Excuse Me, I’m Pregnant…

Holy terrifying.

If I could buy an entire fleet of t-shirts that say “I’m Pregnant,” I probably would. Not only would this cut down on the faces filled with question marks that don’t take their eyes off my chubby belly, but this would also ensure I receive all the special treatment that is due to me for growing a human inside my body. Now, you may be thinking, “Jeez, who does this girl think she is?!” Well, this girl thinks she is GROWING A HUMAN BEING INSIDE HER BODY. I am due all the Expectant Mother parking spots in the world.

Speaking of which, I am quite tempted to just drive an hour to the nearest Target just so I can park in the Expectant Mothers’ spot and waddle my proud, pregnant buns into the store and then back out. This is my kudos to Target for throwing a little privilege our way.

Now, my husband has bent over backwards, forwards and then back again to meet my growing pregnant demands, but it has gotten to be quite the disease. As I type this, he is filling my beverage and handing me a cup of pickles. That’s love… or terror. Like if he even so much as dares to ask me to let the dog outside once my pajamas are on and I’m planted on the couch, he is met with a soul-burning stare. What has gotten into me? Am I carrying Lucifer? I hadn’t even missed a period when this demanding, entitled behavior began which wore my husband out. Now I am labeled the mom-who-cried-wolf even though this fetus is riverdancing on my spine and I am begging for a back rub. Turns out I shouldn’t have waited a bit on the demands because I really feel like I am a baby making machine that is running low on fuel.

I guess I thought that pregnancy was going to be more an “uncomfortable” feeling. I didn’t realize the gravity of the phrase “You will have a small person growing inside your body.” Apparently, I thought that meant there would be this tiny cherub being nourished on pickles in my womb where I would feel a small flutter of life from time to time. Instead, I literally feel like there is something trying to crawl out of my body one organ at a time. I never knew what it felt like to have a bladder quivering with fullness only to be met with a roundhouse kick. Now I know.

Not only is this experience “uncomfortable,” it actually is creeping me out. At the ultrasound, the doctor kept pushing on my stomach which resulted in little Baby Boy to kick his legs feverishly on the flat screen TV. This floored me. Wait, that little person with the full spine, fingers, toes and Chuck Norris legs is in my belly? Like, that little skeleton is mashed in somewhere next to my overworked bladder and squeezed lungs? No way. For some reason I didn’t think there was going to be a skeleton. I guess I thought I was birthing Gumby and he would just naturally harden into a person.

Lots to learn, I guess..

Pregnancy Pride

I am a shopper by nature. Let me loose in a store and I will find 100,000 things I have to have but just didn’t know it yet, like a Snuggie for my dog. Pre-pregnancy I was sure that the minute I found out I was pregnant I would be decked out in darling maternity: jeans, tops, dresses, underwear, bras, socks and haircuts (you know, the mom ‘do) before the pee-stick dried. But that is just not happening. My energy level barely allows me to grab an over-sized sweatshirt from the closet to sit on the couch, let alone drive an HOUR to the nearest maternity store to shop. But during month two, one thing became apparent, even if there wasn’t a “want” to shop, there was definitely a “need” to shop…for bras.

Now, my whole life I have always had the same bra shopping experiences. I have never been in the “normal” bra section. If it wasn’t: large enough to save a fighter jet from crashing, shaped like a cone or sold in a dusty box, it just wasn’t going to fit. But, here I was in maternity bras. This was a whole new ballgame. This was where everyone was top heavy and no one was forced to shop on the bottom shelf that’s full of spiders and hatred.

So, off I went with husband in tow. He “volunteered” to come along with the promise that he got to get two presents for himself if he behaved in the maternity store. I was on the mission to get bras and a couple fall sweaters, since it would be a while until I ventured the hour to the mall again.

First, we get to the mall and the only parking available is on the opposite side from our destination store. Not a big deal, a little exercise never hurt anyone and after we were done shopping we could enjoy a leisurely lunch in the food court.

Big mistake.

Before I even hit the double doors I was sweating and realizing that the bag of beef jerky I ate on the ride just wasn’t going to cut the mustard. But I am a woman and women do NOT try on clothes after eating a meal, especially a pregnancy-sized meal. So, I pushed on.

By the time I sweatily waddled to Motherhood Maternity I was feeling regret seeping in. But, I was still over-eager to finally purchase a bra right along side all other members of society. A sales rep eagerly met me at the door and I boomed, “I’m pregnant and need a bra!” Off we headed to the wall ‘o bras where she whipped out a tape measure. This normally would send a tingle of terror down my spine but I was in the loop now. This was my time to shine. She wrapped that measure through my moist armpits and…giggled.

Yes, giggled.

“I’m sorry, we don’t have this size here,” she says, “You might want to try the store across the street that specializes in this size.” She couldn’t even utter the number/letter combination! Was I hitting the Greek alphabet at this point? Am I diseased? Is this like a secretive form of elephantiasis?

Immediately feeling like I time-lapsed back into the seventh grade, I just thanked the twit for her time and began my shopping shuffle looking for sweaters. But by this time I had exhausted every nutritional ounce out of that beef jerky and I needed food NOW. This left me no choice but to leave my husband in the dust and speed-walk to the nearest form of sustenance. I spent the next 45 minutes stuffing my face so feverishly full of bagel dogs and egg rolls that I couldn’t even consider more shopping. But, I made myself go to the “special bra store” grab the nearest two parachutes and fall immediately asleep in the car. No sweaters, no acceptance, just another day in the life…

Go Blue!

Well, I technically am not supposed to be finding out that I have a boy in my womb until December 27th. But, being the completely rational mother-to-be that I am, I just could not miss out on baby-sized Christmas presents for the appropriate gender. So, I found a company that specializes in gender determination and found out our little nugget is packing some heat.

It was, honestly, the most amazing experience. I found out our child is stubborn like his mother because he was sitting with his legs so tightly crossed it was as if he was hiding the next Golden Ticket. But after some poking and prodding by the technician, we were able to loosen those tiny little legs and get a peak at his prize. And as my husband says, “it was glowing like a beacon in the night.” Really, it was. The secretary even said, “It doesn’t get more clearly ‘boy’ than that!” And I agreed. This little guy is making a statement.

On the hour ride home, I managed to activate our family phone tree by calling about 45 people a minute to break the news. A couple of the award-winning responses:

Me: “We are having a boy! We even got a pictures of his little man stuff.”
Grandma: “Oh, I bet it’s HUGE!”
Me: Awkward silence.

Where exactly does my sweet little grandma draw this conclusion from? Is it my husband’s size 15 feet? Or just because I am a natural over-achiever? Hmmm…I digress.

Next amazingly awkward response:

Me: “We are having a boy!”
Cousin-who-recently-had-a-baby-girl: “Oh wow, yay! Congratulations! Darn it though, I wanted to get rid of some clothes. They are all awesome and I don’t want to just give them to anyone! Maybe he will like to wear girl clothes?”

Almost everyone asked what my pregnancy symptoms have been and guessed at the gender up until the big tell-all. I will admit, I did think it was a boy pretty much since conception and an overwhelming amount of predictions were of a boy. But, when people asked me what my symptoms were, I would respond, “I have a huge gut and cry all the time.” This, to me, does not reek of boy or girl. But everyone seems to dabble in witch doctoring when someone’s pregnant. Everyone has a hypothesis or a cure for every issue you have whether it be morning sickness or a birth pain guesstimate.

Either way, I am not disappointed like I thought I would be after finding out the sex. I am a little more aware that, yes, I am almost halfway done with this pregnancy and now it is getting extremely real.

Here are some things I’m looking forward to:

Little boy overalls. Come ON, I don’t care if you birthed cyclops, slap them in some Oshkosh B’Gosh and they are teardrops from Heaven.

Dressing him exactly like his dad. My husband is unaware of this plan, but holy smokes there are a lot of matching flannels, corduroys and little parted haircuts in his future.

Cuddling my mama’s boy. I am a stage five cuddler with anything small and cute. This child will be stuck to my hip and tangled in my apron strings his entire life.

Seeing him for the first time. The thought of all of a sudden seeing this little pink creature that looks a little like me and a little like daddy makes my heart hurt. I can’t wait to see his little personality and baby toes and chunky legs. Watch out, here come the water works…

Boy or Girl?

So, I am going to find out what brand my baby is this month. I am pretty much dancing on rainbows at the thought of knowing this little wiggly peanut a bit more. I already bought a girl and a boy outfit for brand-new baby McKinnon. This is much to the chagrin of my husband who doesn’t see the point in buying clothes that for certain will not be worn since the baby can only be a boy OR a girl and not both. But, I say, who’s to say our little boy nugget might not want to wear a frilly pink Packer onesie? Or our little girl dumpling doesn’t want to butch it up in some brown corduroy? Alright, I just wanted to buy some damn clothes!

But the more and more I contemplate my future child’s sex, the more confused I get. I get asked all the time what I want and my husband forebode me from giving the cliche oh-I-don’t-care-as-long-as-it’s-healthy-response. Like, someone somewhere wished for a girl and just because she did that baby was born in an iron lung? Where did that phrase even come from? Of course every mother wants a healthy baby. But I honestly am scared to find out what I’m baking in this oven. I feel like if I get a boy then I don’t get ribbons and curls and if I get a girl I don’t get a momma’s boy that lives in my basement until he’s 56. How can one choose?

But then I start to think of the cons of these sexes, specifically based on examples from my family. Like when I think boy, I immediately imagine a little 10-pound linebacker like my brother who cut three-foot holes in brand-new furniture with my dad’s jackknife. Or who made my mom cry because he wouldn’t sit down long enough to learn that A came before B with the Hooked on Phonics kit my mom ordered off QVC out of pure desperation. It’s almost like I can see these genes in my bloodstream headed towards my womb and I tremble in terror. But then I look at pictures of my husband as a little boy and my heart melts. I see the biggest, happiest grin paired with giant brown eyes and imagine a whole tribe of those little boys sitting cross-legged in front of the Christmas tree patiently waiting for story time from Papa as a giant log crackles on the fire.

Then I think about what adorable blond-haired blue eyed princesses (like myself) turn into around age 12. I remember the pure frustration my mom had in her eyes every time she and I conversed as a teen. I remember screaming the second I got off the school bus and crying myself to sleep quite often. Why? Who the hell knows? Teenage girls are seriously evil. But as a child I was quite the catch. I was smart, polite, cute and never got in trouble. But it was almost like the minute the clock ticked 12 years old, I was transformed into a monster. It was like I had been doomed since birth by a wicked witch because my mom didn’t stay in her tower weaving on a golden harp all day. Consider me the next Sleeping Beauty.

And those of you who think I should “just wait until the big day and be surprised,” really don’t know me at all. I’m the one who couldn’t wait for my husband to propose and made him do it two weeks early with a gun to his head. OK, no gun but everything else is true. I’m the girl who requests every single birthday/Christmas present to ensure I have the right surprise/grateful face upon opening it. I don’t like surprises, well, actually, I don’t like anticipation and that goes hand-in-hand with surprises.

So, really, I don’t care what I have because the second I think I want a girl I get sad about not having a boy and vice verse. Maybe, they didn’t see a second little biscuit in there during my first ultrasound and I really will get both? A girl can dream, can’t she?