One Year

One year ago I was on a plane. I was taking the biggest risk of my life. I knew it would be hard and amazing and fun and scary and thrilling and terrifying and I was doing it. I was flying to Paris, alone, to live for a month, not knowing anyone in advance. I was going to study the Belle Epoch, the expatriates, Hemingway, Anais Nin. I wanted to write and find myself and live far away from everyone I loved. I was miserable saying goodbye to my family and Thomas. I hugged and kissed Thomas curbside at LAX and walked into the airport with my suitcase and tear soaked cheeks. I was ready. I wasn't ready. I wanted someone there with me. I hated being alone but knew I needed this. The flights were easy, finding out on my way to my connecting flight in the Dulles airport via Facebook that my aunt had died was not easy. I didn't even get to hear a voice tell me, I had to read it while rushing to my next flight, trying to reach family telling them I was safe for now. I couldn't let this shake me. I didn't have the emotional energy to deal with anything other than the task I had in front of me - not break down at the thought of being away for a month and to logistically get to Paris in one piece. Once in Paris I realized I knew little of the language I needed, I was frantically looking for a girl I had never met and had no idea how to use my phone on the international settings. I found her, we couldn't figure out the metro. We finally walked the street to our hostel, which was our home. We saw an elderly man fall on the street, hit his head on a curb and bleed profusely. It was hot. We were lost. It was a bustling street with a lot of noise and heat and smells. We made it to the Foyer International Des Estudiantes - student hostel. I got my room number, lumbered up the five flights of stairs, opened my door, collapsed on my bed and sobbed. I took out my pictures from home - Thomas and I slow dancing at a wedding, Thomas and I smiling together and one of my whole family. I put those up immediately to make me feel more secure. I continued to sob for as long as I needed, letting everything come out that I had been holding back. The hot tears stung my cheeks, it was unbearably hot in my room and my face was red and sweaty. But it felt good. I needed this. I needed all of it. I needed to feel broken and lost (physically and emotionally). I needed to feel alone. I needed to be alone. I needed to have an experience of my own, one I could share if I wanted or not if I needed. I had all of that in Paris. It started a year ago today.

Today I am 27 weeks, 4 days pregnant. Today I sit here at 1030am with heartburn and a baby girl bouncing all over my tummy. Today I am worried about getting our room ready, cleaning out corners of the room I've stuffed with unnecessary things, throwing out what we don't need. Today I want to swim but don't know where I will fit that in between working and trying to get other things done. Today I am full of even more love for Thomas, my family and our growing family. Today I am a college graduate. Today I write for fun, for joy, for catharsis, for sanity. Today my family is remembering my aunt who passed but looking forward to the new life Thomas and I created. 

A year. That's all it took. I can't imagine what another year will look like in my life.

The Beginning of the End

Conflicting reports on a tree next to Jim Morrison's grave in Paris.

At the beginning of my pregnancy when I complained about something regarding my body, the baby, life, etc being uncomfortable my mom liked to say, "This is only the beginning" or "Just you wait." At first she was serious. I don't remember when I finally snapped and told her to knock it off. I assume it was somewhere after the first or second time she said it - I'm not one to put up with things I don't like and luckily my mom and I have an amazing relationship to where I can actually tell her to hush it and she respects that. From then on the phrases became jokes in our house. I would say, "I'm tired" and her response (followed by me mocking her) was, "this is only the beginning!" Yesterday I reached 27 weeks and officially starting the third trimester. I have been having Braxton-Hicks contractions that are getting uncomfortable and when I commented on this my mom instinctively said, "this is only the beginning!" Thinking about it, I told her, "No, I'm in the homestretch!" (Later realizing that she was actually right this time, BH contractions are nothing compared to real labor.) I think it hit both of us at the same time, I'm almost done. This baby is on her way anywhere from 9 to 14 weeks! I can tell she's running out of room in there because rather than the incredibly strong kicks and punches, I'm feeling her roll and flip more. I can feel the weight of my belly increasing, not from my diet, but from little Junebug getting heavier and heavier. I can tell the last trimester is going to be rough with the heat and getting substantially bigger but thank heavens I have an amazing reward at the end. 

I've read, heard, been lectured on how the second trimester is golden but once you hit the third, it's almost like the first all over again. I've been pretty lucky in this pregnancy that the only really terrible physical symptoms have been awful, ridiculous heartburn, sciatica and that pesky abdominal pain that no one has any idea what to do about. I'm sure it could be worse. I actually got some energy back in my second trimester, meaning I could wake up at 630am (I've always been an early riser) and stay up until 10pm with no nap. However, as if there were some internal calendar that told my body that we've hit the third trimester, yesterday I was exhausted. Woke up early like usual, worked my normal hours with the daycare, went to the pool and by 930 I was asleep. It wasn't the falling asleep early like, "Oh, I'll get in bed now." It was more like get in bed, take off glasses, pass out. I didn't plug my phone in to charge like I always do, I didn't even move my glasses to the nightstand (I left them on Thomas' pillow and then couldn't find them this morning). I'm curious to see if this exhaustion will continue for the next 12 weeks or 18 years.

I decided to start getting my body ready for labor, which I should have been doing this entire time but I'm not a fan of exercising. I figured working 8 hours a day with children between the ages of one and four, running after them, taking them for walks, etc was enough for me. I'm slowing down at work, not lifting the kids, letting my mom or the fab Miss Stacy run after them, sleeping while they're on my watch (just kidding). I knew swimming was recommended for pregnancy exercise and with the temps rising in sunny southern California I've been at the pool a lot. Yesterday I decided that I'd actually swim, not just lounge around the shallow end. With Thomas as my coach/partner, I swam 10 laps fairly quickly. It wasn't as easy as I had expected. I mean, I felt fairly weightless and that was really nice but because miss June is getting bigger my organs are all pushed into my lungs and my diaphragm is completely squished up in there so breathing is getting a bit more laborious. But I did it. I managed some form of exercise. For that, I'm proud of myself.

Walking home from the pool I was reminded of summer as a kid; swimming all day, having blurry vision from opening my eyes underwater, being so exhausted by dinner time that I was cranky and passing out before bed time. Those were my favorite days. I can't wait to have those summer days with my little Junebug. 

Baby girl is now the size of an eggplant. I've read she can be anywhere between 13 and 16 inches and weigh up to 3 lbs. No wonder my belly feels heavy. 

She probably looks different inside than the eggplant, I assume.

Like vs. Love

There are certain things (and people) in life that you love and most of the time like also. But there are those days where you really don't like the certain thing but certainly still love it. This is how I feel about pregnancy. I know there are women who claim they love being pregnant but I tend to think that they really just love their baby and the end result. My mom is one of these women. She does talk about having heartburn and some pain but says she truly loved being pregnant. I am not one of these women. I was for maybe two weeks but my feelings toward pregnancy have taken a weird turn. To be clear, I am in awe and wonder of my body every day and I am so incredibly in love (and in like) with my daughter that I could burst - but the other part, the liking pregnancy part, is escaping me for now. 

Here's the thing, I think it's perfectly normal not to love being pregnant. It's okay to feel crappy about feeling crappy and it's okay to talk about feeling crappy about feeling crappy! As women, we're so often expected to be sunshine and smiles about most things. (ie "How's your relationship?" "Great! He only hits me because he loves me!" *yes, that's extreme, but you know what I mean.*) Pregnancy is one of the things that we're expected to be especially chipper about. I'm sure there are some women who go through the 9-10 months unscathed but when you look at the reality of the situation, most women have a myriad of uncomfortable, crappy symptoms. For fun, here's a short list off of Wikipedia of "complaints that may occur":

• Anemia.
• Back pain.
• Carpal tunnel syndrome.
• Constipation.
• Braxton Hicks contractions.
• Edema (swelling).
• Regurgitation, heartburn, and nausea. Common complaints that may be caused by Gastroesophageal Reflux Disease.
• Hemorrhoids.
• Pelvic girdle pain.
• Postpartum depression.
• Postpartum psychosis.
• Round Ligament Pain.
• Thromboembolic disorders.
• Increased urinary frequency.
• Urinary tract infection.
• Varicose veins.
• PUPPP.

Those are just the common ones. I, for one, am very uncomfortable in nearly every position while I sleep and cannot get through the day (I mean an entire 24 hour stretch) without seeking some sort of relief for heartburn and even then, often have to rush to the bathroom once in a while to throw up bile and acid from said heartburn. 

I am not, in the least, ungrateful for the miracle my body is performing. I am completely aware that there are many, many, many women that would die to have children that simply cannot. I've known women like this, that have suffered far more than I have and have not been successful in childbearing. That breaks my heart and I know I'm lucky.

Pregnancy is not much different than it was 100,000 years ago or even 25 years ago. There is, however, more frank discussion about the process. These days we have "Girlfriend's Guide to Pregnancy" type books and Jenny McCarthy's "Belly Laughs" that outline the weird symptoms and changes in a woman's body. Which is all great, I do feel better knowing I'm not alone and that my fears are natural but I don't feel like anything that I've read (I've read a few, I'm a compulsive reader) really touches on the disliking part. Yes, they say "it's uncomfortable" or "I pooped on the delivery table!" but there's really something missing to just talking about physical changes and refusing to acknowledge the feelings about those changes.

So I'll start. I dislike not being in control of my body. I dislike heartburn that makes me vomit. I dislike the addition of chest pain that feels like I'm choking to the heartburn. I dislike this searing pain in my abdomen that will not go away and cannot be explained. I dislike not being able to sleep in any position for more than 20 minutes without turning and tossing and waking up. I dislike the fluctuation of my poop schedule, not going for a week and then having hemorrhoids flair when I do get to go. I dislike the attention everyone else pays to my diet - yes, it's okay for me to drink a Coke. I dislike not being able to walk up the stairs without being out of breath. I dislike that my torso is so short that I am already feeling my organs being smashed upward, hindering my ability to eat, drink, breathe. 

But I love what my pregnancy will reward me with - a gorgeous, baby girl that I already love more than I can express. I just don't seem to be taking to the nine months leading up to getting her here. And I don't feel guilty about that.

Now to lighten the mood, when I feel big and crappy this is what I will visualize. At least I'm having one and not 6 or 8.

There's a silver lining to everything! (And those silver linings are stretch marks in this situation.)

What did you love about being pregnant? What did you dislike, despise or downright hate? Tell me I'm not alone in this!

June's Violent Streak

This past week June has gotten violent. Her kicks are incredibly strong and completely visible from the outside. My new favorite thing is to set things on my tummy and watch her move them. Her routine has totally changed, also. She used to only be active late at night and early morning, basically when I wanted to sleep she would practice gymnastics. Now, she's up late at night, early morning, around lunch time and late afternoon. It seems like she's up all day! 

Monday I had the opportunity to meet a long time friend's sweet baby girl. I got to hold her for over an hour while she slept and her fab momma ate some lunch. She was absolutely precious! As if I weren't excited enough for baby June to come, sweet baby A added to my excitement ten fold. While holding that sweet swaddled baby, June began to move, more and more. Because of my growing tummy I had to hold the baby on top of my belly and June totally kicked her! Not enough to wake the slumbering princess in my arms but it was a pretty direct kick.

Tuesday, another opportunity to spend time with one of my favorite teeny tiny men. Baby C is nearly 12 weeks old and I've been his big sister's "my Amber" (aka babysitter, she calls me "her Amber") since she was around the same age and she's now two days from being 4! I've watched C a few times before starting when he was about 6 weeks old so we're kind of like best friends now. He's so expressive and loves when I talk to him. While I was feeding him this week he was starting to get a little fussy and when he started to wriggle around, June kicked him. I don't think she appreciated his fussing. When she kicked him, he looked at me like, "What the hell was that?" and continued to be annoyed.

This week is also week 23 of my pregnancy. Meaning Monday I will be 24 weeks. Which means I'll be 6 months, right? No, hold up, we apparently count months differently. Here's what I've found: some people, websites, shamans, etc say that the 6th month is 23 weeks - 27 weeks. Others say that the 6th month is 22 weeks - 26 weeks. I guess logic says that 24 weeks divided by 4 weeks equals 6 months. So needless to say, I'm a little confused. When people ask how far along I am, I just say, "Almost 6 months!" or "23 weeks!" or "Shut the hell up!" (That last one has never actually been used.) Now let's see if I can ever figure out the real date we reach the third trimester! 

My handy "fruit comparisons" are now telling me that Junebug is the size of a papaya, which sounds really yummy right now.

Use the kiwi as another fun comparison, if you wish.

Please note that my hair is not in the usual ponytail + stretchy headband. I have to look pretty sometimes.

I look smaller from the front, right?