Well, almost halfway through the second trimester, and things are as fun as always. Pregnancy, I've decided, is boring. At least at this point, when I still don't look pregnant (and instead just look a little "thick," as my mom so sweetly pointed out), and I don't feel any movement or any other proof that something is actually happening in there. Boring.
Plus it's football season, and the deal with Hubby has always been that I will watch football with him if I can also eat and drink. AND being the key word, here. I am not a football girl. And so I spend the game with my nose in my computer, catching up on Netflix. Sober. In other words, boring.
But there are, of course, other joys.
I've got preggo brain. Already. Words and thoughts just escape my brain without warning. I'll give my Art Director info on a project, say, about a print ad, and ended up trailing off about the color of pocket folders. I don't know if it was me finally hearing myself or her utter silence on the other end of the phone, but that was a fun one to recover from. Luckily, she's a mom. Her condolence was that it'll get worse, not better...
But it's not just words—I'm calling hotels to confirm reservations and am being told I never made them. Putting milk away in cabinets. I was washing some pillowcases the other day, and when I went to go transfer them to the dryer, I noticed my half-full cup of detergent still sitting there, completely unused. Oops. (Let's keep that example between us, shall we? Hubby does the laundry because "I do it wrong." Sometimes I do it anyway to be nice and to prove otherwise. So, yeah. Shh.)
I want dessert, at all hours of the day. I ate the largest frosted cookie ever the other day. At 10:30am. I'm pretty sure it was the most sugar my body has processed at one time in the past 16 years. It was ridiculous.
And it was delicious. And I will eat the other one in my fridge in the very near future. (But not right now; I'm working on a bowl of sugar-free Pistachio pudding right now—and by bowl, I mean the one the pudding was made in. And I'm not sharing, so don't ask.) And don't get me started on ice cream. Luckily there are a million "lower cal" varieties out there, but they are still completely unnecessary calories. And it's confusing, because I'm not a huge nut fan, I don't like the taste of butter, and I don't really care about ice cream. But get between me and some butter pecan and I will cut you.
What happened to being a horny, glowing preggo? I was kind of looking forward to that, I won't lie. But glowing? Amorous? Um, my jeans are currently being "buttoned" via rubber band. I'm exhausted, bloated, and broken out. This is not exactly prime sexy-time. I was bra-shopping the other day, and started crying in the middle of the department store because I couldn't find any bras that would fit the girls and look cute. I just needed something a little sexy (a little would have gone a long way, trust me), and instead my options were nude, thick strapped, "full-figured" boulder holders.
Eff it, I'm just going to switch to sport bras soon and call it a day. At least they come in colors.
(Whispers) "Soooo...I'm knocked up." I find myself struggling with how to tell people, especially acquaintances. When the hostess at my usual pho restaurant asked how I was and commented that she hadn't seen me in awhile, I heard myself say, "Yeah, I know. I got myself pregnant and my tastes seem to have changed a bit..."
I got myself pregnant?? WTF does that even mean? And this is so not an isolated incident. "I'm knocked up," "Well, turns out I'm pregnant..." and other similar "excuses" have all left my mouth. I mean, we've already established that I'm not an "I can't wait until I'm pregnant!!" person, but to make it sound like it's some sort of trouble I got myself into like a derelict teenage runaway? What is that?
My husband is fantastic. Well, obviously, seeing that I married him, but he has become so...not concerned, exactly...I don't know the word. I can't EVER remember the right word, damnit. So examples, it is. Six months ago, had he walked into the room to find me sprawled on the couch and glassy eyed, his first reaction would be to reposition my half-full martini glass in order to keep me from kicking it over when I readjusted myself. Now, he walks in, kisses me on the forehead, and asks if I feel okay.
He's just been very sweet and protective while still remembering that his wife is a bullheaded Taurus who can do it her damn self. He knows I'll ask for help if I need it, and even when I won't, he understands that if a giant box of cat litter has been in the back of my car for a week straight, he should just carry it inside.
So far there's only been one serious exception to his fabulousness, which I must point out because I'm kind of a jerk. I wanted Thai food one day, and he talked me into Vietnamese instead. Seriously. I'm eventually going to get past this, but I pouted about this for a week and still want some Pad Kee Mow, damnit. Being finicky about food is really the only thing he hasn't been cutting me any slack on. (Except when I just want mac and cheese for dinner—he doesn't bitch when I'm doing the cooking—just when I want to go out.) But I guess that's what I get for marrying a fellow food-lover.
But the most painful part of this whole ordeal so far has quite literally been the (knee) pain. I was born with old-lady knees...they just ache. Sometimes it's the right, less often it's just the left, and usually it's both. No, I didn't hurt them as a kid. No, physical therapy didn't help. No, it doesn't seem to matter how much I weigh. Yes, I've had them x-rayed (nope, nothing "wrong" with them)...I was just born with bad knees. But the achiness, stiffness, and general shooting pain has just magnified over the past few months. Stairs hurt. Yoga hurts. Sitting on a toilet...O.M.G. This "chore" is usually manageable, but having my knees hurt this much means it's been pure agony...to the point where I've had to stifle yelps of pain when I sit down or stand up in order to not be the freak screaming in the bathroom.
Because we're already on this lovely path, let's just keep going, shall we? I'm 5'10, so long legs teamed with sore knees has always made the whole public bathroom ordeal a bit...tricky. Am I not being gross clear enough? Here it is: I'm a terrible squatter. I'll spare you too much detail here, but let's just say I'm a huge fan of toilet seat covers and lots of toilet paper hand wraps.
So I will also spare you a play by play of a recent concert experience involving pregnant Pammy's overactive bladder, this female bathroom skill deficiency, and excessively disgusting porta-potties. Shudder.
Speaking of bathroom issues, apparently I now need 35g+ of fiber a day to survive. And that's all I'm going to say about that.
~ Pam Huber of Seriously Yum