Survivor: Bedroom Island (Update)

Last night, I woke up at 2:30 AM. This is two hours before I normally wake up (lately I wake up before 5 AM and again at 7:30). My left side was tingling, my fingers were swollen (fluid build-up?), and my head hurt. I tried to prop up pillows and readjust myself. The movements made Tim stir. I looked at him, looked at the spooky, dark hallway, and sighed. I gathered my pillows and trudged to the sofa. The living room blinks with green lights from all the computer and electronic equipment, and that made it more creepy. I sat on the sofa, pulled a throw blanket over me, and waited to fall asleep. I eventually did, though reluctantly. I hated that I was kicked off the island without so much as a pity party in my honor.

At 6 AM, Tim wandered into the living room. He doesn't get up until 8:00 most days, so I was surprised. He looked at me sitting forlornly on the sofa and laid down beside me. He stayed there until 8:00.

Sure, I'll probably be on the sofa again tonight, but it was comforting to know that my unhappiness was noted.

Survivor: Bedroom Island

"I don't want to be kicked off the island!" I told Tim two nights ago. I repeated my sentiments again this morning when I was sure I had kept him awake all night rearranging pillows, adjusting Mr. Snoogle, and pulling sheets on and off me.

I've read in pregnancy magazines and in online articles that during the second trimester (which I'm almost done with), most MTBs find it more comfortable to sleep alone. They go to a recliner or sofa where they can sleep more upright. I understand that this is the sensible, fair way for both parties to get a good night's sleep, but ... well ... I don't want to leave Bedroom Island. I don't like to sleep alone. It will be cold, I'll probably have nightmares, someone might break into our apartment when I'm by myself, or the natives could get me! Now you see why I've been pleading with Tim, "Please, please, don't kick me off the island! I'll be good!"

Tim keeps telling me he would never kick me off the island, and he can deal with the constant moving. But, some mornings his eyes are a lil' pink, and I feel guilty because I'm sure I'm the cause. As I get rounder and surround myself with more and more pillows, I worry I'll wake up one morning and Tim will be buried alive. I know the day of my departure from Bedroom Island is impending; I can't but feel I'm fighting the inevitable. That leaves me with two options: I can wait for the Wanttogetsomeresti Tribe to become so irritated that I'm voted off the island, or, I can *gulp* leave immediately, voluntarily, and with my dignity intact. Dignity is here defined as "shuffling away, turning back multiple times with forlorn looks, and moaning until the chief of Wanttogetsomeresti feels compassion and begs me to stay."

I repeat: I don't want to be kicked off the island, so please, when you see Chief Wantogetsomeresti, offer him strong coffee, encouragement, and incense, so perhaps I won't have to pack my bags--er--pillows.

Once Upon a Time, Part 2

There's an episode of Friends where Rachel takes a pregnancy test to find out if she's pregnant. She is so distraught about the possibilities that she asks Phoebe to look and tell her what the results are. It goes something like this:

Phoebe: Umm, it’s negative.
Rachel: What?
Phoebe: It’s negative.
Rachel: Oh. Oh. Well there you go. Whew! That is—that’s great—that is really great-great news. Y’know ‘cause the whole not being ready and kinda the financial aspects, all that. Whew. Wow, this is so just the way it was supposed to be. (*starts to cry*)

Rachel continues to cry, and her friends try to comfort her.

Rachel: Thanks. This is so stupid! How could I be upset over something I never had? It’s negative?
Phoebe: No, it’s positive.
Rachel: What?!
Phoebe: It’s-it’s not negative, it’s positive.
Rachel: Are you sure?
Phoebe: Well yeah, I lied before.
Rachel: Oh!
Phoebe: Now you know how you really feel about it.
Rachel: Oh-oh, that’s a risky little game!

And so we learn that Rachel is pregnant, and she's happy about it. Which brings us back to my strenuous exercise plan ...

While trying to accelerate my workout plan, a feeling crept upon me that something was amiss. It was a whisper, and I was embarrassed to acknowledge it. I could not possibly be pregnant, and it was silly to entertain the idea any further. I tried to ignore the fact that I felt guilty. What if, I thought, I'm raising my heart rate like this, and I'm really--shh! I could not be pregnant, so silence that crazy talk!

After a day or two, the guilt overcame me. I called my doctor and said, "Can I go ahead and have blood work done? You know, to make sure that conditions are good for a pregnancy?" I was too pink-cheeked to even hint that I thought I was pregnant. I came in shortly after that and had 4 vials of blood taken for testing. Afterwards, I went to a burger joint by myself and ate lunch. I pulled out a pocket calendar and deduced my unconfirmed baby would be born around May. I hid the calendar.

My doctor called a few days later. He explained my blood work results were great: no diseases, no abnormal readings, nothing unusual--everything was great. He didn't so much as mumble the word pregnant.

"Oh," was all I could say. I told the doctor I was worried because I hadn't had a cycle, and I wanted to check if everything was OK. He explained to me that it could be 6 months before I was regular, so I shouldn't be bothered about it. I didn't tell him anything about my now ridiculous suspicions. I felt silly, actually, and I let Tim know that I had wasted our time. I said it gently, because no matter what I wanted to believe, he seemed a bit disappointed.

Over the next two weeks, my body continued to be unresponsive in the gym. I was nauseous for several moments each day, and I figured it was punishment for trying to force my body to work hard. The more I tried to beat my heart into submission, the worse I felt. My feeling of guilt returned. One Wednesday night, I asked Tim if we could stop by the grocery store. I explained to him, as casually as I could, that I would like to purchase a pregnancy test. I told him that it was a practice run, so I would "know how to do it when the time comes." Tim, good man that he is, didn't require much explanation beyond that. Part of me felt crazy for wasting more money and time on an idea that couldn't possibly be true, but I couldn't let it go.

I took the test. "This thing is broken," I told Tim after five minutes had passed. "We'll have to get another one. It's got to have a plus sign in one window and a vertical line in the other if you're pregnant, I think. Mine has this faint plus sign in one window and a horizontal line in the other. I guess that means 'minus' like negative?"

"You have a plus sign and a second line?" Tim said. "The second line only shows up if you're pregnant."

"It doesn't need to be a negative sign like 'no'?"

"No. You're pregnant."

I stared at Tim.

"This thing is broken. I'll just go to the doctor and get tested. Cheap home pregnancy test!" I did not get but an hour or two of sleep that night.

The next day I was tested. Turns out that of all the blood tests that were run on me two weeks before, none of them were pregnancy tests. I was, and had been for six weeks, pregnant. Was the medical community faulty, or am I simply a genius? Think what you will, but I must run along now; I'm completing my application to Mensa.

THE END

Once Upon a Time, Part 1

Did I ever tell you about the day I found out about Baby Dowdel?

Since college, maybe even before, I had reoccurring cysts on my ovaries. My doctors were never quite sure if I would conceive without the help of drugs or treatment. Over time, I decided adoption would be the best option for me rather than turn myself upside down. I was worried my life would become a stressful obsession with having a kid, and I didn't want that to take over my marriage.

So, around June of last year, after much spiritual searching and discussion with Tim, I went off of the hormone pills I was taking. I was scared, honestly, because these pills were the main thing keeping my cysts at bay. I thought that if a cyst grew within the first few months after I had quit the pills, that would mean absolute failure. I'd have to go back to taking them, readjust again (which had been difficult for me to do the first time), and try something new later.

A few months passed, and nothing happened. I had no signs of a natural cycle or a cyst. I began working out more aggressively, deciding that I could, at the very least, keep the rest of my body healthy. I decided to increase my speed and mileage during my runs. For a few days this went well. Then I noticed that no matter how hard I tried, I could not make myself go faster. My stomach felt strange, and I was running in an awkward way, as if I had a leg cramp. This is where things turned into an episode of Friends.

Mad

Imagine you're a writer. You consider a concept for a novel for years, and finally, one day decide you will write your book, your legacy to the world. You research how to be a good writer, and you begin your rough draft. You take advice from fellow writers, friends, and family so that your book is the best it can be. For months you hammer out your novel, all the while not realizing how committed you've become to it. You haven't slept well most nights, but guess what? An editor loves your book and wants to publish it! Your dream will be real to the world the way it is to you. The day of your book's release, you go to your local bookstore, sit in the parking lot, and wait for it to open. Friends and family wait outside with you, eager to see your creation. As painful as the writing process could be at times, at this moment, it was all worth it.

Your cell phone rings. Who could be calling you when everyone you know is in the parking lot? It's your editor. She says there's been a terrible mistake. Your book will not be sold today or any day. They were printed, bound, fully made--but, they will not be sold. From your car, you can see stacks of your books being repacked by clerks in the store.

How is this possible? No matter what your editor says, you know you made a book that was supposed to debut in the world today. "My mind, heart, and time was not spent on some imaginary book!" you rail at your editor. Regardless, your book never gets read by anyone. It never leaves the store. Later, some people even say you never really had a book. To you, though, the book was real from the first day you committed to it.

Where could I possibly be going with this?

The other day, I was was reading an article in People while I walked on the treadmill. Normally, Tim likes to edit any movies and books that may upset me as I've become slightly more sensitive lately. Alas, Tim was at work.

The article was about the 26,000 stillborn babies who are born every year (this doesn't include miscarriages and infant deaths). The mothers tried to describe what it was like delivering children who, for unknown reasons, died after being carried full-term. The idea of the crushing loss of holding a child that looks like you that will never go home with you was too much for me to understand. All of your mind, heart, and time that was dedicated to a dream is gone.

The most unacceptable part is this: the parents are handed a death certificate, but in most states, they can not receive a birth certificate. I didn't understand how this was logical, and neither did the couples in the story. One woman's experience clarified the problem. She called her local government office to get a birth certificate and was told, "You didn't have a baby. You had a fetus."

Now it was clear: couples around the nation, experiencing a deep personal loss, were not allowed the dignity they wanted because outsiders wanted to make it a political issue. The parents soon realized that the national issue of abortion and when Life begins took precedent over the personal grief that occurred in the delivery room.

I can't explain how mad I was. What people believe about abortion does not matter to a grieving couple and shouldn't even be addressed in this context. To the topic-pushers, I say this: you go too far. You're treading where no person has the right to go.

Someone once told me about pregnancy, "You become committed to the idea quickly." I didn't believe this at the time. Then I saw how the idea becomes a dream, the dream becomes a legacy, and the legacy is what you want to give to the world. When the dream is over, the least the world can do is acknowledge that this wonderful gift, this unique gift, will remain unopened.

Crazy

A local radio station has a regular segment where listeners call in, explain a habit they have or something they've done, and the DJs get to decide if the caller is probably clinically crazy or not. During the segment, they play Gnarls Barkley's song Crazy which begins, "I remember when, I remember, I remember when I lost my mind ..." The chorus says, "Does that make me crazy? Does that make me crazy? Probably."

I've been dreaming about a national park and a town square lately. My sister says as long as the town continues to develop, it's a sign I'm releasing my stress about the pregnancy. Now I'm hoping the next time I dream, the town will have a golf course and world-class resort.

Does that make me crazy?

Today, I wanted to make an omelet for lunch. I remembered we were out of all bread products, and what's an omelet without toast or biscuits? The grocery store is right across the street. I thought about the cold weather, the idea of getting dressed, waiting in line, etc. I sat for a moment. I decided it was easier to bake biscuits from scratch then spend five minutes going to the grocery store.

Does that make me crazy?

I did the dishes. I didn't realize that my dark blue T-shirt, because of my enlarged tummy, was getting wet in the process. I went to the bathroom later, and when I went to wash my hands, I looked up. I saw my reflection in the wall mirror. On my tummy was a perfect watermark of a flying baby wearing a jester's cap and juggling balls.

"Look! My baby's happy!" I thought, and smiled.

Does that make--uh, probably.

National Park

It's early, so forgive me if my grammar goes astray.

I've had women tell me (and I've read it, too) that when they were pregnant, their dreams became more intense. I've always been a dreamer (long, epic dreams or short, action-packed sequences), so most of the time I haven't noticed much of a difference. Two or three times I have had dreams that were more extreme than usual, so I have no doubt some women have dreams like those throughout their pregnancies.

I do have one, um, unexplainable, reoccurring dream that I've had for months now, which is why I'm awake now. The dream only comes once every month or two, and if this is any testament to the oddness of it (or my own blandness?), it's about a ... national park. OK, no sniggers!

Really, though. The first two times I dreamt of this park (I've dreamt of it about eight times now), I was already inside of the park. Something sinister went down (apparently a group of us were being forced to look for something), and the following dream was more of the same. After the first three or four dreams, the setup was different: I was no longer inside the park, but trying to get in. Here's where things get irritating. The first time I tried to get into the park, I took a route through a small, beat-up town. Halfway down the main road leading to the park, I woke up. The next time I dreamt of the park, the same thing happened except I noticed the town had grown, as if years had passed. When I explained my dream to a friend later I said, "Yeah, the town seems to be moving on up. They've got more restaurants, a movie theater, a Day's Inn ..." Then I realized I was talking about a piece of mental real estate.

The last two dreams were a tease. I had a map, finally, and was able to read one street name: Polo. So, of course, in my dream I headed straight to the main entrance, and again, I woke up before getting there (the town is continuing to bustle, by the way--there's even a posh new hotel). Last night, I dreamt that I had a more detailed map. I saw another street name (Ulta?), and I visited the town square where a bunch of school kids were putting on a performance about the town's history. When I woke up, I drew the town square. I can't remember most of the map, though, so that's a loss.

The only way I can comfort myself that I'm not nuts is this: clearly, this is Nature's doing. This is Nature's way of letting me know that someday my child will have a successful career of the agricultural or forestry sort, like a park ranger. Yes, park ranger. This makes sense, and I should've seen it before. Thankfully, I've already purchased several boxes of Girl Scout cookies this month, so I'm already supporting the industry.

Alien!

If you've never seen the movie Alien ('79) or any of it's oogey sequels, then it may be hard to visualize what happened to me an hour ago.

My lower back had been giving me trouble, so I decided to lay down for 30 minutes to see if I could shake it off. Well, maybe it was the fact that the room was silent or perhaps my reading selection disinterested the baby (what's not to love about Barron's Japanese Grammar?), but for whatever reason, (s)he decided to punch me. I mean, high in the stomach area, (s)he laid one on me! This is the part that made me cry out: I could SEE it. A lump went up in my shirt--a lump, people!--and I admit, I screamed like a little girl.

The cry must have temporarily shocked the baby, because nothing happened for a moment. Then, wham! Twice more! I got out of bed (forget back pain, we're talking aliens here!), and danced to the living room moaning, "Aghhhhhh!"

I grabbed the phone and called Tim.

FYI: Calling your spouse at work for an extraterrestrial sighting yields little results.

Get Your Hair Did

If there's ever a time a lass needs a new haircut, a massage, a manicure/pedicure, new clothes, moisturizer that will break the bank, pricey makeup, and all things flashy, it's when she's expecting. The truth is, while an MTB is widening around her equator, it can be hard for her to feel good about herself. An extra "woe" for those women who are pregnant in the dead of summer when having extra poundage feels unforgivable.

So let me make this clear: MTBs, this is not the time to wear horrid hand-me-downs (unless they come from a fashion-friendly woman) and low-price lipstick. I'm not saying to blow your life savings at upscale pregnancy boutiques, I'm saying it's OK to splurge on a few items that will help you feel good.

Before I get complaint emails: yes, I realize this is all very superficial, but no matter how you cut it, it's a reality that MTBs--blame hormones, if you want--can feel down about their bodies. How would you feel if your feet swelled, your pants wouldn't fit, your skin freaked out like a 13-year-old's, varicose veins popped out of nowhere, your back hurt, you slept uncomfortably every night, a vertical line appeared on your belly, parts of you were sore for no reason ... *pant, pant* ... your head hurt, you couldn't take strong medicine when you needed to, your hands swelled--OK, this is turning ugly, so I'll stop; but, you get the idea.

The point is, good makeup and a new outfit can make MTBs feel temporarily better about a temporary problem. So, go ahead and encourage them to splurge now and then!

If anyone knows my husband, feel free to forward this to him ... several times. If possible, do not disclose your source. Better yet, tell him you read it in a mental health magazine, like the Journal of American Pregnant Society Something or Other (any good abbreviation will do).

Changes

Tupac summed up pregnancy nicely, don't you know?
That's just the way it is
Things'll never be the same
That's just the way it is
No, I'm not going to get 'Thug Life' tattooed on my belly (it would have to be pretty large lettering, now that I think about it *humph*), but when the man's right, he's right.

The hardest thing for me to deal with is the fact that, because of Baby Dowdel, my marriage relationship is changing even now. Tim & I are two trying to make room for three, and that's a tight squeeze sometimes. We have a great marriage and are happy, so change makes me suspicious.

Last night, I had a breakdown. Part of it was her-mones and part of it was just ... blindly fighting to hold on to something that has to change. I wanted Tim to know that I'm still me, not just a baby holder. I don't want to be 'Mom' only. I have to have room to be other things, too, but at that moment I was specifically mourning wife-ness. I started imagining all the ways our marriage would become routine or resentful as all our focus went to the baby. I thought about how our relationship would never get any attention or effort anymore.

Tim, poor thing, did his best to assure me of my present and future value and importance. I was reasonable and didn't ask for a notarized contract of said assurances. In fact, I felt better just getting it all out. Two tissues and a head patting later, I was fast asleep.

Point is, things'll never be the same, but that doesn't mean they have to go bad. I'm writing that more to myself.

Tax Deduction: Part II

(from Monday, January 15, 2007: "Tax Deduction")

This will be the last time I'll address this issue, lest bitterness o'er take me.

Yesterday I finished our taxes. First, let me be the first to say that some of the government's rules are so complicated (after you read the line instructions, you get sent to a table, only to be sent to a dreaded Publication), that you really do need a tax advisor to sort it out, especially if you have a home office. But since I refused to pay a fee to a guy who only shows up in the world seasonally, I did all the figurin' myself.

As expected, the results were disheartening. Why, oh why, won't they give me a pre-deduction for Baby Dowdel? I've got a sonogram picture, what more do they need?

So, I shall end with this lingering question: what does a refund feel like? Is it warm and fuzzy, like I imagine it is? Does it snuggle up with you at night as you dream of ways to spend it? Do you whisper sweet nothings to it?

*sigh*

Ever Seen Chimps Shop?

If you weren't at Babies R Us last Saturday, you missed your opportunity; that's when Tim & I registered for baby gear. I could list twenty things that made registering like pulling my eyelashes out, but here are five of the most egregious:

1. Why are there 2,000 kinds of nipples for bottles? It's like comparing eggs with eggs: some are brown, some are not; some are small, some are big; but, in the end, they all look like--no surprise--eggs. This is one of the first things on our registry, and after a few minutes Tim was already saying, "Just pick one! Any one!"

2. The list that the store hands you (the items it deems 'necessary' for your registry) looks like inventory for a battalion of babies. I understand they're trying to make a buck, but it did make me wonder how much of this stuff the baby actually needed. I mean, women have babies out in the bush, and I doubt they spend time choosing mobiles for cribs! So, I pulled out a list Consumer Reports created about what it considers necessary and cross-referenced our first list. Um, CR's list would be considered abusive, if not Spartan, to the Babies R Us crowd. I did my best to balance the two lists out, which is why I ended up thinking things like, "Sure, the baby needs a 3-piece furniture set in cherry, but diapers ... seem a bit much."

3. To the Baby Stores of America: don't lie to us. Registering is not a job for MTBs and FTBs. Stores should put a label on the scanner gun they give you: "Not for use by couples. Mom required." After shopping for basic baby items (only the first section on the list), Tim said, "We've already been here AN HOUR." I could tell his patience had run out after comparing diaper pails. Tim is one of the most patient people I know, but put him in a situation where his technical, design, photography, and computer skills are not required, and well, his discomfort level goes up while his patience level goes down. Don't get me wrong, I was irritated, too, mainly because I don't like feeling like a chimp. I took my mom the following day to help me with the list, and we got through twice as much in about the same time as Tim & I did on our own. Overall, I think it would work best if a couple picked out the large items together, and after that, brought in their moms on different days. But who needs that kind of sanity?

4. If you aren't 100% sure what the sex of your baby is, there is one upside: you will finally know the answer to the question psychologists have asked for years: "Why do girls and boys seem to gravitate towards gender-specific toys and colors?" Answer: because parents have no choice but to buy pink doily-embellished dresses that say "Daddy's Princess" or blue overalls, decked out in trucks, that say, "Thank Heaven for Little Boys." Snore! We found only a small section of clothes that weren't gender-specific, and of those, the color was almost always yellow (what's wrong with green, orange, and purple?). I'll have to hit up the online stores now, though they tend to be pricey.

5. I hope that someday Toyota or some consumer-conscious car company will get in the business of strollers. That way we can all get one or two types that you can put together any way you want like you would a car (color, features, sweet alloy wheels, ABS?) and not have to hassle with finding the one stroller (out of one million) that meets your specific needs. Think of the possibilities!

... Although ... it wouldn't be long before some ghetto stroller pulled up next to mine with hydraulics and a stereo system, huh?

Parenting Poetry

Today I had (another) doctor's appointment.
(*Ahem*)

THE COY DOCTOR
There once was a doctor so coy
Who couldn't decide girl or boy,
Upon hearing its heart,
He resolved to impart,
"Tina's a good name ... but so's Troy."

M & M

I'm like a peanut M&M: hardcore on the outside, but inside ... mostly hardcore.

Today was my last day teaching at a preschool program. Even though I did a lot of the usual things today (took the same kids back to their chairs for the 6th time in a row, wiped up drink spills on the floor, and changed the kind of fuming diapers that contribute more to global warming in an hour than factories in China can), we had a party for me.

One little boy handed me a gift and hugged me goodbye. This particular kid enrolled in our class shortly after I became an instructor. When he first came, he didn't like to share, so after a few weeks, the other kids wouldn't play with him. He was a big kid, so even when he tried to play with others, he'd end up hurting them instead. He often spoke louder than necessary, was aggressive from time to time, and made noises while the other kids listened during lessons.

Over time, he calmed down. He listened more and played with all the new students. He is now one of the friendliest, sweetest boys in our class. When I stood on a chair once to hang up artwork, he said, "Oh, be careful!" with the most honest concern. It gave me hope that somehow, someway, I might be able to raise a child without a criminal history.

Today, I hugged this little boy goodbye. Inside his gift bag, I found toys and a bib for my baby. Recently, we'd practiced writing this kid's name, so when he gave me his gift, I was pleased to see he had shakily, but carefully, written his name on the tag.

Below that was written, "I love you."

The M&M cracked just a bit.