Just a little bit giddy

I felt little Leroy move for the first time today. Actually, he was kicking the bejesus out of me - but he's too little for it to hurt. Not that I blame him. I'd been ignoring my steadily growling stomach for over an hour. He was probably like, "Hey, Mom, could ya go get something to eat already? I'm going deaf in here!"

Yep. At -5 months old, he's already being demanding. Must be my baby. Lord knows I'm no peach.

Although I'm told that pregnancy makes me a much nicer person. Seriously. When I first announced my news here at work, I quickly followed it up with an apology for being so grouchy and sick and miserable to be around.

To which my cube-mate replied, "Actually, I think you've been a lot nicer lately. You haven't told me how you much you hate the world in weeks!"

And, as I blushed furiously, all the other writers agreed.

I have to admit, I do feel pretty darn good these days. All contented and mellow and glow-y. It's positively unnatural.

All those extra hormones floating around must be drowning out my natural nastiness. I guess I'll enjoy it while it lasts. If genetics are any predictor, I'll get back in touch with my inner grump soon enough.

The Best Part of Waking Up...

No, it isn’t Folgers in your cup. It’s a warm, furry buddy who, hearing you start to stir, leaves his post at your feet to crawl up your body and plop, purring, on your chest.

It just doesn’t get better than that, people.

That’s the new routine Oliver (one of my two cats) and I seem to be falling into. It might be my imagination, but ever since I turned up pregnant, I swear this little cuddle bug has been even more attentive than usual.

He follows me upstairs each night, waiting patiently just inside the door until I’m ready to crawl into bed. Then he hops up next to me, and as soon as I arrange myself on the pillows, settles in for a thorough petting session.

Usually, he stays until I fall asleep, his purr more soothing than any lullaby I can think of. He spends most of the night using my feet as a pillow—although how he hasn’t gotten brain damage from the amount of kicking his little head must receive, I don’t know.

Sometimes he’s joined by my dog Kermit, who, when he’s feeling sweet, curls up behind my knees. More often than not, though, he does an excellent Stretch Armstrong impersonation—leaving me with a narrow sliver of bed.

When Kiwi, the third member of the furry trio joins us, it can get quite crowded indeed—and that’s before my husband (a night owl if there ever was one) arrives.

But you know what? Those are the nights I sleep the best. And now that fall’s coming, there’ll be a lot more of those. I’m trying to cherish them while I can, knowing that once this baby comes, these scenes will be few and far between for a while.

I can only hope that Leroy (that’s what we’re calling the kid for now) loves them as much as we do, and that they love him (or her) in return. After all, there’s always room for one more in the family pile!

Surrendering to the inevitable.

The moment I found out I was pregnant, I made a promise to myself. A promise to exercise regularly. To eat healthily. And, no matter what it took, to gain no more than 20 to 25 pounds.

I thought that seemed reasonable. After all, I had just finished losing huge amounts of weight. Eating healthy had become second nature. And working out had long since stopped seeming like work. If I couldn’t keep my weight in check, then who could?

So I began my first trimester determined to gain no more than the two to five pounds all the books recommend.

Then the freight train of badness that is the first trimester of pregnancy hit. Soon, the only way to control the constant nausea was by feeding my face every two hours.

And as for those daily workouts? Well, I sure hope dragging my exhausted ass from the front door to the couch counts as exercise. That’s about all I've been able to manage.

Finally, last week I got on the scale. And, blinking at the number, got back off. Then got back on. And back off. And back on. Until finally it sunk in. At 13.5 weeks pregnant, I was up 11 pounds—more than twice my first trimester goal.

That’s when I broke into tears. And not cute, girly sniffles either. These were the huge, wracking sobs that turn your face purple and send snot pouring out of your nose. My poor husband bolted out of bed, convinced someone had died.

It took him a half hour, endless amounts of patience and a cup of deliciously forbidden coffee to calm me down.

And that’s when it hit me. I’m not in Kansas anymore. Whatever control I may have once had over my body is gone. There’s a new sheriff in town, and he’s tough—even if at the moment he’s only 3.5 inches long.

So I’m going to stop beating myself up. Stop counting every calorie and dreading every pound. Instead, I’m going to enjoy my pregnancy, including my newly rounded (well, rounder) belly and everything that comes with it (like elastic waistbands).

After all, my body’s making miracles happen. It deserves a little respect.