Baby gear

I am learning, as I prepare to bring this baby home, that there is a whole world of baby gear out there, with weird names, and if you're pregnant people will talk to you as if you somehow inherently know what this stuff means or what it does. My personal favorite? "Stroller muff." Apparently it is some sort of thing you put around the stroller to keep the baby warm in the winter. I personally can't say it without giggling. It sounds like another term for MILF to me.

The final countdown

So I'm 36 weeks now. The last time I went to the doctor, she said it's basically on. Meaning I could really go into labor at any time. I'm hoping/praying my body holds out until at least 38 weeks. We can't move into our new place until Monday, which means I have no nursery to set up. I also need to wash everything I have been given for the baby since we have had a mouse infestation these last two weeks. (Viva NYC.)

 On the other hand, I'm over being pregnant. I am so huge that I can't bend over; tying my shoes--even when I put my feet in my lap--is a trial. I no longer walk or even waddle; I am lumbering around like Marge Gunderson in Fargo. And has anyone seen my ankles? Because they're gone. I have heard this happens to many pregnant women, but I just never assumed it would happen to me. Then, the other day, I looked down at my feet and exclaimed "Holy shit!" It is really weird looking. Another thing: I leak urine every time I cough or produce a hearty giggle. It's all glamouroussexyfuntimes up in here.

My to-do list is getting shorter, but I still have to finalize a pediatrician, get a few important remaining things for the baby (furniture, baby carrier, etc) and also pack my go-bag for the hospital. Oh, and take an infant CPR class. Oh yeah, and MOVE. On New Year's Eve. Can I tell you how stressful this has been? When I think about how much I've done and how much I still have to do, I think--as I often have during this pregnancy--of "Raising Arizona." In particular, I identify with the scene where Frances McDormand and her creepy husband go to visit H.I. and Ed, and Frances' character is drilling Ed about all the stuff she needs to do. "Who is his pediatrician? You don't have a pediatrician? You have to do that this instant!" and "Has he gotten his dip-tet yet? He HAS to get his dip-tet!" Cut to Ed looking forlorn and overwhelmed, and mumbling weakly to H.I., "We need to do that, honey." That's pretty much how I've felt for the last two months.

And when I think about how much I have already done in the calendar month of December, it makes me want to lie the fuck down and sleep for 20 hours. In the month of December, I have worked my usual 50-60 hours a week (with the exception of this last week), hosted my in-laws for a weekend, shopped for Christmas and mailed presents, designed & ordered & mailed 30+ Christmas cards, prepared a full Christmas dinner, sent out thank-yous for my shower, closed on an apartment, hired movers, and started packing for said move.

And there's still so much left to do...

It's about to get real.

So I am starting to get REALLY excited about the whole birth thing. I cannot wait to hold my baby. I am already at the stage where I can feel body parts (though I can’t quite identify them, which makes me feel lame compared to all the other expectant moms in my various birth classes who are like, “Ooh, his butt’s over here!”).

On the other hand, I want the little guy or gal to stay inside as long as possible, if for no other reason than New York real estate. We just closed on an apartment purchase last week, which was the culmination of a long and incredibly stressful process, and we did it in the nick of time, since we have to be out of our rental apartment by the end of this month anyway. It’s also a huge reason why I haven’t been able to do nearly as much baby prep as I wanted to, since there is simply nowhere to put stuff yet. I hate the term “nesting,” but when I get in there in a week I’m going to nest like a motherfucker right up until my little guy or gal is born. (Did I mention that we are moving on New Year's Eve? And that we are moving in the same day the previous owners are moving out? Because moving isn't stressful enough on its own...)

Speaking of whether it’s a guy or gal, my husband has taken to calling the baby “Hermie,” in case it turns out to be a little bit of both. I am not amused!

I also just want to do all the preparation I’ve been told to do in my numerous birthing classes, including packing for the hospital, doing laundry (you have to wash all their stuff in special detergent), setting up a changing table, buying a breastpump/rocker/other stuff I still need, etc. 

Speaking of birth classes, I just finished my last hypnobirthing class last week (it had been postponed because of Sandy). I am convinced that it probably will not help me, because I am just too cynical and neurotic and cannot allow my brain/psyche to let go in the way that you’re supposed to. My husband attempted to do hypnosis on me and it was an utter failure.

Also, at the end of the day, I just think it’s too hippie-dippie. One chick in my class mentioned that she wants to do “placenta encapsulation,” which is apparently a thing that people do now because they don’t have enough other shit to spend money on. You pay some company to grind up your placenta and put it in capsules, then you take these capsules. According to the chick in my class, they are supposed to help prevent postpartum depression, which sounds like bullshit to me. Also, she explained, “We are the only mammals who don’t eat our placenta after birth.” Well, other mammals also eat their own shit, so that’s not really a good reason to do it in my book.

Oh, and I really hated the anti-hospital propaganda they kept shoving down our throats in the class (Don’t get me started on “The Business of Being Born.”). Yes, there are bad things about the medical model of birth care that ought to be updated (such as putting women on a clock when they arrive and rushing them to get induced before it’s necessary), but that doesn’t mean home birth is the answer, either. (At least it isn’t the answer for me, though I do understand why some women feel like it’s a better option for them.) For me, I’d rather end up with an unnecessary c-section that resulted in a healthy baby than indulge my fantasy of a perfect home birth and then wind up in a situation where my kid died because an emergency situation arose and there weren’t adequate medical resources around. I could never, ever live with myself if that happened. And I live in Brooklyn; the nearest good hospitals are a ways away.

Anyway, I decided to take another birth class for good measure; this one was offered at the hospital. I liked it much, much better than the hippie birthing class, even though there were things about it that bothered me too. But the best part was that the instructor looked, sounded, talked and acted EXACTLY like Jane Lynch. It was actually a little disconcerting. It was really as if a celebrity showed up to teach us childbirth preparation. I kept expecting her to whip out a microphone. 

The funny thing is, we walked in late, and we walked in right as the instructor (who was sitting in a chair facing the class with her back to the door) was hiking her legs up next to her head to demonstrate a common birthing position. I do like to make an entrance. 

Anyway, it was totally overwhelming in terms of the sheer volume of information, and I don't think we are going to use it all (I'll probably try to use the hippie-birthing breathing instead of the Lamaze breathing), but it was kind of nice to hear them talk about stuff that just never got brought up in the Hippie Birthing class. For example: "You may want an Epidural. It will not kill your baby. Here's what happens when you get one, and here's when to ask for one." Or: "We really aim for you not to have a c-section. But in some cases, if the baby is breach, you will have to have one. Here's exactly what happens." We also got a tour of the hospital, which looks nice enough. 

Of course, I still walked away feeling panicked at all the stuff I STILL have to do (pick a pediatrician, take an infant CPR class, order nursery furniture after we move, oh yeah, and pack and move everything I own). I swear, I feel like I'm gonna have this kid and then instantly keel over. 

Still--like I said. I am really excited to meet this baby.

I love my lady friends!

This weekend, my very sweet and lovely mother-in-law and my amazing ladyfriend P. threw me the most fun baby shower. Something like 17 of my closest girlfriends came together to shower me with love, presents and good wishes. My heart feels so full. It was at an adorable French restaurant in Brooklyn, near my home; we ate delicious brunch goodies and macarons (which my mother-in-law special ordered and trekked to Manhattan to pick up just for the event) and just visited and hung out.

Oh, and I opened my presents--so many wonderful things! I even got a handmade blanket, and there's another one on the way! I am so relieved--I could actually take care of my baby with everything we got; I no longer have to worry that I am going to have to diaper my child with old newspapers and bathe him or her with dish soap.

And it was just a beautiful reminder of what truly special friends I have. I am a very lucky woman indeed.

(It was also a really nice diversion from the news. I honestly can't even pay attention to it right now.)

Emotions in motion

So everyone who's ever been pregnant always talks about the hormones, and how you are totally irrational and uber-emotional all the time, and this whole time I've been thinking, "Well, I have noticed a slight difference, but nothing major." I thought I was pretty cool and level-headed for a pregnant chick.

Well, that's changed. I really first noticed it this week, when I spontaneously burst into tears of joy and excitement over the fact that I'm going to meet my sweet little baby in a few weeks. But no sooner did that lovely (if slightly bewildering) moment pass before I experienced a new emotion--paralyzing fear over the fact that said sweet little baby will be completely dependent on me to keep it alive. ME, of all people! Now, I'm no crackhead, but I did manage to wake up the other day, get dressed, head into work, walk into my office and go about my day for two straight hours before I'd realized I'd put my pants on backwards. On some levels, I am accomplished and organized, but then I can be a total dingbat. I could totally see myself being one of those idiots who leaves the car seat on top of the car and then drives off, or something like that. (I don't actually own a car, but you get the idea.)

Anyway, so those two emotions rolled over me in the space of about five minutes. These next few weeks ought to be interesting.

In praise of maternity jeans

Can I just say? Maternity jeans are the BOMB.

Seriously. Why can't I wear them all the time? Why can't they make them for non-pregnant chicks? Basically, the denim stops at your hipbone, and then there's just a stretchy band that sheaths your torso and holds them in place. No muffin top, no tight waistband...yeah, I know, no shape, but who cares? They are sooooooo comfortable.

You know what else I love? Maternity workout DVDs. When else can you work out lying down? (Well, and not be encased in some Pilates-style medieval rack-looking torture device?)

To cut or not to cut

One of the many things you have to think about if you are possibly having a boy child is whether or not to circumcise the kid. If you're Jewish and even semi-observant, this is usually a no-brainer. In fact, it was a no-brainer for most people until a few years ago, when people started to question whether it's medically necessary. And of course, in many parts of the world, it's never been done routinely.

Of course my husband and I disagree on this. I don't really want to do it, and he really does. I am trying to understand his reasons, and I know in some ways I can't simply because I'm not a dude. Basically, he is afraid it will "cramp his style" with the ladies (I have tried to assure him it won't), and he's afraid the kid won't look like every other kid and will get made fun of in the locker room. Considering that the kid will be growing up in Brooklyn, where lots of new-age hippie-style parents are refusing to circumcise, I actually think he will look different from everyone else if he IS circumcised.

Anyway, I really am trying very hard to take all these concerns on board and take them seriously. It's as much my husband's decision as it is mine. But I can't help it. I hate the idea of someone cutting up my tiny little baby's penis! I hate it I hate it I hate it. And yeah, I understand that it's a pain in the ass to wash an uncircumcised penis several times a day. But I would seriously rather wash that weird little dick-sweater six times a day than have some doctor cut it off. I just can't bear to think about that.

There is the disease factor to consider. Some studies have shown that having a circumcised penis can significantly reduce a man's risk of getting HIV or other sexually-transmitted diseases. Of course I hope our son (if it is a son) will be smart enough to use a condom, but you can't really plan on that.

Anyway, yeah. We need to work this one out. Which will be fun. 

Baby names

So my husband and I are in complete agreement on what we'll name the baby if it's a boy and nowhere near agreement on what we'll name it if it's a girl. (Which means we're having a girl, of course.)

Out of curiosity, and looking for some inspiration, I made the mistake of looking up a baby names website. I kind of knew the names would largely be horrible, but I wasn't really prepared for how horrible. The people behind this website apparently think it's acceptable to name your child any of the following: Amari. Celyn. Genoveva. Evaki. Evensong. (Evensong!!!!) Fuschia. Bracken. (The fuck?!?!) Ginerva (which sounds to me like a vitamin supplement for old people). Hop. Kiley. Lochellen (a female monster in Scotland?) Randilyn (please, don't). Sequence (this is not a name!!!) Yank (umm...just put the stripper pole in the nursery already because a girl named Yank is destined for a career in pornography). Yoad (a girl named Yoad is destined for a lifetime of loneliness. Also--I wonder if they meant Yoda and mispelled it. Because while either name seems ludicrous for a girl, I feel that I've already demonstrated how little taste these supposed baby namers have). Bridge. (Motherfucking BRIDGE. Again, not a name!)

No thanks, babynames.com.

I find that Facebook is also an unintentional treasure trove of terrible names. That's how I found out that some chick who knows some chick I went to high school with 20 years ago named her daughter Londyn. Londyn--with a y. 

Back to the drawing board, obviously. 

Orgasmic Birth...and other complete tripe

So I'm a little over halfway through my Hypnobirthing class.

I feel like about 60% of it is really helpful and 40% of it is just hippie dippie propaganda, as I had predicted. Helpful: the breathing exercises and the relaxation tapes. Yes, the tapes are dorky, but they work! I fall asleep almost every time I listen to the main one. I do feel that, with practice, I am teaching myself how to relax, which is really helpful.

But the propaganda part is pretty annoying. Like, one of our assignments was to watch a film called "Orgasmic Birth." Yes, you read that right.

I did not get past the opening credits. After seeing exactly one minute of the film, my husband said, "This movie should be called 'Ugly Hippie Chicks Ejecting Babies While Coming.'" Which is pretty much exactly what happened during the opening credits. It was like the world's worst porn movie.

Also--birth as an orgasmic experience? I'm sorry, but I call bullshit. We came up with some possible sequel ideas: Orgasmic Tax Return Preparation, Orgasmic Root Canals, Orgasmic Going to your Job on Monday.

Next I'm supposed to watch "The Business of Being Born," a.k.a. the Ricki Lake water birthing documentary. I'm told that its alternate title should have been "If You Have Your Baby in a Hospital You Will Die." We'll see if I can get through more of that movie than the other one. 

Sandy

Well, that was a fucking weird week.

I was hardly affected at all. Though I live very close to an evacuation zone (you can see Wall Street from my house! Meaning I live very close to the East River in Brooklyn), it wasn't close enough. Thank God. We never lost power; we only lost Internet for a few hours on Monday.

But it was still weird. My office is in downtown Manhattan, so it was closed for the whole week, and I had no access to e-mail. Our website still worked, so I updated from home, in the comfort of my jammies, like so many media people that week. (Someone wrote on Twitter on Tuesday morning, "90% of the news you'll read today was written by someone in pajamas who was drinking before noon.") I did not even bother trying to leave my neighborhood, since so many people who had to go into  Manhattan for work (including my husband) said it was a shit show.

I lived in NYC through the massive floods of '99 (which crippled the subway for an entire day and which, up until last week, had stood out as a crazy day in my mind) and of course Sept. 11. Never have I seen the place just grind to a halt--and for almost a week! Holy shit people, that was unprecedented. And so very, very weird.

It was strange to see half of Manhattan with no lights. It was weird to see huge lines at the gas station across the street (and listen to people yelling at each other as tempers flared, even more than normal for New York). And it was awful to watch the scenes of devastation all over the city, and guilt-inducing to do so from the comfort of my warm, dry, electrified living room.

I couldn't really help out with cleanup, being all pregnant and wanting to avoid toxic chemicals. So I sent a few shekels to various charities and made a couple huge vats of baked ziti to send to a shelter. I feel like I didn't do enough, but at the same time I didn't really know what else to do. I kept thinking of that Onion article from Sept. 11 that said something like, "Ohio Woman, Not Knowing What Else To Do, Bakes American Flag Cake." Other than that, I mostly tried to do my part by staying out of the way as much as possible--not adding to the scrum of commuters trying to go places. I didn't have to be anywhere, so I didn't try. I rescheduled various appointments, didn't attempt to go grocery shopping until several days later and just generally kept a low profile.

Oh, and I pigged out like a little piggy. I baked five dozen chocolate chip cookies and ate 90% of them. Yeah, I have back fat now. My doctor is gonna yell at me tomorrow when I break the scale.

I can't take more of this election coverage, so I'm going to bed. Night y'all. 

Baby prep and other stuff

So I'm starting to feel slightly more prepared than I did in my last post. We bought a really good stroller from a listserv of local moms in our neighborhood; between that and the bassinet, baby bathtub and high chair that various girlfriends have given me, I no longer fear I will have to put my baby in a shoe box.

I'm also in the process of setting up a registry, after getting numerous inquiries about when I was going to do this. I've gotten lots of good advice from girlfriends on what to pick; a couple have said you should just register for everything the Consumer Reports bay products guide tells you that you will need.

So I'm doing that. Except I do feel a little weird about putting a digital rectal thermometer on a gift registry. I know we'll need it, but is it just me or does that seem a little weird?

Anyway, one major area we are not prepared for is who will look after said baby when I go back to work. I'm taking 12 weeks, and even if I decide that I love being a mom so much that I don't want to go back, that is not even remotely an option. We need both of our incomes. We're both journalists, so it's not like either one of us has a large enough income to support a family of three.

I had been resolutely in favor of daycare--I don't want to leave our kid with a nanny, for a host of reasons--but it turns out that there are no daycares in the neighborhood we're moving to that will take infants. My objection to hiring a nanny had to do with cost, but also because I don't like the idea of leaving my child with just one person, especially an undocumented worker who is not licensed or anything like that. Then, of course, there was the news this week about this happening. That horrifically tragic and terrifying incident has prompted lots of hand-wringing on parent listservs, some of which is just disgusting. The fact that ANYONE could blame the parents in this scenario makes my blood boil. And it's so regressive to suggest thatit's somehow the mother's fault because she wasn't home. If you honestly think that and you're reading this right now, fuck right off this page and never come back.

I really don't know how anyone could have prevented this. They vetted her, they knew her really well, they went to visit her family in the D.R., for fuck's sake. Also, everyone needs to outsource childcare sometimes. Even the most slavishly devoted stay-at-home moms have to go to the doctor every once in awhile.

So yeah, it's scary, is the moral of the story. That is really the only lesson anyone can learn from this.

Hippie-birthing

So this baby business is starting to feel real. For one thing, it’s moving around all the time—which, by the way, is awesome. This is the best part of being pregnant, by far. (There isn’t much else to recommend it, frankly.) I call it Sir Moves A Lot, even though I don’t know the gender for sure—I just really feel like it’s a boy.

Anyway, in preparation for all this realness, I signed up for a Hypnobirthing class. Please believe that I am in no way of the mindset that I do not want any kind of drug-induced pain relief during labor; I just want to manage on my own as long as possible, because sometimes if you get an epidural too early it can lead to unnecessary medical intervention and even a c-section, which I want to avoid like the plague.

So the Hypnobirthing technique is supposed to help you deal with the pain, among other things. (The goal is to do it unmedicated, but again, I’m not even going to pretend like I want that.) That said, the very phrase “Hypnobirthing” makes me feel so hippie-dippy; I just picture Edina in AbFab when she’s going through one of her faux-flower child phases. “Hypnobirthing, dahling, hyp-no-bir-thing!”

Anyway, I just took my first class last week, and my homework was to start listening to the CD that comes with the course materials. It’s really just this chick with a soft voice and a lilting British accent saying things like, “you are feeling very caaaaaaaaaalm, and relaaaaaaaxed, all throughout your body,” over the sounds of new age-y music. As a professional cynic, I’m not sure how this is supposed to work, and yeah, I really can’t relax, ever. I don’t think I unclenched my butt the whole time I was listening to the CD because all I could think about was my work deadline and how much I had to do the next day. Supposedly this stuff starts burrowing into your subconscious with repeated listens, enabling you to make yourself relax on command. We’ll see.

As much as this goes against pretty much everything I believe, however, I want to stick with it. In the first class, we watched videos of women giving birth under self hypnosis. Those bitches were CALM. They didn’t even make a sound when their babies were coming out. So I’m gonna give it a whirl.

Today I totally had a breakdown. There have been a lot of changes at my job lately, and my workload has just officially gotten insane, to the point where I really don't think I can handle it all, and on top of that we just signed a contract on an apartment, and so we're starting the insane mortgage and coop board application process. Plus, there is a ton of baby shit we have to do that I haven't even thought about--figuring out what we need, registering for stuff, sorting out the daycare situation, taking childbirth prep classes, etc.--and I really haven't had time to deal with any of it because of my job.

So today, when I logged in (on Sunday) to do about an hour of work, then realized it was actually going to be more like three hours of work, I just lost it. I totally broke down sobbing like Nancy Kerrigan (to paraphrase Eric Cartman).

My husband forced me to step away from the laptop and take a ten-minute break, then rubbed my back while I blubbered about how stressed out I am. I do love that man. (But I'm never going to call him "DH." Apparently this is an acronym women use on message boards, as I discovered during my brief and ill-fated foray into pregnancy message boards. I guess it stands for "dear husband." Barf.)

This week is going to be insanely busy, and includes the dreaded glucose tolerance test. So there's something to look forward to.

 Anyway. Yeah. Shit is stressful, and my hormones are not helping. But I made a big comfort food dinner tonight to make myself feel better. Chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes and gravy. It was goddamned delicious, if I do say so myself. And here's hoping tomorrow will be better.

Subway douchery

When I was not pregnant--which would be my entire adult life until about six months ago--I routinely gave up my seat on the subways for pregnant women. I did this not because I hoped someone would return the favor one day, but because my parents raised me properly and also because I have a Liz Lemon-like devotion to subway etiquette. I often wonder why I bother, though, because so many of my fellow riders so obviously do not give a shit about other people. Never has this become more obvious than in the last few weeks.

I do get offered seats on the subway, but I have to work for them. A friend had warned me about this. She explained that in order to get a seat, she would have to unbutton her coat, sigh heavily, and stare at the person sitting right in front of her--basically, publicly shaming them until they were forced to do the right thing, lest they look like a jerk.

And this is pretty much how it's worked out for me so far. Not that this even works every time, mind you.

Some people are genuinely so spaced out and/or absorbed in their reading that they truly do not notice; when they happen to glance up and notice me, they immediately offer me their seat. This has happened a few times; I've done it myself in the past. These are not the people I'm ranting about right now. I'm talking about people who are truly only out for themselves and couldn't give a flying fuck about any of their fellow riders.

Another friend related the story of a man who was sitting down on a crowded train car; he had a suitcase with him and evidently believed this entitled him to a seat, despite the fact that she was standing right in front of him with a nine months' pregnant belly. He looked up at her, took note of the situation, and decided to do nothing. The elderly woman sitting next to him proceeded to give him the side eye until it was time for her to get off the train. Before she exited the car, she turned to him, pointed her finger, and said in a thick Russian accent, "YOU--you are very bad man!"

I recently had a woman stick up for me on an uber-crowded 5 train during rush hour. We were standing next to each other; she saw my belly and took matters into her own hands, loudly asking a row of seated riders, "Will anyone please give this woman a seat?" The woman sitting in front of me immediately proffered her seat, explaining that she hadn't realized I was pregnant (I'm pretty big at this point, but I was wearing a baggy shirt so I'll give her the benefit of the doubt). Anyway, I thanked both women. The woman who got the seat for me explained that she knew what it was like, having been there herself.

Unfortunately, these subway saints are outnumbered about 25 to one by dicks who don't care. (And I pretty much mean that literally: 99.99% of the people who have given me seats have been female. One woman gave up her seat for me, despite the fact that a perfectly able-bodied man--oh, and an overtly religious one, for whatever that's worth--was sitting there reading the paper, without a care in the world. I gave him the side eye on her behalf once I sat down. Guys, come the fuck ON.)

Now, it's not like I have a broken leg, or I'm 90 years old. But standing on a crowded subway when you have a big belly and an aching back frankly sucks. Giving up your seat for a preggo lady may not seem fair, but trust me, she will be grateful. She will thank you profusely. And you won't have to walk around with the knowledge that you pretty much suck.

Shadoobie-doobie-doo

You know what else scares me about childbirth? I mean, besides the pain, and also suddenly being responsible for another human being?

Making a shadoobie* while I'm trying to push the baby out. Apparently this happens. A lot.

I have already warned my husband; he shrugged and said it would be no big deal.

You guys, I don't even fart in front of him. We've been together for years and it's literally never happened once (okay, I may have squeaked one out accidentally a time or two, but we both pretend he didn't hear it). So I'm not psyched about making a poo in front of him.

But I guess that will be the least of my worries. I hear that it can actually get pretty Human Centipede in terms of overall grossness, blood, poo, etc.

I'm reading all this literature about how women have been conditioned to be afraid of childbirth, and we shouldn't be, and we wouldn't need all this medical intervention if we would just let our bodies do their thing.

But how can I not be scared?

You poo! Right in front of everyone, for crying out loud!

*With apologies to Chelsea Handler for stealing that word from her.

So I had a really scary incident this weekend.

I was in the front seat of a car, on the passenger side; my husband and I were catching a ride home with a friend after a night out. My friend was driving; my husband was in the back seat.

At an intersection, a bunch of cars were slowing down because the light had just turned red. I thought my friend was going just a tad too fast and hoped he would brake in time not to hit the car in front of us. He didn't. The impact was extremely minor--we all felt it, but the guy driving the car in front of us didn't even bother pulling over, and as he drove off, I looked at his bumper and didn't see any obvious damage--but I was propelled forward enough that I felt the seatbelt dig into my belly. (I'm very glad I was wearing my seatbelt, anyway. The accident coulda been way worse if I hadn't.)

I felt fine, and I wasn't bleeding that I could tell, but I was pretty rattled. I called the on-call physician in my OB/GYN's office, and she told me I'd better go to labor and delivery and get myself checked out, just to make sure the placenta didn't tear.

Rather than risk turning around and going all the way back into Manhattan, to the Upper West Side, and getting into another accident, I just wanted to get the fuck out of the car as soon as possible and go somewhere closer. It was dark, it was raining, the roads were slick, and I wanted to go home, change clothes, make absolutely sure I wasn't bleeding, and then call a cab to a hospital in Brooklyn. So that's what I did.

After six hours--three hours of waiting, another three of ultrasounds, fetal monitoring, bloodwork and observation--I was told everything was fine and sent on my way. I was a wreck for much of the time, and on top of it all, I was starving, having basically skipped dinner (I'd planned to eat when I got home that night, but that didn't pan out) and I was also really thirsty.

The whole experience made me realize why some women don't want to give birth in hospitals. Don't worry, friends, I'm not going to be doing the home birth thing now. But the L&D ward sucked.   I spent much of the night shivering in a threadbare gown, on an excruciatingly uncomfortable mattress, freezing my ass off and being blinded by fluorescent lights, without anyone offering me anything to drink. It sucked quite a bit.

For all that, I'm still very glad I went in. It was worth it. My baby is okay.

Another thing that has changed in the last couple months: My boobs. I was never a flat-chested gal before, but now these things need their own zip code. They are no longer boobs; they're now jugs.

I’m officially a 38D. Now, I have some very busty lady friends who would probably scoff at my newfound jugs and say “That was my bra size in junior high!” and tell me to start whining when I have to do all my bra shopping at specialty stores, but this is new territory for me. And I for one do not care for it. I don’t like not being able to lift my arms over my head and then put them down by my sides without hitting my boobs on the way. I don’t like having cleavage in every shirt I own. I don’t like having to wear two sports bras in order to avoid getting black eyes when I work out.

The worst part is that I know it’s only going to get worse from here. I truly fear what will happen when my milk actually comes in. The other day I saw this poor woman with a baby, and it was clear that she had lost most of her baby weight but was still breastfeeding, because her rack was GIGANTIC and the rest of her was normal-sized. You would think this would be something to envy, since women have been told our whole lives that this is the ideal, but in reality she looked like an even more exaggerated Dolly Parton. I really hope I don’t look like that when the time comes.

My husband is totally on board with my new boobs, it goes without saying. I for one can’t wait for my old boobs to return.

I posted those first two entries several weeks ago, on a different blog (whose format I don’t like), and then work totally got crazy. Now that I’ve moved over here I hope to write more regularly. (Unfortunately I had to change the URL to "impreg" because "ipreg" was already taken!)

A few things have changed since my last post. I’m five and a half months pregnant now and I’m officially showing. This means that people have started giving me seats on the subway (yay!) but it also means I’ve started getting unsolicited advice from strangers.

I was warned by some of my ladyfriends that this would happen. So far none of it has been horribly offensive, but it’s a little annoying. For example, the other day, I had a business meeting, so I paired my cute new (well, secondhand), office-appropriate maternity dress with my dead-sexy red patent leather high heels. “Aren’t those shoes a little high for you to be wearing?” tsk-tsked some lady I’ve never seen before in my life.

Then, later that week, I went to the farmer’s market to pick up some veggies, since I was hosting a barbecue over the weekend and wanted to whip up some side dishes, including guacamole and jalapeno-lime cole slaw. So I brought a bunch of jalapenos up to the register at one of the stands. “Is it okay for you to eat such spicy foods?” the cashier asked. I wanted to say, “Is it okay for you to ask such nosy questions?”

But she did make me all paranoid for a split second, since no one has ever said one word to me about whether I should or shouldn’t eat spicy foods, and since I love Mexican, Thai and Indian and eat them all the time, I started wondering if I had already inadvertently fried my unborn child. Then I realized that there has never, ever been one documented case of a jalapeno pepper leading to a miscarriage, and I chilled out.

I know these people mean well. But I wish they’d shut the fuck up.

Amazingly, I’ve never gotten any comments when I’ve taken my baby bump out jogging (with my doctor’s blessing, of course! And I constantly monitor my heart rate). Then again, I’m always wearing headphones, so if they are making comments I can’t hear them. Maybe I should just constantly wear headphones for the next four months.

So what do me and Jamie Lee Curtis have in common?

We can't take a shit, apparently. Constipation is one of many truly glamorous symptoms of pregnancy that I had no idea I would get. I feel like the only one people talk about openly is morning sickness. Fortunately, I have not had a very severe case of this; I mostly just sit at my desk gagging for a few seconds, a couple times a day, and that's about it. But I feel like at this point I'd trade my mild nausea for one good old fashioned trip to the dump.

I have never been exactly normal on this front. I am a "feast or famine" kind of gal, to quote a funny friend of mine. But since I got pregnant, it has been really bad. And talk about NOT feeling sexy. I wanted to keep this particular symptom a secret from my husband, but one night when I was near tears because I was so miserable, I finally blurted it out. "I can't shit!" I wailed, holding my bloated stomach. He was sympathetic, but it was not a romantic moment.

Other delightful symptoms: the bloating. My god, the bloating. I wake up looking fairly normal, and then by the end of the day my stomach is so bloated and distended that I look like one of those poor malnourished children in the Unicef ads. (Yeah, I already know I'm an awful human being for making that comparison.) I was so bloated at the end of one work day that a woman offered me her seat on the subway. I am only 13 weeks! I'm really not showing yet. It was just the bloat. (I was both humiliated and grateful for the seat.)

Then there's the acne. Guys, I never had zits this bad, not even when I was a freaking teenager. Between the constipation, bloating and ravaged skin, I am a triple threat of sexiness right now. My husband still finds me irresistible, bless him. But I am ready for the cute baby bump phase and not the tired, grouchy, bloated, zitty-but-not-shitty part to pass. What on earth do celebrities do when they are going through this phase? Just hide out in their mansions? Somebody must know the answer to this.

I Preg

Hi there. Welcome to “I Preg,” my--you guessed it--pregnancy blog.

By the way, I’m well aware that the world doesn’t need another preggo chick inanely rambling on about her pregnancy. But I figured I’d start a blog anyway. For one thing, I happen to be pregnant, and I happen to like to write. But the real reason I wanted to start this is because I couldn’t really find any pregnancy writing online that resonates with me. While I am thrilled and excited to be having a baby, I am also kind of sarcastic (I named my blog after this, for example), and I just can’t relate to a lot of the ooey-gooey mommy stuff.

Whenever I google stuff about pregnancy, I seem to stumble upon two types of websites: What to Expect When You’re Expecting--or as I like to call it, “All the Reasons Your Baby Could Die--In Fact, Your Baby is Probably Dead Right Now.” And then there are the message boards. Oh, how I loathe message boards. There’s the whole flaming thing, which I never understood. But also, with pregnancy message boards, they seem to stoke your worst fears, even though they are often filled with totally bogus information (“My doctor said you can have a miscarriage from drinking two cups of coffee a day”).

Either that, or, if you’re like me, you just can’t relate to many of the women who post on them. I have lurked on many of these message boards, looking for like-minded broads, and while I’m sure they’re all perfectly nice women--and I truly wish them the best in their pregnancies and beyond--the posters seem to be the kind of chicks who name their kids things like Bradyn or Jadyn and already have their nurseries decorated before they’ve gotten past their first trimester. And really, there’s nothing wrong with that. It just ain’t my style.

Pregnancy books are even worse. I already mentioned how I feel about the detestable “What to Expect.” And then there are the psycho “you’re a terrible mother unless you breastfeed your child until he/she starts preschool/make their own baby food/spit your food in their mouths/quit your job and devote your entire life to slavishly indulging your child’s every whim”-type books.

One book that was recommended to me was “The Girlfriends’ Guide to Pregnancy.” This book is slightly better than most, but it’s still not quite right. For starters, it was written in 1995; I’m reading a really old edition and it’s probably been updated since then, but some of the information is hilariously outdated. She frequently extols the virtues of stirrup pants, for example.

Some aspects of the book are refreshing--such as her take on natural childbirth (which is basically, “You’re not going to get a trophy for turning down an Epidural, so why torture yourself?”) and exercise (which is basically “fuck it”). She also reveals lots of information that I had never read anywhere else--and while it’s terrifying, it is good to be prepared in advance (one example: you basically have to wear diapers for a couple days after giving birth because of all the shit that comes out of you. Like I said: gross, but good to know).

But there are other things about it that kind of bother me. She happens to be the wife of a really rich and successful music executive--and while I think this is unintentional on her part, her writing seems really targeted to women who have the financial option of staying home with her kids. There are also some passages that just struck me as being slightly sexist and regressive, not least of all her assumption that your OB/GYN is going to be a man. (Again, I’m reading an older version, so maybe she updated this stuff in later editions.)

Apparently she wrote her book because she didn’t feel like there was any pregnancy literature that resonated with her. I do think her book is an improvement over much of what’s out there, but for me, it’s still just not quite right. So this is where I’m going to vent my experience, and hopefully someone out there will read it and like it.

Some more about me, if you’re interested: I’m in my late 30s, happily married, I work as an editor for a trade magazine, and I live in Brooklyn. I’m 13 weeks pregnant. This is my second try after having a miscarriage earlier this year (more on that in a future entry). Above all: I’m psyched to be pregnant, I really am. It just may not show on my face all the time. Like I said, I’m a bit of a smartass; I’m just not the rah-rah type. If that sounds like you, I hope you will enjoy reading this.