Flashback Sunday: One Year Ago Today.

I'm exhausted. Baby Girl Page has been ridiculously sick all weekend long. Ridiculously sick, and wanting her mama.  Her mama who's also not feeling all that great. Which means I have no brain cells left to write you a witty post today...

So instead, we're going to look back at the trouble she was causing me on this exact same day last year...

Like Mother, Like Daughter?

Baby Girl Page had a big surprise for us this week. Turns out she's decided to be breech—just like I was. But she's taking it up a notch. Instead of landing in the standard breech position, she's in something called the oblique lie, which means she's laying on her side, like she's in a hammock. With her head oh-so-comfortably jammed under my right ribs, her butt on the left, and her shoulder where a more obliging baby would put her head.

In other words, unless something changes, there's no way she's coming out of there the normal way. And to make it worse, the placenta's on top of her, so trying to turn her from the outside would be a risky business, to say the least.

But I don't think I even want them to try. According to my mom, they attempted to turn me, and I obliged, but then decided I really didn't like being upside down and turned myself back around at the very last second. And since she's my daughter, I wouldn't be at all surprised if she has the exact same attitude.

Yep, so it looks like Mommy is going to get a C-section, like it or not. And I? Don't like that idea at all.

The whole thing scares me to death. I have a hard time not passing out when I have to get a little blood taken. And now they're going to cut me open and pull a baby out of me? Excuse me while I go throw up.

In fact, I know this is pretty immature of me, but every time I think of C-sections, I think of this clip from Spaceballs:


But, I know that at the end of the day, all that matters is that I end up with a happy, healthy baby in my arms. She certainly won't remember how she was born. Although, this way, I'll have a physical scar to prove  just how traumatic her birth was—proof I can use to slather on the guilt for the rest of her life.

And what mom doesn't love the opportunity to guilt the crap out of her progeny every once in a while?

Like Mother, Like Daughter?

Baby Girl Page had a big surprise for us this week. Turns out she's decided to be breech—just like I was. But she's taking it up a notch. Instead of landing in the standard breech position, she's in something called the oblique lie, which means she's laying on her side, like she's in a hammock. With her head oh-so-comfortably jammed under my right ribs, her butt on the left, and her shoulder where a more obliging baby would put her head.

In other words, unless something changes, there's no way she's coming out of there the normal way. And to make it worse, the placenta's on top of her, so trying to turn her from the outside would be a risky business, to say the least.

But I don't think I even want them to try. According to my mom, they attempted to turn me, and I obliged, but then decided I really didn't like being upside down and turned myself back around at the very last second. And since she's my daughter, I wouldn't be at all surprised if she has the exact same attitude.

Yep, so it looks like Mommy is going to get a C-section, like it or not. And I? Don't like that idea at all.

The whole thing scares me to death. I have a hard time not passing out when I have to get a little blood taken. And now they're going to cut me open and pull a baby out of me? Excuse me while I go throw up.

In fact, I know this is pretty immature of me, but every time I think of C-sections, I think of this clip from Spaceballs:


But, I know that at the end of the day, all that matters is that I end up with a happy, healthy baby in my arms. She certainly won't remember how she was born. Although, this way, I'll have a physical scar to prove  just how traumatic her birth was—proof I can use to slather on the guilt for the rest of her life.

And what mom doesn't love the opportunity to guilt the crap out of her progeny every once in a while?

Freed From My Comfy Prison.

It occurred to me that I should probably post a quick update, just in case anyone is wondering...the tests came back normal. So I don't have pre-eclampsia (although I'm still not sure what that even means), and I'm not dying.

At least, not as far as they know.

But my blood pressure's still higher than they'd like. So I've been allowed to return to work, but am supposed to be working from home in the afternoons. Obviously, my doctor has never worked in advertising. If she had, she'd know that actually walking out the door before the moon has risen is somewhat of a challenge even on the best of days.

At least, it is when you're as proficient at torturing yourself with guilt as I am. And as good at conjuring up worst case scenarios for every situation—especially in the wake of the lay-offs we had last week.

But I'm trying. So far, I've managed it all of once.

When I do get home, I'm under doctor's orders to live a life of leisure,  lounging on the couch eating bon bons. Well, she'd prefer they were apples, but you know what I mean.

There are worse things, right?

Darn That Universe Anyway.

Last week, you all had to listen to me moan about how tired I was. And lord knows, I was, and still am, just about as tired as I've ever been in my life. But even from that level of exhaustion, I knew better than to write down what I was really wishing for—permission to sit on my couch all day. Every day. Until this baby is born.

But on a particularly bad morning last week, when I happened to be sobbing my heart out, I may have inadvertently howled, "I just wanna stay hoooooooooome! I'm too TIIIRRRREEEDDDD to do this anymore!"

Yep, I put those words out in the universe.

And guess what? Now I am indeed stuck at home. My blood pressure is too high. And they can't quite figure out why (obviously, they don't know me well enough to know how thoroughly capable I am of  stressing myself out to the point of illness).

Not only am I grounded, I have to spend the next 24 hours peeing into a jug. And, as an extra special treat, I get to get more blood taken tomorrow! Why? Well, because they need to make sure I'm not getting pre-eclampsia. Because that could kill me. And the baby.

Not that I'm stressing about that possibility or anything. Because, that, of course, would be counter productive. Wouldn't it? Yes, yes it would. So, no need to think about it, right? Right. But why didn't I get more life insurance when I had the chance?

What? Oh, sorry. Forgot you guys were still here. Excuse my inner dialog. Ahem.

Yeah, so I'm getting my couch time. But now that I've got it, I don't want it. I just want to be happy, and healthy, and to have a happy, healthy baby—ten weeks from now.

Heck, forget happy. I wouldn't even mind being monstrously grumpy and tired and achey and fat for another two and a half months, just as long as everything turns out okay.

And that, my friends, is why you should always be careful what you ask for. You never know when the universe might be listening.

The Fears That Stalk Me in the Night.

Waking up at 4:30 a.m. leaves me with a lot of extra time to think. Sure, I could do something productive, like dishes, or laundry, or organizing my pantry, but really? It's bad enough that I'm awake. I'm not going to make it worse by doing chores that I don't enjoy even when well rested and fully caffeinated.

Instead, I build myself a nest of pillows on the couch, turn on the Christmas tree (which will most likely not get taken down till Valentine's Day) and drift. Sometimes I think about good things, fun things, like painting the baby's room or gardening projects. But more often than not, those quiet hours before dawn are when the nasty little thoughts I keep locked up during the day come out to play.

I worry about lots of things, but as my due date looms ever closer, I find myself dwelling on the specter of postpartum depression. I'm sure every mom-to-be worries about this scary condition, but as someone who has had to fight her way back from the soul sucking black hole that is clinical depression, I am terrified.

For those of you who have never been through it (and I do hope that's most of you), there's no real way to describe the devastation that depression causes. When it strikes, it's like all the light goes out of the world. And as it leaves, the light takes everything that makes life worth living with it. All the hope. All the joy. All my plans for the future. Everything.

Without all the good things, I become a bitter, hollow thing. I hate myself. And everyone around me. I can see no reason for anyone to love me. And so those who do earn my scorn.

Although over the years I've gotten good at hiding the pain, at continuing to smile and acting as though everything's okay, inside, I'm screaming bloody murder. Just one long endless howl.

The last time it happened, I told my husband that I felt like I needed to just rip off my skin and fly away. That that was the only way I could escape the horror that had become my world. And I think that's the closest I've ever come to explaining what depression is like. At least for me.

So when I think about the possibility of that happening again - of feeling that way while trying to care for another person who's completely dependent on me, I feel sick. I can say now, while still in complete control of my brain, that it won't happen. That I'll recognize the signs and get help before it becomes a problem. But I can't be sure.

So I'm scared. And while I struggled mightily with the decision to write this post (it's been in the works for weeks), staying silent about my fears felt like lying.

So there it is. It's part of my pregnancy experience - my life experience - and I'll continue to write about it as I feel the need. Hopefully, you'll never hear anything other than "phew, glad I was wrong about that one." Hopefully.

And if I'm right about my chances of getting PPD? Well, it'll make for some interesting reading anyway.

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.