubs and I need to have a conversation!!!!!
The doc has me on progesterone shots through week 35 with the hopes of getting my uterus to expand beyond 40 weeks in measure.....preferably around 46. We're hoping that I'll overgrow on the inside in order to provide more cushion for the twinks to bake longer - overcompensation via overexpansion, if you will.
Of course, Octomom has proven that the body is capable of stretching much further. The problem lies with the cervix. Almost like the subfloor in a house - if it's weak with good materials on top of it, it cannot sustain increasing weight without support.
With this in mind, I'm resolved to stop picking up things that are even slightly heavy. I'm not going to be bending over to pick things up that aren't absolutely necessary. Doc has told me that exercise beyond going to work is not an option. I will probably still try for the occasional leisurely stroll around the block, though. I will be wearing a belt beneath my belly to help relieve whatever pressure I can. I will take the lectures from the hubs about what I can and cannot do.
These things are incredibly difficult for me considering I'm quite the independent person. It makes me feel lazy to not do for myself. But I do not want bed rest. I do not want to be hung upside down by my heels. I do not want premature babies. I do not want to spend countless hours in NICU. And I do not want to have to reinforce my weak subfloor (aka cervix) with stronger floor joists (aka cervical cerclage - surgery to sew the cervix shut)
Prayerfully, I won't have to do any of these things.
Prayerfully, I won't run out of womb.
Then these two kiddos can save the arguments over personal space for the day when they realize they have to share a bedroom and a car....not just a uterus.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Sunday, February 3, 2013
On top of the muffin top
It goes without saying that you're going to gain weight while pregnant. You're supposed to do that - within moderation, of course.
Doctors suggest a healthy 30 lb gain for single pregnancies. I've been warned that I can expect a 50 lb gain with twins.
But these are the ideal figures....many women are known to put on 60 - 75 pounds with single pregnancies. So you can imagine my fear as the numbers on the scale climb each week. I'm really scared of gaining too much.
I'm not a slight person. Never have been. I've always been an average size girl in most ways - size 7.5 shoe, size 10 pant, medium t-shirt and so on. Where I've differed is in my bust and hips. As the hubs likes to say, "I've got junk in the trunk and under the hood" - though it's hardly issued as a complaint. Thank goodness, too, because I have zero interest in cleaning out the trunk or the hood. I could always use some toning up and the loss of some gratuitous love pounds I've put on since being in a relationship (What can I say? The boy can cook!), but I am not now nor have I ever been interested in being what people consider thin. It's just not who I am.
Uncomfortably overweight is also not who I am, so I'm not okay with gaining so much during pregnancy that I can't get it off within a reasonable amount of time after birth. So far, at nearly 19 weeks, I've gained 10 lbs. Sounds scary to me, but everything I've read tells me to expect an average scale jump of 10 lbs. through the first 20 weeks. And I keep reminding myself that I'm carrying 2 babies, each measuring and weighing what the average single fetus would at this point, and thankfully so.
Despite the extra baggage, I've managed to keep on wearing most of my pre-preggo clothes so far. I have started wearing leggings sometimes and some maternity shirts because they're longer and can cover my rubberband rigged pants....but hey, I'm still in my old pants!
Doctors suggest a healthy 30 lb gain for single pregnancies. I've been warned that I can expect a 50 lb gain with twins.
But these are the ideal figures....many women are known to put on 60 - 75 pounds with single pregnancies. So you can imagine my fear as the numbers on the scale climb each week. I'm really scared of gaining too much.
I'm not a slight person. Never have been. I've always been an average size girl in most ways - size 7.5 shoe, size 10 pant, medium t-shirt and so on. Where I've differed is in my bust and hips. As the hubs likes to say, "I've got junk in the trunk and under the hood" - though it's hardly issued as a complaint. Thank goodness, too, because I have zero interest in cleaning out the trunk or the hood. I could always use some toning up and the loss of some gratuitous love pounds I've put on since being in a relationship (What can I say? The boy can cook!), but I am not now nor have I ever been interested in being what people consider thin. It's just not who I am.
Uncomfortably overweight is also not who I am, so I'm not okay with gaining so much during pregnancy that I can't get it off within a reasonable amount of time after birth. So far, at nearly 19 weeks, I've gained 10 lbs. Sounds scary to me, but everything I've read tells me to expect an average scale jump of 10 lbs. through the first 20 weeks. And I keep reminding myself that I'm carrying 2 babies, each measuring and weighing what the average single fetus would at this point, and thankfully so.
Despite the extra baggage, I've managed to keep on wearing most of my pre-preggo clothes so far. I have started wearing leggings sometimes and some maternity shirts because they're longer and can cover my rubberband rigged pants....but hey, I'm still in my old pants!
The weight gain is worrisome with twins, but that's not all that has my nerves on edge.
In addition to the dreaded "muffin top" on my waist line, I've encountered a number of other unpleasant pregnancy symptoms. I've already told you about the asteroids so I'll spare you the rerun....suffice to say, they still frequently come and seldom go (painfully so).
The relentless hunger strikes in the middle of the night are also irksome - despite being able to eat throughout the day now that the vomiting has subsided, I constantly feel hungry. Conveniently, it hits a peak in the middle of the night....usually around 2 am.
Sadly, I'm already awake most of the night because I have to pee. What is perhaps the most annoying about these frequent pee breaks is that the need to go seems so urgent that it wakes me from sleep, but when I actually sit down on the toilet, I manage to let out only a trickle. What gives?! I woke up to pee for 5 seconds!? I would've sworn I had a 2 liter in my bladder when I blindly waddled into the bathroom! That kind of performance isn't even worth the toilet paper!
If the stomach and bladder discomfort weren't enough to jar me from slumber, the muscle cramps surely are. Any time I move in the night to reposition (which is getting increasingly difficult with my growing front hump) I get insane cramps. For now, they're isolated to my toes, calves and thighs, but I'm told to expect the charlie horses to spread to other areas. Oh joy.
The hair growth on my chinny-chin-chin has resumed....and I have only one chin less than that description. I'm praying I don't develop a third layer of chin. I've always had blonde fuzz on my skin, but now the fuzz on my abdomen is getting darker...just in time to complement the line that's just starting to form down my middle! I'll look like an ewok before you know it. Oh joy.
And then there are the nosebleeds. They started around week 17. Having never bled from the nostrils before, this symptom took me by alarm. One day I sneezed in the shower and within moments of looking toward my feet noticed pink water in the tub floor. Having miscarried before (around the same time of pregnancy and same time of year no less) my stomach lurched at the thought that I was repeating that nightmare again. Quickly looking between my legs I caught the glimpse of a red drop falling from my head. After putting my hands to my face I realized that my nose was bleeding - very thankful it wasn't my hoohah.
I've had a couple more nosebleeds since that experience, but I've learned with each one how to stop them quickly. The tiny bit of research I've done tells me that nosebleeds are fairly common in pregnancy due to the changing nature of mucus membranes, predominantly the cervix, but also the nasal cavity. It has something to do with increased progesterone in your system (and I'm getting even more with the shots). The changes result in greater blood flow to those regions ergo more potential for bleeding - especially if you've had a cold or dry sinuses, both of which I've been blessed to experience recently. Perhaps this also explains why some mom's noses get fat during pregnancy?
Speaking of colds, one of the biggest challenges I've found in this pregnancy has been racing to chew and swallow my food before I run out of breath. As I said earlier, I stay hungry. I eat around every 3 hours. I'm not ever able to eat large amounts at a time, but if I don't eat something within a certain time frame (which oddly resembles a bottle feeding schedule...me thinks these kiddos are behind this little arrangement) I start gagging and wretching. My poor kids at school have become trained to grab the trash can and bring it near when I start making that noise during story time. Bless them.
Having thrown up so much at the start of this journey, the barfing is a routine I have down pat. But eating with a stopped up nose is quite a challenge. Complicating the matter is the fact that I'm slightly neurotic. I'm fearful whenever I can't take regular breaths....I was never that kid that enjoyed having contests to see who could hold their breath the longest in the deep end. No sir. Not me. I'd forfeit the contest within 10 seconds as images of my dying brain cells screaming from oxygen deprivation swirled through my head, pushing me dramatically to the water's surface like a breaching whale. Having grown accustomed to superglue in lieu of snot, I've been operating like a mouth-breathing Neanderthal all the time. It's not attractive to do this, I know, but it really doesn't get the best of me until it's time to eat. And then it's a race to chew my food and swallow it as quickly as I can so that I can take another breath. I can't stand when people chew with their mouths open, which would be the obvious solution to this problem, but I can't bring myself to do it....unless I'm eating steak. Have you ever tried to chew and swallow a piece of steak in 10 seconds or less? It's not easy, trust me. It's no wonder that I feel winded after eating....this little 10 second chew/swallow/breathe sprinting routine is quite the cardio workout.
And to make matters worse, I have the privilege of getting shots in my arse regularly - and the hubs gets to do the honors. My doc prescribed progesterone shots to help relax my uterus enough to accommodate the twinkies and hopefully prevent preterm labor. The shots aren't that bad really, but being the nut job that I am I work myself into a tizzy leading up to them.
Then there's the lovely rash that appeared overnight and won't go away either. Doesn't look contagious and thankfully not in areas of my body designed for public consumption anyway. But it makes it very difficult to scratch all the itches without looking like I have fleas in inappropriate places. My house nurse (aka the hubs) says it's just some type of contact dermatitis and blames it on either the variety of lotions that I'm slathering all over my growing front humps or the material in some of the clothes that I'm wearing. I, however, have a different theory and it ends with the rash being his fault. I find it very curious that he has always had incredibly sensitive skin, while I've never struggled with skin sensitivities before his progeny took up residence on my insides.
Come to think of it, I guess you could say that all of this stuff is really his fault. The nausea, vomiting, fatigue, swelling, nosebleeds, congestion, peeing, cramps....all of the stuff on top of the muffin top started with him and his super sperm.
But then those little kicks I get to feel throughout the day would be his fault, too.
Can't get mad at him for those....they're too fabulous. They're reason enough to call a truce.
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Just say no to clear heels!
While we don't know for certain that we're having 2 girls, the clues are pointing in that direction so far. And I'm terrified.
I'm terrified of a lot of things that my kids will more than likely face in their lifetime: overly dramatic friendships, drugs, broken hearts, speeding tickets, the possibility of a learning disability, embarassment, peer pressure, a lack of adventure, and the list goes on.
I'm already stepmom to a son and daughter, and they're as different as night and day. Even seeing the differences and challenges with males and females, I can honestly say that I have no gender preferences. True to the cliche, I just want healthy babies.
However, I am still fearful of having girls. There seems to be a lot more pressure raising "ladies". I've often heard it said that when you have a boy at least you only have to worry about one penis, but when you have a girl, you have to worry about everyone else's penis. What does that do for my worry level if we're having 2 girls on top of the daughter we already have. Exactly how many penises does that mean I have to worry about with 3 daughters (Or is it peni?? What is the plural of penis exactly?)? No wonder my poor father lost his hair after being dad to 5 girls. Yikes!
Here lately though, my greatest fear for them relates to their career ambitions. I'm sure I'll encourage them to follow their passions and never set limits. They can be lawyers, teachers, vets, soldiers, nurses, or whatever. I don't care. Just please don't be strippers.
True, there are far more seedy professions than stripping, and I mean no offense to those in that "calling", or those who have relied on it to make ends meet. Nonetheless, I'm fearful that these 2 kiddos may be destined for clear heels with slits for tips.
Why such a a gloomy prediction you may ask?
Because I've become a dancer since I've become knocked up. If I were interested in dancing to Debussy's Clair du Lune I wouldn't be so worried. I might even predict that I could be birthing some ballerinas.
But that's not the music I'm drawn to lately. I'm constantly in the mood for booty music - you know, hip hop that makes you want to move your hips and shake your tush. The problem is that I'm not such a great dancer, so I only do it when I feel like no one is watching....typically while I'm driving down the road. Please pay no attention to the crazy lady in the white Murano "gettin' down" on JR Allen Parkway. I can just imagine these 2 ladies inside my belly shakin' it like the baby in this video:
When I was younger, I had no shame in dancing wherever/whenever - living room, homecoming dance floor, hotel ball room, truck tail gate, or bar table tops, you name it...I probably graced its' surface with my dirty bare feet and unoriginal moves at some point in my youth. I've developed a greater sense of reality and limitations since I've aged though. I'm not the best dancer. I still love to dance. I just prefer not to do it while others eyes are watching. I shouldn't care, I know. They say "dance like no one's watching", but I struggle with that anyway. Maybe I would've struggled with it more when I was younger, too, if I didn't often have a drink in one of my hands waving in the air off beat....ahhhhh, the college days!
I don't want to wish bad things on my kids, but maybe the genetic combination of my reluctant dance moves and the hubs' refusal to do anything with his feet other than kick a clutch will destine the twins to a life of bad rhythm and two left feet....then they'll have no choice but to say no to clear heels!
Here's hoping........
I'm terrified of a lot of things that my kids will more than likely face in their lifetime: overly dramatic friendships, drugs, broken hearts, speeding tickets, the possibility of a learning disability, embarassment, peer pressure, a lack of adventure, and the list goes on.
I'm already stepmom to a son and daughter, and they're as different as night and day. Even seeing the differences and challenges with males and females, I can honestly say that I have no gender preferences. True to the cliche, I just want healthy babies.
However, I am still fearful of having girls. There seems to be a lot more pressure raising "ladies". I've often heard it said that when you have a boy at least you only have to worry about one penis, but when you have a girl, you have to worry about everyone else's penis. What does that do for my worry level if we're having 2 girls on top of the daughter we already have. Exactly how many penises does that mean I have to worry about with 3 daughters (Or is it peni?? What is the plural of penis exactly?)? No wonder my poor father lost his hair after being dad to 5 girls. Yikes!
Here lately though, my greatest fear for them relates to their career ambitions. I'm sure I'll encourage them to follow their passions and never set limits. They can be lawyers, teachers, vets, soldiers, nurses, or whatever. I don't care. Just please don't be strippers.
True, there are far more seedy professions than stripping, and I mean no offense to those in that "calling", or those who have relied on it to make ends meet. Nonetheless, I'm fearful that these 2 kiddos may be destined for clear heels with slits for tips.
Why such a a gloomy prediction you may ask?
Because I've become a dancer since I've become knocked up. If I were interested in dancing to Debussy's Clair du Lune I wouldn't be so worried. I might even predict that I could be birthing some ballerinas.
But that's not the music I'm drawn to lately. I'm constantly in the mood for booty music - you know, hip hop that makes you want to move your hips and shake your tush. The problem is that I'm not such a great dancer, so I only do it when I feel like no one is watching....typically while I'm driving down the road. Please pay no attention to the crazy lady in the white Murano "gettin' down" on JR Allen Parkway. I can just imagine these 2 ladies inside my belly shakin' it like the baby in this video:
When I was younger, I had no shame in dancing wherever/whenever - living room, homecoming dance floor, hotel ball room, truck tail gate, or bar table tops, you name it...I probably graced its' surface with my dirty bare feet and unoriginal moves at some point in my youth. I've developed a greater sense of reality and limitations since I've aged though. I'm not the best dancer. I still love to dance. I just prefer not to do it while others eyes are watching. I shouldn't care, I know. They say "dance like no one's watching", but I struggle with that anyway. Maybe I would've struggled with it more when I was younger, too, if I didn't often have a drink in one of my hands waving in the air off beat....ahhhhh, the college days!
Here's hoping........
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Mayan predictions
Friday, December 21, 2012 was supposed to be the end of the world.
That is, according to the Mayans.
Confession: I didn't really begin my Christmas shopping until after the 21st, but it had nothing to do with the Mayans. It had everything to do with me caving from pure exhaustion each evening after work and not wanting to barf in the aisles of Macy's.
I hadn't done any shopping, but I also wasn't stocking up on bottled water and prepping my gas mask, either. I simply don't put stock in the end-of-the-world predictions that some theorists perpetuate. I fully believe what the Bible tells us about the end of the world:
But about that day or hour no one knows, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. As it was in the days of Noah, so it will be at the coming of the Son of Man. Matthew 24:36-37
Besides, death is a part of life. It is guaranteed. Why fret over the whens and wheres of it? Why not just live our lives and thank God each day we get to wake up and do it again? I'd rather continue on with this approach and risk my death in apocalypse than build a bunker in my back yard and eat spam every day for years on end.
Even still, I was thoroughly entertained by all of the stories of people who were raiding the local walmart for cans of pork 'n' beans and bottles of Dasani. I even heard a caller on the radio discussing his mother who went into hiding in her basement for the week leading up to the 21st. She hadn't done any Christmas shopping either. But she was prepared for the end of the world as she sat there in her flame retardant suit complete with oxygen source. Maybe it's unkind of me to make light of something that some believe so fully in, but I couldn't help but laugh. My favorite laugh came from a weather forecast for the week of the 21st.
There it is. Stormy and cloudy with high's in the 40's throughout the week, but then a chance of asteroids and fire with a high of 1250 degrees on Friday the 21st!
The weatherman isn't always right. Turns out the Mayans aren't either.
But I have to admit there was a moment on the 21st when I thought they might have been correct about one thing - asteroids.
Because I had 'em.
In my bum.
Gross and TMI, I know. Stop reading here if discussion of bodily functions is too much for you to take.
Asteroids had become my code word for constipation after our dog Brody had a serious bout with it a couple of years ago - something about the beginning sound of the word, plus the vet's repeated phrase "impacted bowel" made the term asteroid come to mind. And it's stuck ever since then.
My husband and I watched as he tried his best to poop in the yard to no avail (the dog, not my husband). He'd hunker down and look like he was about to go, but then scoot a few feet further in a squatted position with tail in the air to try some more. We both giggled a little at the sight of it. But after a couple days of this, the poor guy looked miserable each time he tried to go. His legs were shaking from pushing so hard. The joke wasn't funny anymore.
We took him to the vet where they attempted to manually remove the asteroid from his tush. Only, Brody wasn't taking the invasion willingly. He fought them - he's very bum conscious; he won't even let other dogs hump him, except Moo, but she's a girl, so I guess he's your typical male. So the vet muzzled him. I tried to help hold him and console him, but I couldn't lie and tell him it was gonna be alright. He knew better. We both did. I'd been there before at the OB. The vet wasn't elbow deep exactly, but it was painful to watch, so I know it had to be painful to poor Bro. In the end, he could only remove a small portion of the impacted asteroid...and it looked like it had bone in it.
We were busted. We'd long been giving our dogs thick bones from boston butts to chew on - not chicken bones or anything brittle that would crack and tear their insides up. Neither Moo or Bro had ever had any trouble digesting anything until then. Apparently all of those bones caught up with Brody that time. He stayed at the vet receiving fluids for a bit and waiting for the asteroid to pass. But it never did, so we took him home.
The next day with no relief in sight, the hubs thought it'd be a good idea to "grease the runway" like he's done for human patients before. So off I went to the grocery store in search of only 2 items: a box of douche and some KY jelly. That poor cashier was horrified when I came through the line. Bless her. I might have stopped long enough to reassure her that I wasn't a prostitute and fill her in on our plans to violate our dog, but there's just no good way to tell someone that story, you know?!
When I got home, we emptied the bottles of douche and filled them with the KY. Then we lured poor Brody near with treats. I hugged him tight to the ground while the hubs lifted his tail and went to work greasing the runway. We were both in the heat of battle....I was wrestling an alligator and the hubs was in the line of fire. But we eventually got a whole douche bottle of KY up Brody's tush and released him into the wild. He ran like his tail end was about to explode. In truth, it probably was.
As we watched him over the next couple of hours we noticed that his shaking legs were calming down more and more as he tried to pass the asteroid. And eventually, he got it out!
I thought of Brody, my karma for giggling at him, and the Mayans on the 21st as I sat there with my own case of asteroids.
Again, gross I know, but this is one of those things that aren't readily discussed when you're pregnant. And it needs to be. It's disturbing on so many levels, any amount of mental preparation (not preparation H, but you might need that, too) is helpful. So I'll tell you if you've never been pregnant before and plan on doing so in the future:
You're going to get asteroids.
It is miserable. It's just one more symptom to add to the list of unpleasantries that your body will introduce to you. It is the ultimate lesson in losing control. Like me, you've probably been in control of your bowels since you were at least 2 years old. So, to see this control yanked from you is infuriating and humiliating all at once. It doesn't help that the rest of you probably doesn't feel well either.
The constipation is more than likely due to the increased amount of iron you're taking in prenatal vitamins. Apparently swallowing something that turns your gut into concrete is still healthy for the fetus - so keep swallowing that concrete, lady! They say that drinking plenty of water, exercise and prune juice help - assuming you feel well enough to venture away from the toilet you're yaking into to climb onto the treadmill and that your stomach can tolerate the water or prune juice long enough for it to work its' magic. For some people, there are few things you can do about it except grin (or grimace) and bear it.
My poor husband had to grin and bear it, too. He typically calls me a "poop ninja" - only he doesn't say it in those same nice terms - because I'm a pretty private person. So why write about something so personal and embarassing, you may ask? Well, it's over and done with now....the "ice has been broken" so to speak. So why not laugh about it? I'm willing to risk some humiliation in order to add some humor to the warnings I'm trying to issue to preggos-to-be.
And on this occasion, after nearly 2 weeks of suffering, the poop ninja's need for privacy went out the window. I was desperate and pleaded with him for advice - he's a nurse, not asteroid remover, though I'd seen him work magic in this department with Brody. To save what shred of dignity that remained, I made him leave the house and go drink a beer with the neighbors, but only after he gave me detailed instructions on how to use an enema.
*Warning: Ouch. No bueno. A hot shower doesn't even completely wash off the embarassment, but it helps to remember that you're a human and this is just one of those human things.
Although in my case, the hubs was merely a consultant, turns out he might actually deserve the title "asteroid remover" because by the morning of the 22nd I finally felt some relief. I was asteroid free.
I was so thankful that they were gone!
And that the world didn't end....it felt like it might for a minute there.
That is, according to the Mayans.
Confession: I didn't really begin my Christmas shopping until after the 21st, but it had nothing to do with the Mayans. It had everything to do with me caving from pure exhaustion each evening after work and not wanting to barf in the aisles of Macy's.
I hadn't done any shopping, but I also wasn't stocking up on bottled water and prepping my gas mask, either. I simply don't put stock in the end-of-the-world predictions that some theorists perpetuate. I fully believe what the Bible tells us about the end of the world:
But about that day or hour no one knows, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. As it was in the days of Noah, so it will be at the coming of the Son of Man. Matthew 24:36-37
Besides, death is a part of life. It is guaranteed. Why fret over the whens and wheres of it? Why not just live our lives and thank God each day we get to wake up and do it again? I'd rather continue on with this approach and risk my death in apocalypse than build a bunker in my back yard and eat spam every day for years on end.
Even still, I was thoroughly entertained by all of the stories of people who were raiding the local walmart for cans of pork 'n' beans and bottles of Dasani. I even heard a caller on the radio discussing his mother who went into hiding in her basement for the week leading up to the 21st. She hadn't done any Christmas shopping either. But she was prepared for the end of the world as she sat there in her flame retardant suit complete with oxygen source. Maybe it's unkind of me to make light of something that some believe so fully in, but I couldn't help but laugh. My favorite laugh came from a weather forecast for the week of the 21st.
There it is. Stormy and cloudy with high's in the 40's throughout the week, but then a chance of asteroids and fire with a high of 1250 degrees on Friday the 21st!
The weatherman isn't always right. Turns out the Mayans aren't either.
But I have to admit there was a moment on the 21st when I thought they might have been correct about one thing - asteroids.
Because I had 'em.
In my bum.
Gross and TMI, I know. Stop reading here if discussion of bodily functions is too much for you to take.
Asteroids had become my code word for constipation after our dog Brody had a serious bout with it a couple of years ago - something about the beginning sound of the word, plus the vet's repeated phrase "impacted bowel" made the term asteroid come to mind. And it's stuck ever since then.
My husband and I watched as he tried his best to poop in the yard to no avail (the dog, not my husband). He'd hunker down and look like he was about to go, but then scoot a few feet further in a squatted position with tail in the air to try some more. We both giggled a little at the sight of it. But after a couple days of this, the poor guy looked miserable each time he tried to go. His legs were shaking from pushing so hard. The joke wasn't funny anymore.
We took him to the vet where they attempted to manually remove the asteroid from his tush. Only, Brody wasn't taking the invasion willingly. He fought them - he's very bum conscious; he won't even let other dogs hump him, except Moo, but she's a girl, so I guess he's your typical male. So the vet muzzled him. I tried to help hold him and console him, but I couldn't lie and tell him it was gonna be alright. He knew better. We both did. I'd been there before at the OB. The vet wasn't elbow deep exactly, but it was painful to watch, so I know it had to be painful to poor Bro. In the end, he could only remove a small portion of the impacted asteroid...and it looked like it had bone in it.
We were busted. We'd long been giving our dogs thick bones from boston butts to chew on - not chicken bones or anything brittle that would crack and tear their insides up. Neither Moo or Bro had ever had any trouble digesting anything until then. Apparently all of those bones caught up with Brody that time. He stayed at the vet receiving fluids for a bit and waiting for the asteroid to pass. But it never did, so we took him home.
The next day with no relief in sight, the hubs thought it'd be a good idea to "grease the runway" like he's done for human patients before. So off I went to the grocery store in search of only 2 items: a box of douche and some KY jelly. That poor cashier was horrified when I came through the line. Bless her. I might have stopped long enough to reassure her that I wasn't a prostitute and fill her in on our plans to violate our dog, but there's just no good way to tell someone that story, you know?!
When I got home, we emptied the bottles of douche and filled them with the KY. Then we lured poor Brody near with treats. I hugged him tight to the ground while the hubs lifted his tail and went to work greasing the runway. We were both in the heat of battle....I was wrestling an alligator and the hubs was in the line of fire. But we eventually got a whole douche bottle of KY up Brody's tush and released him into the wild. He ran like his tail end was about to explode. In truth, it probably was.
As we watched him over the next couple of hours we noticed that his shaking legs were calming down more and more as he tried to pass the asteroid. And eventually, he got it out!
I thought of Brody, my karma for giggling at him, and the Mayans on the 21st as I sat there with my own case of asteroids.
Again, gross I know, but this is one of those things that aren't readily discussed when you're pregnant. And it needs to be. It's disturbing on so many levels, any amount of mental preparation (not preparation H, but you might need that, too) is helpful. So I'll tell you if you've never been pregnant before and plan on doing so in the future:
You're going to get asteroids.
It is miserable. It's just one more symptom to add to the list of unpleasantries that your body will introduce to you. It is the ultimate lesson in losing control. Like me, you've probably been in control of your bowels since you were at least 2 years old. So, to see this control yanked from you is infuriating and humiliating all at once. It doesn't help that the rest of you probably doesn't feel well either.
The constipation is more than likely due to the increased amount of iron you're taking in prenatal vitamins. Apparently swallowing something that turns your gut into concrete is still healthy for the fetus - so keep swallowing that concrete, lady! They say that drinking plenty of water, exercise and prune juice help - assuming you feel well enough to venture away from the toilet you're yaking into to climb onto the treadmill and that your stomach can tolerate the water or prune juice long enough for it to work its' magic. For some people, there are few things you can do about it except grin (or grimace) and bear it.
My poor husband had to grin and bear it, too. He typically calls me a "poop ninja" - only he doesn't say it in those same nice terms - because I'm a pretty private person. So why write about something so personal and embarassing, you may ask? Well, it's over and done with now....the "ice has been broken" so to speak. So why not laugh about it? I'm willing to risk some humiliation in order to add some humor to the warnings I'm trying to issue to preggos-to-be.
And on this occasion, after nearly 2 weeks of suffering, the poop ninja's need for privacy went out the window. I was desperate and pleaded with him for advice - he's a nurse, not asteroid remover, though I'd seen him work magic in this department with Brody. To save what shred of dignity that remained, I made him leave the house and go drink a beer with the neighbors, but only after he gave me detailed instructions on how to use an enema.
*Warning: Ouch. No bueno. A hot shower doesn't even completely wash off the embarassment, but it helps to remember that you're a human and this is just one of those human things.
Although in my case, the hubs was merely a consultant, turns out he might actually deserve the title "asteroid remover" because by the morning of the 22nd I finally felt some relief. I was asteroid free.
I was so thankful that they were gone!
And that the world didn't end....it felt like it might for a minute there.
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
One and done?
In the past I'd always believed that I would become a mother to multiple children. I grew up in a large family...the youngest of 5 girls in a blended family, so it seemed natural that I would birth my own gaggle of kiddos in due time.
After marrying my husband and his two kids from his previous marriage those plans changed somewhat. Not because I didn't want multiple kids or that he wasn't willing to father more kids per se - he definitely felt his "boys" were up to the task. But we would have three total if I birthed just one - three kids to finance, support, love, and hopefully/prayerfully usher into successful adulthood. Three is plenty. Three is a lot. Three is the reason that a lot of parents stop at two.
So the question of quality vs. quantity left us feeling pretty certain that we would adopt the "one and done" philosophy for my uterus. One pregnancy. One kid. No mas. And let's face it, after the first few weeks of morning sickness with my first pregnancy, I wasn't exactly eager to be a frequent flyer on that airline, thank you very much.
Even though I previously thought I'd be mom to many kiddos, never in my wildest dreams did I think that I would be a mom to multiples. So to learn in my first ultrasound that I was expecting twins was quite a shock - one I'm a bit ashamed to say I didn't take too well.
To my credit, I didn't have the benefit of warming up to the idea of pregnancy for several weeks before my first ultrasound. I was sent straight upstairs to the u/s techs immediately following the emergence of positive pregnancy lines on that first urine test. My doctor was trying to rule out an ectopic pregnancy based on symptoms I'd reported.
When you're happily married and of a responsible age (does 30 count?), the expectation is that the pink plus sign is the start of many momentous celebrations - dinners with baby peas and baby limas to announce your bundle to your spouse, bottles of champagne that you can't drink being popped by the grandparents-to-be, baby showers and paint-the-nursery parties. Rattles are supposed to shake and tears of joy are supposed to overflow.
But I had no tears of joy. Just tears. Overwhelming sobs with ragged breathing and snot running down my face might be a more accurate description.
I was devastated.
I had closed my brain off to the possibility of being a biological mom and to have that door flung wide open by not just one baby, but two completely overwhelmed me to the point of breakdown.
What was I going to do with two babies at once? Where would they sleep? Where would they go while I went to work? I can't afford daycare for two! That's another mortgage payment!!! How would I breastfeed them? Change them? Heck, how many diapers a month do TWO bums go through? Where do you put two babies in the grocery cart while you shop? Sleep? Ever? Yeah, right. Bye, bye one and done. And those were just my fears assuming that I was able to successfully carry two healthy babies and birth them. What about all the stuff that comes before?
It's enough pressure to worry about caring for one human inside you - eating right, exercising (when you can lift your head from the toilet), prenatal care, yada yada yada. But two of 'em?! The stakes were definitely higher, but they felt like more than just twice as high. Already a high risk pregnancy candidate, I just entered a new level of high risk...like going from national security threat level yellow to level orange. The risks of premature delivery, complications, fetal health issues are significantly higher with multiples. Add to that the fact that it appears that these two share a placenta - meaning they're eating off the same kitchen, but more than likely pushing and shoving at the refrigerator door. They're not necessarily getting an equal share of nutrients. It was all very daunting.
I felt defeated before I'd really broken from the start line and gotten started running.
And speaking of running, while laying there in stirrups with vaginal u/s in progress being told "Look! There's your baby! Ahhhh.....and here's baby B!", I had never wanted to run more. Talk about a bad time to be caught with your pants down. Literally. My brain knew I couldn't run, but my knees didn't know it - they shook so badly that my poor u/s tech had to steady them. Good thing she had a probe stuck in me and her hands on my knees, or I might have been a feature on the evening news for having run down 15th street naked from the waist down.
After handing me a bunch of kleenex, my nurse offered to call my husband to come pick me up. I declined. She offered to call and pay for a cab. I graciously declined. She jokingly offered me a shot of liquor. If it weren't Crown Royal (bleck!) I probably would accepted as I grabbed the bottle and ran. Instead I took only a follow up appointment card and stash of prenatal vitamins as I thanked the staff and headed home.
The weather outside was beautiful. Blue skies. Sunny with bits of clouds scattered here and there. It was a gorgeous fall day - my favorite days of the year. Nevertheless, I drove home in a fog.
What was I going to say to my husband? How would he react? How was I going to do any of this?
I prayed. And prayed some more. Someone - not me - drove that car home. Someone - not me - opened the car door. Someone - not me - put my feet on the ground and placed them one in front of the other until I landed at my door.
And someone - not me - blessed me with the most fantastic human to share my life with. He greeted me at the door with a smile. When he asked how the appointment went, I hesitated to respond, but eventually found the words:
"You, dear sir, need a drink. Make that a double - one shot for each baby we have on the way."
I bawled. And he laughed. And hugged me. And said he loved me. And said everything was going to be okay and that somehow we would figure it all out.
He gave me the courage to put on and wear these shoes that God has given me.
I'm not going to lie - they're tight and wearing some serious blisters on my feet. But I'm going to wear them with a smile on my face from now on. I know they'll get more comfortable with each day that I break them in.
After marrying my husband and his two kids from his previous marriage those plans changed somewhat. Not because I didn't want multiple kids or that he wasn't willing to father more kids per se - he definitely felt his "boys" were up to the task. But we would have three total if I birthed just one - three kids to finance, support, love, and hopefully/prayerfully usher into successful adulthood. Three is plenty. Three is a lot. Three is the reason that a lot of parents stop at two.
So the question of quality vs. quantity left us feeling pretty certain that we would adopt the "one and done" philosophy for my uterus. One pregnancy. One kid. No mas. And let's face it, after the first few weeks of morning sickness with my first pregnancy, I wasn't exactly eager to be a frequent flyer on that airline, thank you very much.
Even though I previously thought I'd be mom to many kiddos, never in my wildest dreams did I think that I would be a mom to multiples. So to learn in my first ultrasound that I was expecting twins was quite a shock - one I'm a bit ashamed to say I didn't take too well.
To my credit, I didn't have the benefit of warming up to the idea of pregnancy for several weeks before my first ultrasound. I was sent straight upstairs to the u/s techs immediately following the emergence of positive pregnancy lines on that first urine test. My doctor was trying to rule out an ectopic pregnancy based on symptoms I'd reported.
When you're happily married and of a responsible age (does 30 count?), the expectation is that the pink plus sign is the start of many momentous celebrations - dinners with baby peas and baby limas to announce your bundle to your spouse, bottles of champagne that you can't drink being popped by the grandparents-to-be, baby showers and paint-the-nursery parties. Rattles are supposed to shake and tears of joy are supposed to overflow.
But I had no tears of joy. Just tears. Overwhelming sobs with ragged breathing and snot running down my face might be a more accurate description.
I was devastated.
I had closed my brain off to the possibility of being a biological mom and to have that door flung wide open by not just one baby, but two completely overwhelmed me to the point of breakdown.
What was I going to do with two babies at once? Where would they sleep? Where would they go while I went to work? I can't afford daycare for two! That's another mortgage payment!!! How would I breastfeed them? Change them? Heck, how many diapers a month do TWO bums go through? Where do you put two babies in the grocery cart while you shop? Sleep? Ever? Yeah, right. Bye, bye one and done. And those were just my fears assuming that I was able to successfully carry two healthy babies and birth them. What about all the stuff that comes before?
It's enough pressure to worry about caring for one human inside you - eating right, exercising (when you can lift your head from the toilet), prenatal care, yada yada yada. But two of 'em?! The stakes were definitely higher, but they felt like more than just twice as high. Already a high risk pregnancy candidate, I just entered a new level of high risk...like going from national security threat level yellow to level orange. The risks of premature delivery, complications, fetal health issues are significantly higher with multiples. Add to that the fact that it appears that these two share a placenta - meaning they're eating off the same kitchen, but more than likely pushing and shoving at the refrigerator door. They're not necessarily getting an equal share of nutrients. It was all very daunting.
I felt defeated before I'd really broken from the start line and gotten started running.
And speaking of running, while laying there in stirrups with vaginal u/s in progress being told "Look! There's your baby! Ahhhh.....and here's baby B!", I had never wanted to run more. Talk about a bad time to be caught with your pants down. Literally. My brain knew I couldn't run, but my knees didn't know it - they shook so badly that my poor u/s tech had to steady them. Good thing she had a probe stuck in me and her hands on my knees, or I might have been a feature on the evening news for having run down 15th street naked from the waist down.
After handing me a bunch of kleenex, my nurse offered to call my husband to come pick me up. I declined. She offered to call and pay for a cab. I graciously declined. She jokingly offered me a shot of liquor. If it weren't Crown Royal (bleck!) I probably would accepted as I grabbed the bottle and ran. Instead I took only a follow up appointment card and stash of prenatal vitamins as I thanked the staff and headed home.
The weather outside was beautiful. Blue skies. Sunny with bits of clouds scattered here and there. It was a gorgeous fall day - my favorite days of the year. Nevertheless, I drove home in a fog.
What was I going to say to my husband? How would he react? How was I going to do any of this?
I prayed. And prayed some more. Someone - not me - drove that car home. Someone - not me - opened the car door. Someone - not me - put my feet on the ground and placed them one in front of the other until I landed at my door.
And someone - not me - blessed me with the most fantastic human to share my life with. He greeted me at the door with a smile. When he asked how the appointment went, I hesitated to respond, but eventually found the words:
"You, dear sir, need a drink. Make that a double - one shot for each baby we have on the way."
I bawled. And he laughed. And hugged me. And said he loved me. And said everything was going to be okay and that somehow we would figure it all out.
He gave me the courage to put on and wear these shoes that God has given me.
I'm not going to lie - they're tight and wearing some serious blisters on my feet. But I'm going to wear them with a smile on my face from now on. I know they'll get more comfortable with each day that I break them in.
Friday, December 21, 2012
Thar she blows!
I would have back handed Captain Ahab or Ishmael had either of them really uttered those words at me. But for some reason, "Thar she blows!" is the line I find shouting in my head each time I catch a sideways glimpse of myself in the mirror.
I look like a whale.
No flippers thank goodness, but I stay sweaty and wet looking. My face is breaking out in what look like barnacles, I'm so pale I'm almost glowing, and I would swear I gaining an extra layer of blubber. Not to mention the fact that this "bump" is more like a hump that popped up overnight. Not too far from Melville's description of the elusive Moby Dick, huh?
And the bump keeps growing! Don't get me wrong. I'm NOT complaining because I know this means (in theory) that the 2 people inside of me are also growing and I'm very grateful for that.
I'm just so confused! How is this happening already? I'm throwing up at least twice a day. I've gained a total of 3 lbs. And the 2 kiddos inside me are no bigger than the size of limes and don't weigh even that! So where is this newfound mass generating from? I'm not even 14 weeks along. Yeesh.
While I don't make a habit of complaining about my size out loud to others (except my husband when he rubs my belly), I am incredibly self-concious of this orb in front of me. For now, others don't seem to notice the resemblance between me and aquatic creatures - that or they're just kind enough not to mention it. I have had a few random belly rubbers (ps...not sure how I feel about that just yet), but at least no one's chasing me around with a harpoon.
Thank goodness! Don't think I could run (or swim) fast enough to get away.
I look like a whale.
No flippers thank goodness, but I stay sweaty and wet looking. My face is breaking out in what look like barnacles, I'm so pale I'm almost glowing, and I would swear I gaining an extra layer of blubber. Not to mention the fact that this "bump" is more like a hump that popped up overnight. Not too far from Melville's description of the elusive Moby Dick, huh?
And the bump keeps growing! Don't get me wrong. I'm NOT complaining because I know this means (in theory) that the 2 people inside of me are also growing and I'm very grateful for that.
I'm just so confused! How is this happening already? I'm throwing up at least twice a day. I've gained a total of 3 lbs. And the 2 kiddos inside me are no bigger than the size of limes and don't weigh even that! So where is this newfound mass generating from? I'm not even 14 weeks along. Yeesh.
While I don't make a habit of complaining about my size out loud to others (except my husband when he rubs my belly), I am incredibly self-concious of this orb in front of me. For now, others don't seem to notice the resemblance between me and aquatic creatures - that or they're just kind enough not to mention it. I have had a few random belly rubbers (ps...not sure how I feel about that just yet), but at least no one's chasing me around with a harpoon.
Thank goodness! Don't think I could run (or swim) fast enough to get away.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
The one percenters!
The baddest of the bad call themselves "the 1%" - or the one percenters. It's a group of bikers, including such groups as the Hells Angels, Banditos, or the Outlaws to name a few. But no matter their name, they share in common a reputation for rough riding and law breaking, which is how their nickname came to be.
In defense of the motorcycle community at large following the outbreaks of several melees between motorcycle clubs, or MC's, for short, the American Motorcyclist Association, issued the following statement:
"99% of bikers are law-abiding citizens, but there's that one percent who are nothing more than outlaws...."
The ONLY reason that I know this is because my husband is an avid two-wheeler. He lives and breathes motorcycles. I sometimes fully believe that motor oil, rather than blood, pulses through the man's veins. It's not just that he knows how to change oil, readjust clutch cables or install any part that J&P Cycles advertises....the man knows the culture, as well - even if he doesn't live it in his seemingly "white collar" life by comparison. And there is a separate culture for motorcyclists, make no mistake. If you've ever watched Sons of Anarchy then you know exactly what I'm talking about. If you ever meet a MC member, not to mention a 1%'er (because they are not one and the same necessarily) then you'll understand. MC stands for something that goes way beyond the ingredients of an oil change and a frat party.
In another life, given the opportunity, I'm sure the hubs would be a "one percenter". Not because he's an outlaw, but because he shares a lot in common with what some MC's stand for - he's a loyal guy, always up for a good time, and loves to ride fast and hard. He'd be speeding through the Black Hills of South Dakota with his braided goatee flying in the wind and fingers full of skull rings, complete with a leave-at-work job for greasy hands, and an "ol' lady" at home keeping cold suds in the fridge.
But in this life, as it turns out, he's just become a different type of one percenter - and so have I - only I won't be wearing a "Property of _____" patch on a vest. Members of this one percent club say it's pretty cool - adventurous and extreme for sure. Elite even, by some standards. And it's not horribly common. There are no cool hats or leather vests with 3 rocker patches like the Hells Angels, Outlaws, or the very handsome Sons of Anarchy (hellloooooo Jax Teller!), though. Gray hair and the relief of knowing you survived are probably the only souvenirs to be gained through membership.
I'm dubbing this our very own one percent club because I found myself asking "What are the odds?" while staring at the sky in hopes that God would offer a response. But when I didn't get one after repeated questioning I decided to do some research on my own. Turns out members of this club are the 1 out of every 89 - or 1.123596% of the population of people becoming parents.
We've just conceived twins. Naturally.
Au naturale. No meds. No in vitro. No acupuncture - Ha! We couldn't afford those things even if we were interested. No crazy kama sutra positions or fertility exercises or consultation of the Chinese calendar. Not even the first drop of Robitussin.
We did it all on our own. My lazy ovaries and misshapen uterus and his "super sperm" have outdone themselves.
So not only do I have to get the man a cape to signify the superiority of his sperm, but now I've got to make him his own one percenter vest. I'm thinking instead of a skull and cross bones I'll have a teddy bear and crossed rattles, though.
With his goatee braided and combat boots on, surely he can toughen up the look.
In defense of the motorcycle community at large following the outbreaks of several melees between motorcycle clubs, or MC's, for short, the American Motorcyclist Association, issued the following statement:
"99% of bikers are law-abiding citizens, but there's that one percent who are nothing more than outlaws...."
The ONLY reason that I know this is because my husband is an avid two-wheeler. He lives and breathes motorcycles. I sometimes fully believe that motor oil, rather than blood, pulses through the man's veins. It's not just that he knows how to change oil, readjust clutch cables or install any part that J&P Cycles advertises....the man knows the culture, as well - even if he doesn't live it in his seemingly "white collar" life by comparison. And there is a separate culture for motorcyclists, make no mistake. If you've ever watched Sons of Anarchy then you know exactly what I'm talking about. If you ever meet a MC member, not to mention a 1%'er (because they are not one and the same necessarily) then you'll understand. MC stands for something that goes way beyond the ingredients of an oil change and a frat party.
In another life, given the opportunity, I'm sure the hubs would be a "one percenter". Not because he's an outlaw, but because he shares a lot in common with what some MC's stand for - he's a loyal guy, always up for a good time, and loves to ride fast and hard. He'd be speeding through the Black Hills of South Dakota with his braided goatee flying in the wind and fingers full of skull rings, complete with a leave-at-work job for greasy hands, and an "ol' lady" at home keeping cold suds in the fridge.
But in this life, as it turns out, he's just become a different type of one percenter - and so have I - only I won't be wearing a "Property of _____" patch on a vest. Members of this one percent club say it's pretty cool - adventurous and extreme for sure. Elite even, by some standards. And it's not horribly common. There are no cool hats or leather vests with 3 rocker patches like the Hells Angels, Outlaws, or the very handsome Sons of Anarchy (hellloooooo Jax Teller!), though. Gray hair and the relief of knowing you survived are probably the only souvenirs to be gained through membership.
I'm dubbing this our very own one percent club because I found myself asking "What are the odds?" while staring at the sky in hopes that God would offer a response. But when I didn't get one after repeated questioning I decided to do some research on my own. Turns out members of this club are the 1 out of every 89 - or 1.123596% of the population of people becoming parents.
We've just conceived twins. Naturally.
Au naturale. No meds. No in vitro. No acupuncture - Ha! We couldn't afford those things even if we were interested. No crazy kama sutra positions or fertility exercises or consultation of the Chinese calendar. Not even the first drop of Robitussin.
We did it all on our own. My lazy ovaries and misshapen uterus and his "super sperm" have outdone themselves.
So not only do I have to get the man a cape to signify the superiority of his sperm, but now I've got to make him his own one percenter vest. I'm thinking instead of a skull and cross bones I'll have a teddy bear and crossed rattles, though.
With his goatee braided and combat boots on, surely he can toughen up the look.
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