My First Baby

I never understood those couples who called their dogs their "babies." I get loving your pets but really, treating them like your children? That seemed a little inane to me. 

And then came Henry.

For our three year anniversary (September 15, 2010) I only asked for one gift. I wanted a dog. My family got our first dog when I was 10 and he died when I was 21. It was the most devastating loss. (No, I've never lost a close family member but I did have 5 friends die within 2 years so I have experienced grief but there's something different about losing an animal, I digress.) We got another dog within a few months that is now my parents fourth child and they spoil him rotten. He's also 100lbs but thinks he's a lap dog.

Now that Thomas and I were on our own, I really wanted a dog that was ours. Not our parents' dogs, but one we cared for together. Thomas agreed that we could look for a dog but was very clear that it would be my dog, not ours. He wanted no part of it. He would go with me, look, pay and then it was my responsibility and my animal - not his. I agreed to this, hoping secretly that he would change his mind and come around to loving the dog like I knew I would. I searched and searched online for dogs at local shelters. I was very adamant about rescuing a dog and not supporting pet stores (and in the long run, puppy mills). After about 2 weeks of searching, I found the perfect Jack Russell Terrier at a shelter about 20 minutes from our house. He was adorable, brown and white, about 10 pounds, and already neutered so that would cut down costs. Thomas agreed to go with me to look at this pup on a warm Sunday in August. We drove there and I told him all the names I was thinking of, the best of which I thought was "Ellis." The pound had named this terrier already but of course we would rename him.

We walked past the kennels of barking and whimpering dogs, all staring at us, pleading to take them home. This part of the process always kills me. I cannot stand seeing dogs caged and sad and alone and hot - it absolutely breaks my soul. We got to the kennel where our precious terrier was and he seemed happy to see us! He barked and jumped, and barked and jumped, and barked, and barked, and barked. I swear he was doing flips and jumping off the walls. He was certainly cute but I looked at Thomas and the look he gave me back was one of trepidation. It would not be fair to keep such a hyper dog in our small apartment. I knew that. We needed a dog that was a little more mellow and laid back. The kennel to the left of my first choice was this small, blond, sad looking puppy. He wasn't barking, wasn't crying, just looking around like he truly hated where he was. We had no idea what breed he was or how old, he hadn't even been named by the pound. Thomas said, "let's see how this one is out of the cage." I could see that this puppy looking business was kind of growing on him. Thomas went to ask the workers if we could take this little guy out and I stood by the kennel to talk to him. He stood up to the gate when I went to pet him and was very affectionate.

The attendant came over and took the little yellow puppy to the fenced area where we could play with him. We went in and he ran straight to Thomas. I got on the floor and tried to play with him but he really took to Thomas. He let me pet him a little but he clearly had his favorite. This little dog never barked, never whined, didn't jump, he was truly a calm and loving little guy. As Thomas pet him, I knew this was the one for us. We talked it over in our little fenced in space and decided this was our adorable pound puppy. Unfortunately because he wasn't neutered yet he had to stay there and get fixed before we could take him home (in CA all animals adopted through shelters must be fixed before they are taken home, a law I completely support). This broke my heart, I hated leaving him behind.

On our way home we texted both sets of parents announcing our new arrival. The pound would call us when he was ready to be picked up. We were on our way to becoming pet parents! We named him Henry (Thomas suggested it and I agreed, he was totally a Henry) and he was our baby.

The first picture of our baby.

Over the next few months, he really truly became our baby. He was our constant companion and we took him everywhere. He slept in our bed, usually right between us or between our legs. He still is our baby, except now we're going to have a human baby. 

Yesterday Thomas took a "Daddy Boot Camp" and they advised them to start paying less attention to pets so that they don't blame the baby when it arrives. It makes sense, we will have less time to be with Henry and we don't want him to see June as competition. However, it still makes me cry when I think about it. He was our first, our trial run.

But starting soon we will make him sleep downstairs rather than with us. He'll be fine, I know but I love our morning puppy cuddles, the routine Thomas and I have for letting him out and the way he lays under the covers with us. 

My little baby boy is growing up. 

And I'm officially one of those weird dog moms.

How could you not love this snaggle tooth face?

Stretching

I thought I was going to be one of the lucky ones. I thought because my weight gain had been slow and steady (save for that last 8 pounds) that I would avoid the permanent reminders of this pregnancy.

I was wrong.

For those of you who have yet to experience the joys of your changing body through pregnancy, here's a fun note: After a certain time in the pregnancy there are certain things you can no longer see on your own body. Everyone loves talking about how you can't see your feet but forget to mention that after a while, you can't see anything past the top of your belly. This includes your lady bits as well as the underside of your belly.

I've been diligent in applying cocoa butter emollient to my body and often do this after the shower. This is the perfect time to look in the mirror and examine the belly that I can no longer see. Last week I noticed some dark blemishes along the lovely linea nigra (fancy word for that bizarre dark line that some pregnant women get from the pubic bone to above the belly button) that has formed along my stomach. I thought I was bruised. I asked Thomas to look at it that night, he had no clue what it was. These two blemishes didn't hurt but I could feel a little divot in both. I nearly forgot about them, mostly because I couldn't see them (I'm a out of sight, out of mind kind of girl I guess).

This morning my mom and I went to the pool and I noticed her scoping out these odd blemishes. I told her my latest theory, it was from my muscles separating, something that I had read about. She delicately said, "I think those are stretch marks."

NO. NO. NO. No, I do not have stretch marks. I had made it to almost 31 weeks with no such markings and I was not going to accept this now. After a long look in the mirror and examining every part of my burgeoning belly it was clear - those two dark blemishes are stretch marks. While performing this exam on myself I noticed another, very similar blemish by my belly button. I showed my mom and sure enough, she agreed, it was another one.

I have 3 stretch marks. I went from 0 to 3. (I'll save you from pictures, for now. Mainly because I can't take them of myself, they're that precariously placed on my belly.) I can't say that I'm surprised though, my brother and sister and I really beat my poor mom's skin up and they say the biggest factor in skin elasticity is genetics. Not even my slathering of cocoa butter could save me. Any tips from other stretchy mommas out there? Did yours look better or worse when baby debuted?

Fashionista

These past few days I've been doing very little but sitting on the couch and reading blogs like Sometimes Sweet and Dear Baby Blog. These two mommy bloggers are funny, savvy and fashionable. The last of those has gotten me thinking about my own style. Do I even have a style? Pre-pregnancy my "go-to" look was jeans, t-shirt and usually a sweatshirt. I was still in college so I really had little time to sit and think about my clothing options while I was running from class to class then to interviews for journalism projects plus maintaining some semblance of a romance with Thomas (apparently that worked) and driving to LA twice a week (100 miles round trip) for my beloved internship. The only days I truly thought about my clothes were when I would go to my internship because there was always a chance that I would end up meeting a celebrity or on some TV set and needed to look like I belonged there. 

At one point in life, I really did like clothes and put a lot of thought into my overall appearance. Unfortunately, this was in jr. high and early high school and my style was eclectic, to say the least. I fell in love with vintage clothing and spent what little money I had on fantastic vintage dresses, blouses and skirts. I also experimented with my hair and I'm surprised I still have any left. It went through every color of the rainbow, sometimes all in one day. My parents were very understanding of my style, they let me dye my hair and wear what suited me without ever criticizing me (at least to my face). At one point, in 9th grade, I wore a large cake-topper type 50's prom dress to school (with purple high top Converse, of course) and they never batted an eye. 

My BFF Amanda and I before I left for a trip to Oklahoma the summer between 9th and 10th grade. I'm on the left in a vintage 40's skirt and my grandpa's old sweater. And my hair is teal. I traveled in style, clearly.

Shortly after this summer my style changed. I became even more involved in theater and for some reason that meant I started wearing overalls, a lot. I'm still not sure why that was my uniform for the time but it was. It was also not very much in style. 

I'm the girl in the picture...(second from left)

The rest of high school I wore jeans and t-shirts or costumes. I was involved in every theater production from 9th grade to 12th grade so I spent my school days in jeans and comfortable clothing. My style did not change much from then to college. Jeans, t-shirts and either sandals (my constant companions - Rainbows) or tennis shoes. 

I don't know why I lost that "flair" for fashion. It may have been out of the box but I truly loved what I was wearing and felt like myself. I've blamed a lot of my lack of style on lack of time but now that I have more time, I wear the same thing most days. My uniform as of the last few months have been shorts and tank tops. Yes, I'm pregnant and it's hot but I do have other choices. 

A few weeks ago I made three skirts specifically for my growing belly. I've worn one of them, one time. I don't know why but I felt silly wearing them. (This could be a whole blog on my neurosis but we won't go there.) I was feeling adventurous last night. I wore one of my homemade skirts. It was cute! I felt girly and somewhat stylish. I'm making a promise to myself to try to break out of my rut and make myself feel better about how my changing body looks. I love my belly and I want to show it off in cute ways. Wish me luck!

Thomas and I before celebrating my pass on the gestational diabetes test. The skirt is a seersucker fabric and adorable, if I do say so myself!

Falling and Poking

Yes, both of those things have to do with me and my ever growing Junebug. 

FALLING

Yesterday morning I had a business meeting with a dear friend, Blaire (of the fabulous Emblem Documentaries and Geeky OC), to help her out with some writing for her website. My GPS failed me but I was still nearly exactly on time. (I'm a huge punctuality stickler, I am chronically early.) I heaped my purse and laptop on my shoulder, grabbed my decaf iced coffee and ever-present 32oz water jug and headed to Blaire's door. She was watching me from her front window and when I reached the curb she came to greet me. She missed my great fall. From her vantage point all she heard was "THUMP" (which I assume was loud, I ain't so dainty these days) and my quivering voice shout, "OH SHIT!" I had managed to trip up the curb, stumble and land square on my belly on the pavement. I had been in forward motion so the brunt of the force was on the top of my uterus onto the grass where it was raised about an inch. My knees were scraped and my head was reeling. I knew June is very well protected in there but I was stunned and couldn't quite think straight. I fought back tears as Blaire rushed to me. I didn't want to cry or overreact and create more tension than needed to be in my body so I sat there on the pavement, surrounded by my bag and spilled drinks. "I think I'm going to call my doctor," were the next words I could form. Blaire asked if I wanted to move and go into the house. As she picked up my strewn belongings I left a message with my nurse and she said Dr. Man* would call me as soon as possible. I was feeling crampy and sore and out of breath. I sat on the couch in Blaire's adorable house and started feeling like a complete idiot. I wanted to cry and apologize, even though I knew it wasn't really my fault. Sweet Blaire brought me a washcloth, bandaids and some polysporin to dress my wounds (which were oddly in the exact same place that I already had scars on my knees - I suppose I fell like this as a kid too. Call me grace.). I texted my mom and Thomas just to let them know in case I would have to go to L&D for monitoring. Thomas called me only a minute after I texted him and was very concerned. That's one thing I adore about him, he's always very serious when it comes to baby. He's such a laid-back and funny guy so to hear him so serious is oddly reassuring. My doctor called while I was on the phone with Thomas and of course it didn't beep through my call waiting so I had a message when we hung up. Dr. Man* is another very laid-back guy whom I confessed my hypochondria to at our first visit. He does a terrific job of listening to my endless questions and concerns and always reassures me, careful not to play into my imaginary medical issues. His message was detailed but very to the point - she was very well protected in my belly and if there was no bleeding or leaking fluid (which makes me think of a car...) and she was moving then we were fine. I decided that Blaire and I should get on with our work and worrying was unnecessary. June started kicking again within a half hour and all was well. 

I think this was a really good lesson for me. I continually question everything that I feel and it can drive me insane. But this time, even though it was a real cause for concern, I listened to my body. I didn't overreact, tense up or freak out. I breathed through the Braxton-Hicks I felt after the fall and practiced focusing on only my breathing.

Sanity wise, it certainly didn't hurt that we had a 3D ultrasound scheduled for that afternoon. Thomas met me at the office and we got to watch our beautiful, and ever-stubborn, little girl kick and bounce and never move her hand away from her face. She furrowed her brow as if we were seriously bothering her. We still can't really tell who she looks like which makes the anticipation of her birthday that much better. 

POKING

This is a family blog, people! (But if I knew both of our families weren't reading this I would totally be discussing pregnant sex. But as far as either side is concerned - WE ONLY DID IT ONCE! In our entire 3.5 year relationship and 2 years we lived together!) Last week I was poked for the one hour glucose testing and left the office feeling confident. No way this was coming back positive. Right? WRONG. Monday morning I got a call from the nurse telling me that my iron levels were very low and that I had failed the one hour test. Well, crap. I scheduled my appointment for Thursday morning at 830am, was told to fast after 12am and to expect to be there for 3 hours. I frantically texted all the moms I knew that had had babies recently. Nearly every one had failed the one hour but passed the three hour. Which leaves me questioning the reliability of the first test...in any case, I wasn't going to stress over it. I either had gestational diabetes or I didn't. Thursday morning (this morning) I woke up starving. Of course the day that I knew I couldn't eat, I was famished even though I'm normally fine to eat breakfast at a leisurely pace. I arrived at Dr. Man's* office at 830am sharp and his one and only nurse, Theresa, drew my blood. I was worried that I would feel lightheaded because I hadn't eaten but it was fine. I drank the glucose syrup which was the same size as before - 10oz - but double the glucose - 100grams. It was overwhelmingly sweet, for good reason. But I got through it, I was conscious and not puking so we were in business. The three subsequent blood draws and next three hours weren't too bad either. I actually managed to finish a book I had been slogging my way through (The Paris Wife, maybe one day I'll review it but not today). The only trouble with the whole test was when I was leaving. I have horrible veins - except for ONE in my right arm, so guess which one we used all four times? That one vein. After every draw she would place a cotton ball and tape on my arm and I'd rip it off and start again the next time. The last draw she could see that the tape was irritating my sensitive skin so she said we could use just a regular bandaid for me to "wear" home. So draw blood, put on bandaid, I leave. As I walk out of the office my arm started to feel very cold. I looked down and there was a very large, steady stream of blood making its way to my hand. The bandaid wasn't doing its job! I went back in, cleaned it up and Theresa added a little bit of tape to the bottom so I wasn't leaking blood. Overall, not a terrible experience. Now it's the waiting that's driving me nuts. Last week I was told that I would have answers by Friday or Monday at the latest and Theresa called me Monday. So I'm just crossing my fingers and hoping for the best. It is out of my hands and if I do have GD, then we'll go from there! If not, we'll continue with our happy and healthy pregnancy! 

*Dr. Man = my OB, not his real name.

I have so much more to talk about but I will stop here. Perhaps I'll blog tomorrow about our first birthing class this week! And how I can no longer bathe...

The Great Weight Gain

I had been getting cocky about my minimal weight gain - only 12 pounds at 24 weeks. That alone wasn't enough to make me feel superior. I really didn't gain much weight until I was about 16 weeks, I had lost some in the first tri and sloooowly put on a few pounds, and my doctor was quite proud of my four pound a month gain from week 20 on out. My last appointment he even said, "You're doing well with this one pound a week, I'm impressed." Which, if you know me, meant a lot - praise from "officials" (doctors, professors, etc.) makes me happy.

Then came my 28 week check up. This morning I woke up knowing I'd have to choke down an awful glucose mixture because they were doing the gestational diabetes test. The fruit punch flavored syrup tasted like really sweet kool-aid. Not nearly as bad as I've been told. I did feel a little nauseous and light headed after pounding it down but pumping 50gms of sugar into your body in 3 minutes will probably do that to you. I headed out to my appointment, checked in and waited until they were ready to take me back. The fabulous nurse called my name and took me straight to the scale. Usually, I pee in a cup first because I have to go so badly but today was different. I thought little of it, dropped my purse and water jug, took off my shoes and stepped on the scale. Last time I was in the office the scale said 180. Not a number I'm used to seeing but I was okay with it. Today it read 188 and 1/2. Seriously? It had only been 4 weeks since I was on this scale. This had to be a trick. EIGHT AND A HALF POUNDS? I didn't believe it. The nurse took me to measure my blood pressure and I joked around saying that if my blood pressure was high it was because I was stressed about the weight gain. I asked if we could re-check after I peed, maybe it was the syrup. She laughed at me but agreed. So second weigh-in went like this: I take off my shoes, close my eyes and peek to see her not move the scale at all. She whispered to me, "I'll take off that 1/2 pound, we'll count it as only eight." She really did take off that 1/2 but that only made me feel 1/8 better. 

I was very concerned that Dr. Man (not his name, just what I call him for the purpose of this blog) would be upset with me when he came into the room. Surprisingly, the 8 pound weight gain wasn't the first thing we talked about. We chatted, went over a few things and then he said, "So, you've gained 8 pounds in the past month." I swore up and down I didn't know how it happened! (Which I really don't know how it happened, I'm still in shock.) I was pleasantly surprised when he said that he wasn't too concerned because of my little weight gain in the beginning. Apparently I'm right on track now at 20 pounds at 28 weeks. And in his words I'm just "making up for lost time." I was still warned not to gain another 8 pounds in a month but that from here out one pound a week is my goal. Which when you total over the next 11 weeks will be a 31 pound gain. And I will officially weigh over 200 pounds. I'm not sure how cute I'll look then. But I suppose as long as Dr. Man isn't concerned, baby Junebug is doing well and my body isn't flipping out then I shouldn't be worried. I'll keep repeating this until I believe it. 

In other news: June is head down and so that fun hard bump I feel in my ribs sometimes is her bum. It's a pretty darn cute bum and I love that I know what it is now! I just scheduled our 3D/4D ultrasound for next Wednesday. My wonderful friend Korey recommended a place that is way cheaper than everywhere else I've researched and she loved it. It does seem a little silly to pay more for an extra ultrasound but I just have to see her little face again. I can't get enough of my little Junebug! 

Now I must go run through the things I do to try to relieve this insane heartburn. These days it consists of Pepcid, Mylanta, a few Tums and some warm milk with honey to top it off. Sounds fun, right?