Category — Expecting

The innie remains an innie (so far) although I am encountering depths of my belly button I’ve never seen before, my feet are swollen beyond belief, and I officially stopped wearing my wedding band as of yesterday when my mother-in-law had to wrench the piece of metal over my knuckle with dish soap and a lever made of dental floss. 

On the pregnancy note, I bring you this poem (of sorts) written in month three:

I am eating convulsively, though I find it repulsive.
It’s all I can do to sleep.
My boobs keep growing
and my nipples are SO sensitive
I scream in the shower
cowering in the corner –
hiding my chest away from
the faucet.

Yes. I am pregnant.

Image by Kameron Bayne

At our first prenatal class on Tuesday night the instructor had each of us squeeze an ice cube in our hand for 45 seconds. It hurt like a $%#%$#&. You can imagine the laughter when I read this little birth class Q & A this morning:

Q: Will keeping a hand in a bucket of ice during class really approximate labour pain?

A: Yes, more or less — just imagine the ice is the polar ice cap and you’re slowly being crushed under it while somebody jabs an icicle in your spine. 

Oh God, help me.

Today I enjoyed this word from Katrina Onstad on throwing out the plan, the birth plan, that is. 

“Modern times, don’t be so pushy,” Chatelaine, August 2008

Our birth plan in progress. We are planning to have our baby at home. We are planning to have a birth pool (I find water incredibly calming.) We have two backup hospitals. We have a group of midwives, one of which will be at our birth. I have a wonderful doula. We started prenatal classes last night. I’m taking yoga classes.

But really, when the water breaks, it’s anyone’s game.

This pregnancy thing is really one giant exercise in trust.

The baby is kicking his/her agreement as I type… ;)

Daily, my body twists and bends, my new form growing in directions I did not have in mind these past few months as I acquired lovely frocks in Paris, London and New York. Portobello, Spitafields and Williamsburg will have to wait—my baby is coming.

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“NY fashions will have to wait—my baby is coming”

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Being six months pregnant makes me feel like the antithesis to aesthetically pleasing. These days the better part of my morning is spent combing through long-loved blouses, hand-sewn dresses and vintage skirts for the sole piece that won’t make me feel fat today.

I have often heard fashion gurus (What Not to Wear’s Stacy London, anyone?) say “dress your body now” (not the one you hope for), and I am doing my best.

In recent months I have mastered the art of the cinched belt: disguising my widening hips (or trying, at least) and accentuating my burgeoning belly. I’m donning oversized dresses, leggings and flats, shopping in my closet for creative ways to smile in the mirror. (An impending birth is not the time to splurge on personal style; the extra pennies are already being tidily tucked away in the mattress.) This, I am told, is a time to celebrate the female form! So, why would I be hiding?

Pregnancy, like any season of life, requires attention. With such rapid and obvious changes afoot, it’s been easy for me to notice the details. But, more than an outward metamorphosis, this experience has been a lesson in living. I need to approach my wardrobe and my life with the same intentionality, every day.

Over the years our frames change, both literally and figuratively. Just as a woman’s body one day makes room for a visitor, so our bodies shift and change as we age. We take desk jobs and, sadly, one day our metabolisms stop burning Peanut Buster® Parfaits like they’re fresh spinach. Our frames change, and they require daily adornment, so why not relish in the simple creative opportunity this affords us?

Creative dressing comes in many forms. The more ambitious types, like Alex Martin of the “Little Brown Dress” Project, don the same homemade dress for 365 days. More than practicality, it’s an anti-consumerist statement, and a beautiful one at that. Others, like Ryan Marshall of Pacing the Panic Room, take a more mainstream approach. Working from the racks of American Apparel, this photographer/writer provides a weekly chronicle of his wife’s growing baby belly and her creative means to cover it.

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“Chronicling pregnancy from the dressing room”

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There is a season for everything (even tight pocket books and broadening mid-sections), Ecclesiastes reminds us. Perhaps pregnancy is a time when we mothers—writers, professors, teachers, painters, carpenters, dancers, students, baristas—embrace our inward and outward selves in new and inspired ways.

And, as Mark Twain coyly aphorizes: “Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.”

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Published today in Comment

For those who have been wondering, my grandma is on the mend. Thank you for your thoughts and prayers. They thought her infection would move into her kidneys causing irreversible damage but that has not been the case. She is still in hospital but getting stronger every day. Unfortunately, because she has a superbug (which I was previously unaware of,) I am unable to visit her anymore. It is unsafe for the baby :( who is, by the way, starting to kick and wiggle and hiccup every daylight hour.

Apparently a babies movements are more of a sign of their personality than their gender. That means this little one is more like his/her mama. ;)

“This week, your baby weighs almost 2 pounds (like a head of cauliflower) and is about 14 1/2 inches long with her legs extended. She’s sleeping and waking at regular intervals, opening and closing her eyes, and perhaps even sucking her fingers. With more brain tissue developing, your baby’s brain is very active now. While her lungs are still immature, they would be capable of functioning — with a lot of medical help — if she were born now. Chalk up any tiny rhythmic movements you may be feeling to a case of baby hiccups, which may be common from now on. Each episode usually lasts only a few moments, and they don’t bother her, so just relax and enjoy the tickle.”

From the Baby Center

It just keeps growing… 

but there’s still a dip.

I’m hoping one day soon it will be nice and round and people will stop telling me (believe it, or not) I just kind of look fat. I could live without that.

You burst into tears at the voting station because a) you went to the wrong voting station, and b) you haven’t noticed your voting card has your maiden name on it and you have no corresponding ID.

Oh happy day.