...everyone who has ever been through one wants to tell you their stories. Which is fine, and cute, and it's a good bonding experience (once the bride/mother-to-be learns to shrug off the well-meaning but completely uninformed advice). But there's just one problem: no wedding story will ever come close to a pregnancy horror story. Your cake might have toppled over, or the best man fainted, or the rings might have been forgotten in a hotel room. Maybe your veil even caught on fire from lighting the unity candle.
But no, none of those even come close to beating ANYTHING close to "oh yes, after 96 hours of excruciating labor my abdomen was sliced open and then ...[insert groteseque details here]." Or almost worse, "I thought for sure that once I was past the first trimester we were good to go, but then I miscarried at 19 weeks with copious bleeding and had to be rushed to the ER. *pause* Wow, you're pretty far along to not be showing even a little bit...are you sure everything's okay?"
News flash: I don't need your help coming up with ways my pregnancy could go wrong. Trust me, my body is coursing with hormones. I have fully considered every possible thing that could go wrong - food poisoning, lack of nourishment, seatbelt trauma in a car accident, having a 19-pound baby, freak genetic incompatibilities that result in our child being born with a full-length beard, and the chance of being picked off by a sniper on the fifth floor of the office building in our local grocery store parking lot.
[I might have woken my husband up in the middle of the night crying about that last one.]
And I've taken the reasonable precautions for them. Prenatal vitamins, a healthy diet, frequent (but not too frequent) exercise, safe driving, and pricing bullet-proof vests long enough to cover a protruding belly (we decided that probably a crib was a better investment of the money, although I sure hope we don't live to regret that decision). And so I've reached the point where there's really nothing I can do about it. We just wait and pray that everything turns out...and we keep my favorite comfort foods stocked for the days when the hormones take over.
So when the next person eyes my still very flat belly and make a comment like "Gee, you don't seem to grown at all...are you sure the baby's all right?", I will look them in the eye and say very, very sweetly:
"No, it was just an elaborate hoax to see how many people noticed after six or seven months. Congratulations on catching on so fast!"
And then I will start working on my list of horror stories to tell the next pregnant woman who comes along.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Second-borns are the best
It has become apparent. It is very obviously second-borns that are the most loved.
You see, when a mother decides she wants her first baby, she really doesn't know what she's getting into. She doesn't understand the desperate need for twenty pillows propping up her back. She hasn't considered the loss of her favorite wardrobe - possibly forever. She has never experienced the utter indignities that pregnant women are subjected to at the doctor's office.
And so, she desires that first child in ignorance.
Oh sure, I love my firstborn without a doubt. But anyone can walk into a torture chamber willingly, if they don't know what it is. But a mother choosing to have a second baby is walking into the torture chamber with her eyes open, with full knowledge of what is to come.
Therefore, I, as the desired second-born, am quite obviously the most loved. Thanks, Mom.
P.S. Don't worry to those of you who are concerned about my firstborn's self-esteem. I'll delete this post before Jiblet can read, which will be sooner than you think because I had a an obviously prophetic dream that she was a child prodigy with far superior mental capabilities and a sunny-sweet, always obedient disposition and an absolutely fabulous mother. Like every firstborn, right? But then, in that case, I don't think you have to worry about self-esteem issues.
P.P.S. For you firstborns reading this, really, I'm kidding. It's okay. I'm sure your mom loves you very much. This post is really just a way for me to complain without sounding too whiny, so don't get bent out of shape.
You see, when a mother decides she wants her first baby, she really doesn't know what she's getting into. She doesn't understand the desperate need for twenty pillows propping up her back. She hasn't considered the loss of her favorite wardrobe - possibly forever. She has never experienced the utter indignities that pregnant women are subjected to at the doctor's office.
And so, she desires that first child in ignorance.
Oh sure, I love my firstborn without a doubt. But anyone can walk into a torture chamber willingly, if they don't know what it is. But a mother choosing to have a second baby is walking into the torture chamber with her eyes open, with full knowledge of what is to come.
Therefore, I, as the desired second-born, am quite obviously the most loved. Thanks, Mom.
P.S. Don't worry to those of you who are concerned about my firstborn's self-esteem. I'll delete this post before Jiblet can read, which will be sooner than you think because I had a an obviously prophetic dream that she was a child prodigy with far superior mental capabilities and a sunny-sweet, always obedient disposition and an absolutely fabulous mother. Like every firstborn, right? But then, in that case, I don't think you have to worry about self-esteem issues.
P.P.S. For you firstborns reading this, really, I'm kidding. It's okay. I'm sure your mom loves you very much. This post is really just a way for me to complain without sounding too whiny, so don't get bent out of shape.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Goodness Gracious, I have a Blog????
Hello blog. :)
I am posting on you because I don't want to become one of those women whose facebook becomes a pregnancy discussion board. I mean, people can choose to read my blog. They'd have to block my newsfeed to avoid seeing my posts. And you don't want that, do you?
Of course not.
Besides, there's people who actually WANT the details (Hi, Mom and Dad). So now they can read if they want. But they don't have to. Plus, I get to keep a record of pregnancy, so that when that little bundle of joy is in my arms and my brain magically forgets about all the inconveniences of the past nine months, and I turn to Josh and say, "Awww, I just want 20 more of these," then I have a reminder that no, I actually don't want 20 more of those. That I might melt when I look into little Jiblet's eyes, but I really don't want to do this 20 times and ten or less will suffice. And I don't want to do it with multiples, either.
So blog, I will try to not turn you into a pregnancy log, because the internet does not need to have access to whether my ankles are swelling or info on how difficult it is to sit up in the mornings. But most likely pregnancy will come up frequently. Sorry about that.
When I was talking to a dear friend, she asked me what I was learning lately. I peered the morning sickness induced brain haze and found a recurring theme:
My utter, complete dependence on the good grace of others.
It's easy to appreciate the grace of God. I mean, no matter how you try, He's perfect and you're not. But humans are a little different. They're imperfect, you're imperfect. You show them grace, they show you grace. It's really easy to take that for granted, or to take it as "I forgave you, so now you forgive me."
But I found myself in the throes of morning sickness, and therefore, etiquette and social norms went out the window. My college roommate invited me to a party the first weekend after the morning sickness hit. I had RSVP'd yes. But then the day of, I simply couldn't go to a party where there would be food. Which pretty much describes every party. So I blew it off.
And then there was the time my boss showed a great act of kindness and ordered pizza for our whole office. Now, normally I'm a supreme pizza kind of gal. But onions have declared themselves as my mortal enemy, in any form. And then one of my co-workers suggested that we get a Supreme pizza, and everyone else very quickly agreed. I mean, I'm the only girl in an office of guys! Supreme is the thing to get!
One of my co-workers must have looked at my face. The face that was plainly conveying the thoughts in my head. The thoughts that ran something along the line of, "Onions? On pizza? That's like the equivalent of bringing in roadkill to the office and dishing it up" And that kind co-worker very graciously jumped in to suggest a different kind. When the others said that no, they were absolutely sure that supreme was what they wanted, kind co-worker jerked his head in my direction to remind them of my "condition".
So that was the time when little Jiblet vetoed an entire office to get the kind of pizza he wanted. Who says children don't have sin natures?
And the list goes on. My boss brought in his daughter's homemade fudge, very proudly showing off her skills. I politely took a piece, took a bite, and promptly exited the building. How can I tell him she did a good job after that? I didn't eat the dishes that my guests brought to Thanksgiving. I left church to eat a snack because Jiblet was hungry and goodness knows won't wait for anything. But that was actually an improvement - I actually went to church that week, despite the 40-minute car ride over the mountains.
And then there's Josh. As he puts it, I have a different stomach every day. What sounds great yesterday, and of which I made a week's worth of servings, suddenly becomes a monster in my fridge. The first week of the sickness, I wanted potatoes. So we bought a five pound bag of potatoes. But three days later, I could no longer look at potatoes. And what's worse, I could no longer wash the dishes of any meal that included potatoes. So Josh's meals have been reduced to the food I can't look at.
So what I have learned in the last two months? First, I learned that the first trimester is really awful, and I really hope that the morning sickness disappears completely soon (it's hard to imagine being able to eat anything, though!). But more importantly, I am completely dependent on others to extend grace, no matter what manners or social customs I ignored. To still be my friend, even if I leave the lunchroom when they bring in their food. To still include me in their plans, even though I cancelled last minute the last time because of carsickness. To be kind enough to overlook my social transgressions.
And that's grace.
I am posting on you because I don't want to become one of those women whose facebook becomes a pregnancy discussion board. I mean, people can choose to read my blog. They'd have to block my newsfeed to avoid seeing my posts. And you don't want that, do you?
Of course not.
Besides, there's people who actually WANT the details (Hi, Mom and Dad). So now they can read if they want. But they don't have to. Plus, I get to keep a record of pregnancy, so that when that little bundle of joy is in my arms and my brain magically forgets about all the inconveniences of the past nine months, and I turn to Josh and say, "Awww, I just want 20 more of these," then I have a reminder that no, I actually don't want 20 more of those. That I might melt when I look into little Jiblet's eyes, but I really don't want to do this 20 times and ten or less will suffice. And I don't want to do it with multiples, either.
So blog, I will try to not turn you into a pregnancy log, because the internet does not need to have access to whether my ankles are swelling or info on how difficult it is to sit up in the mornings. But most likely pregnancy will come up frequently. Sorry about that.
When I was talking to a dear friend, she asked me what I was learning lately. I peered the morning sickness induced brain haze and found a recurring theme:
My utter, complete dependence on the good grace of others.
It's easy to appreciate the grace of God. I mean, no matter how you try, He's perfect and you're not. But humans are a little different. They're imperfect, you're imperfect. You show them grace, they show you grace. It's really easy to take that for granted, or to take it as "I forgave you, so now you forgive me."
But I found myself in the throes of morning sickness, and therefore, etiquette and social norms went out the window. My college roommate invited me to a party the first weekend after the morning sickness hit. I had RSVP'd yes. But then the day of, I simply couldn't go to a party where there would be food. Which pretty much describes every party. So I blew it off.
And then there was the time my boss showed a great act of kindness and ordered pizza for our whole office. Now, normally I'm a supreme pizza kind of gal. But onions have declared themselves as my mortal enemy, in any form. And then one of my co-workers suggested that we get a Supreme pizza, and everyone else very quickly agreed. I mean, I'm the only girl in an office of guys! Supreme is the thing to get!
One of my co-workers must have looked at my face. The face that was plainly conveying the thoughts in my head. The thoughts that ran something along the line of, "Onions? On pizza? That's like the equivalent of bringing in roadkill to the office and dishing it up" And that kind co-worker very graciously jumped in to suggest a different kind. When the others said that no, they were absolutely sure that supreme was what they wanted, kind co-worker jerked his head in my direction to remind them of my "condition".
So that was the time when little Jiblet vetoed an entire office to get the kind of pizza he wanted. Who says children don't have sin natures?
And the list goes on. My boss brought in his daughter's homemade fudge, very proudly showing off her skills. I politely took a piece, took a bite, and promptly exited the building. How can I tell him she did a good job after that? I didn't eat the dishes that my guests brought to Thanksgiving. I left church to eat a snack because Jiblet was hungry and goodness knows won't wait for anything. But that was actually an improvement - I actually went to church that week, despite the 40-minute car ride over the mountains.
And then there's Josh. As he puts it, I have a different stomach every day. What sounds great yesterday, and of which I made a week's worth of servings, suddenly becomes a monster in my fridge. The first week of the sickness, I wanted potatoes. So we bought a five pound bag of potatoes. But three days later, I could no longer look at potatoes. And what's worse, I could no longer wash the dishes of any meal that included potatoes. So Josh's meals have been reduced to the food I can't look at.
So what I have learned in the last two months? First, I learned that the first trimester is really awful, and I really hope that the morning sickness disappears completely soon (it's hard to imagine being able to eat anything, though!). But more importantly, I am completely dependent on others to extend grace, no matter what manners or social customs I ignored. To still be my friend, even if I leave the lunchroom when they bring in their food. To still include me in their plans, even though I cancelled last minute the last time because of carsickness. To be kind enough to overlook my social transgressions.
And that's grace.
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