31 Weeks

I was planning on doing at least one more posting over the weekend but our internet router decided that it had had enough of the poor working conditions at our place and quit. Sadly, quite a number of electronics that have spent any amount of time in my company lately are now either on strike or they've come down with a serious case of Alzheimers. Perhaps we should offer health benefits?

My cell phone has decided that I now merit my own time zone: BC + 30 minutes (which, given my size, I have problems disputing). If this was a one time glitch, I would have found it mildly funny, but every single time I correct the time, my phone goes into a sulk and then changes it back when I'm not looking. My clock radio screams and goes off channel when I dare touch it and my ipod is now just plain ignoring me most of the time when I try to use the touch wheel. Why shouldn't my router join in on the "fun"? Sigh

I've always had some effect on electronics (batteries in watches die quick deaths, radios get louder when I am nearby, etc) but lately the problem has gotten so much worse. I'm beginning to wonder if Bug is going to be like me and if the two of us are what is causing these additional or accelerated glitches. I'm just glad my computer here at work is still working (although that may be because our IT dude recommended I place the tower as far away from me as physically possible when he first realized my effect on electronics).

Anyway...so here we are: 31 weeks along. The Baby Center's update this week is ho hum but it does have a pretty good picture showing roughly how big Bug is...no wonder my stomach is as hard as a drum and I'm constantly running for the bathroom! I'm surprised the kid can move at all in there! The 3D pic and blurb are here but again, I'm not blown away by the amazing info. I read my "What to Expect When You're Expecting" week 31 update this morning and there was at least one thing I remember thinking was cool...but do you think I can remember what that was? Noooooo, not a chance. Gah!

Bug and I are doing well. I'm feeling pretty good most of the time if you don't count being tired, having a sore back, feeling like my pelvis is being pushed down to my knees, and the almost constant sensation that my hips are being pried out of their sockets.

I know it may not always sound like it, but for all my bitching there really is nothing like this whole experience...I wouldn't trade it for all the ibuprofen in the world (which is - these days - saying a LOT).

Prenatal Lessons from Classical Roman Poets

Scott and I attended our first prenatal class last night. Each Thursday for 5 weeks straight we're heading to St. Paul's for a 2 hour birthing primer. I wish I could say it was going to teach me how to survive this process intact, but given my current physical state I'd say that train has already left the station.

I had the impression that we were going to be sitting on the floor practicing breathing or watching a graphic birthing video but overall it was pretty damn benign. We learned about the various phases of labour and a few natural pain management/relaxation techniques, ate some chocolate puffed cereal squares, got to know our classmates a bit, and that was about it.

My worst moment came when I realized how incredibly tight a space the pelvis is. The nurse took an unrealistically small doll and a skeleton's pelvis to illustrate how the baby travels from the uterus to the outside world and boy, was it a tight fit. I almost asked for my epidural right then and there.

So where was the drama? The images of panting women and the blood, sweat and screaming? Just between you and me, I bet that last night there were any number of women labouring away up on the third floor in the maternity ward cursing the prenatal class they attended just weeks ago because that smiling, perky little nurse teaching it sold them a bill of goods about the joys and rewards of natural child birth without showing them the grim and gory reality. Pfft! Suckers.

Can you tell I'm suspicious of this whole process?

Personally, I think Virgil was a bit off in the Aeneid warning us all about Greeks bearing gifts. My advice? Beware of nurses advocating natural childbirth who ply you with chocolaty snacks.

Butter Chicken Negates my Self Control...Again.

I hate to admit it, but I think I might be guilty of buying into a pregnancy stereotype because I honestly expected my 3rd trimester to be even more about food than the 2nd was. I imagined I would be a hearty eater right up until the last month or so when (presumably) my innards would be so cramped by my uterus that eating would become more of a grudgingly performed chore than one of life's little pleasures. After all, I thought, why wouldn't that be the case? Bug is now around 3 pounds (give or take) and I know she's supposed to at least double that before she pops out in that short and painless fun-fest otherwise known as labour and birthing. Hey, I don't know what your birthing experiences were like or what you've been told by women who've gone through it, but MY labour and birthing will be EXACTLY as I've just described it or my OB will be forced to figure out another way of breathing after I rip out his lungs.

So if I'm 9 weeks away from my EDD (estimated due date) and Bug isn't anywhere close to what will be her full size at birth, it seems reasonable to expect I will need to be able to eat a fair bit right now, hey? Well surprisingly, that isn't the case. Over the last week, I've found that if I take the noshes I manage to choke down during the day and add them up, they don't compare to the total daily volume of food I was scarfing down so easily just a couple of weeks ago. If I try to eat more, I suffer. Whooo Boy, do I suffer! Let's just say Tums became a 5th food group until I figured this out.

So why is this an issue? Well...I was actually doing pretty well adjusting to the necessary change in my eating habits until I bumped into my old nemesis - butter chicken - today at lunch. My good friend Pat and I met up for a midday meal at our fave Indian takeaway joint and I completely lost my head. I ate about 4 times more in one sitting than was advisable. I just couldn't help myself. I went with the best of intentions but when I got that plate of butter chicken and that big hunk of naan (Indian flat bread) in front of me, I went into a kind of trance and ate every bloody bite. Doh! Now? I'm "sitting" here at my desk (hunching is more like it) wishing with every fiber of my being that I was able to just fast forward through the rest of my day because I'm in so much pain I can't even sit up straight.

Strangely enough, they don't make Tums in "idiot strength" so I'm afraid I'm stuck with this until further notice. It should make my visit to the dentist tonight a real joy.

88 More Days Until the Fun-ectomy

bor·ing [ báwring ] adj. Definition: uninteresting: stimulating no interest or enthusiasm.

Synonyms: dull, monotonous, tedious, uninteresting.

So I think it is safe to say that most of you reading my fantabulous blog know that marriage is not the death of fun, riiiiiight?

I mean, I know plenty of people who are married (myself included) who haven't magically morphed into June and whatshisname Cleaver (Egad! He was apparently so boring I can't even remember his name).

So if that stereotype is a load of crap, why then do some people still buy into its sister prejudice about moms?
Why do some women feel the pressure to become a Stepford Mom?
And more importantly, why are some women actually smug because they have voluntarily undergone a fun-ectomy?

Thankfully I only know one Stepford Mother (and no, she isn't one of you!).

I can say with 100% certainty that Bug doesn't herald the demise of my love affair with sexy cha-cha shoes, she won't kill my appetite for girlie martinis or fruity blender drinks, and she certainly won't be the one and only topic of my future conversations.

I'll be a mom, yes, and things will be different for me in so many ways but that doesn't mean I'll become a different person. I promise all of you that I'll continue to be an overly-opinionated, PS3 playing, mani/pedi loving, Martini drinking shoe-a-holic with a vampire fetish although now I'll be one that operates on far less sleep and who may occasionally accessorize her party clothes with dried baby barf.

Now that's fun with a capital "F"!

1 thing I hate about being pregnant

Men who try to lecture me about the virtues of natural childbirth. And by that I mean "drug free" birthing. Unless you have an MD or vagina, I really don't care what you think.

(And in related news, Scott was granted an honorary vagina the other day so his opinion now counts...so long as he agrees with me)