Bumps, Bruises and Blood: Am I Ready For a Boy?

There is a reason why I pursued a Public Relation degree in college and not a Nursing degree like so many of my besties. And no, it's not because I liked to hear myself talk in the Public Speaking classes : ) It's because I have a major aversion to blood and bloody events. I mean, does anyone really LIKE dealing with blood? Yes - my nurse friends. But Daniel informed me the other day that I better start getting used to it because raising a boy will be a lot more bloody than raising a girl. Here's what happened:

Daniel recently took up mountain biking as part of his fitness and weight loss kick. NOTE: Does anyone else see the irony in timing? He decides to get fit just as his wife (me) gains weight like a bear preparing for hibernation while prego? I informed him I'm still keeping chocolate and ice cream in the house - a prego has got to stand her ground on some things, ya know? : ) Anyway... so the other day he comes home with a huge gash in his leg. And by huge, I mean I wanted to vomit at the sight of it. This was no little scratch. There was blood. There was openness. There was flapping skin. And worst of all - I could see layers of flesh that no one other than a surgeon is supposed to see. It was sooooo disgusting. VOMIT! My first reaction was of course - go to Urgent Care for stitches immediately! Mainly because there was no way I was about to touch that gaping hole in his leg. But he insisted it wasn't "as bad as it looked" and I just needed to clean it out and put gauze on it. I wasn't buying his story so we sent a few pics of the wound to Nurse Jill in Philadelphia to assess. She had me measure it - length and DEPTH!! VOMIT TWICE! And the consensus was that it really didn't need stitches - but I did need to clean it out and pack it with gauze. So, as the Wife of the Year that I am, I put on my big girl panties and dealt with it. And by "big girl panties" all you pregos know that I'm talking about those humungous underwear that stretch OVER my belly and have leg holes big enough to fit my ever expanding thighs. Pretty, huh?

And just when I was finishing up, Daniel sprung this on me: "This used to happen at least once a week when I was growing up. You'll become a pro once Lil D is about 3 or 4." And my thoughts? Ummmm.. not MY son! But then he reminded me that I have always dreamed of being a Football Mommy (true!) and so injuries were inevitable - unless I was hoping Lil D would become the team water boy (no!). He then proceeded to show me scars from his childhood encounters with everything from a baseball bat, to the pedal of a bike, to the time he crashed through the roof of a golf cart (don't ask...). And as strange as it sounds, that was really the first time I realized that raising a boy was going to be MUCH different than raising my little southern belle, Miss Paige. I grew up with a sister. I wasn't t tomboy by any stretch of the imagination. The biggest "wound" I received was when I cut my thumb trying to make a stage for a Barbie Fashion Show after watching the Miss Teen USA Pageant. Having a little boy is really going to rock my world - so I plan to spend these next 9 weeks or so wrapping my mind around this concept... and probably stocking up on First Aid materials. God help us all!

So About Those Pains... My Foray into Pre-Term Labor

So those va-jay-jay pains I was having last week? The ones I self-diagnosed with the help of Google as ligament pains as my body prepared for labor? Well - I was preparing for labor all right... but at 29 weeks,  labor is not ideal to say the least.

Luckily Lil D is still where he belongs at just 29 weeks along - inside my belly - growing, developing and thriving.

However, I was scared that wasn't going to be the case. Here's what happened...

Wednesday night/Thursday at midnight: I was having trouble sleeping, as usual. I headed down to the couch so I could toss and turn without waking up my snoozing hubby. At about midnight, I started to feel major Braxton Hicks contractions - so intense they began making me nauseous. I don't remember feeling anything like that with Paige, but I figured it was nothing serious since they weren't coming regularly. The contractions kept coming - each time squeezing the bottom part of my belly/uterus so tight that I would start to dry heave. I even vomited a few times. And Lil D was not enjoying any part of it. After each contraction, he would go crazy - kicking and punching and letting his frustrations be known. At around 5 a.m. (still not having fallen asleep) I realized the contractions were becoming somewhat regular. So I pulled out my trusty iPhone to time how close they were coming - ends up, between 5 a.m. and 6 a.m., they were coming 4 minutes apart. YIKES! However - they weren't what I always thought contractions would be like. No pain, per se. Just crampy-like tightening and uncomfortable.

So I went upstairs to wake up Daniel and let him know there was def something going on and put him on alert. I ended up dosing off for an hour or two. Miss Paige had her 15 month well visit scheduled for that morning, so Daniel prepped her for that and off they went. I called my OB/GYN to let them know what was going on and see what they thought I should do. They advised me to get in a warm bathtub and, while soaking, guzzle three bottles of water. I sat in the tub for an hour, guzzled the water, but with no luck - the contractions were still coming 4 minutes apart (at this point, it is 10:00 a.m.). Ay yi yi.

Over the next two hours, I hemmed and hawed over calling the doctor back. I didn't want to be the crazy prego who cried wolf. I rationalized that it was just Braxton Hicks contractions, and they would go away on their own. But at the urging of Daniel and my Facebook friends, I called and they told me to come right in for a check up. As soon as I arrived at the doctor's office, they ushered me back and hooked me up to the monitors - fetal heartbeat and uterine contractions. Just as I suspected, the contractions weren't showing ont he monitor. However, the nurses - and then doctor - could feel them happening by putting their hands on my belly. They actually couldn't believe I wasn't in pain. So the doctor gave me a pelvic exam. And jsut when I thought she was going to say I needed to go home and rest and increase my fluids, she said, "You need to go to the hospital right now. The contractions are making your cervix thin out." WHAT?!?!? My cervix is thinning?! That didn't even happen when we TRIED to get labor started with pitocin last time with Paige at 39 and a half weeks. So off I went to the hospital (can we say de ja vu of last time??).

To make a long story short, they continued to monitor the contractions and were able to get them to slow down, and then stop completely by midnight. Luckily, no drugs were needed - just three IV bags of fluid and laying flat on my back. And, the other good news - my cervix stayed sealed shut. So although it started to soften and thin out a bit, there was no dilation of the cervix. HALLELUJAH! Plus, they said there was no medical reason they could find as to why my contractions started. Basically, they chalked it up to overdoing it in the days/weeks before (i.e. my excursion to IKEA plus 5 mile walk), exhaustion (from not sleeping at night) and dehydration (probably from the vomiting).

So what's next for me and Lil D? Rest. Lots of rest. Plus lots of fluids. And hopefully another 10 weeks of pregnancy before he makes his big arrival. Another day, another situation... And people wonder why we're stopping after two babies? THIS is why! : )

Prego or Fat?: The Eternal Question of a Mama-To-Be

There comes a time in every mama's pregnancy when she starts to get bloated around the middle. And then that puffiness turns into a potbelly, and only around 5-6 months along does it become obvious that you are prego with a serious basketball glued to your belly, instead of just fat. But during the in between time of flat belly and basketball, most pregos choose their clothing options very carefully. For me, I would wear clothes that made it obvious I was prego - empire waists, ruched sides. However, I've seen pregos that also go the opposite route, wearing clothes that are loose and flowy because they think they don't look "prego enough" and don't want people to think they are just packing on the pounds. Every time before we go out, I turn to the side and ask my husband: "So do I look fat or prego?" He's smart enough to reply "prego" with the quickness as not to appear to be thinking about his response at all.

The same goes for when you aren't prego anymore... God forbid some fool asks if you are expecting when you definitely are not. As soon as Miss Paige popped out, the Spanx came out in full effect, along with belted tops and anything to define my waist again. I did not want anyone thinking I was still prego in any way shape or form.

Which brings me to a moment in time I try not to think about... the time when someone asked me when I was due (as in when my baby was due) when I was not prego. GASP! At the time I wasn't too devastated - mainly because of the circumstances surrounding the question - but it scarred me enough to make sure the delineation of Prego/Not Prego is clearly defined by my wardrobe.

Let me take you back - way back - to 2007. I was a spry 23 year old, planning a carefree vacay in Vegas with my boyfriend (now husband). If you remember back to 2007, the big trend in fashion was empire-waist shirts and dresses for everyone. And, being 23 and trendy, I had to jump on the empire-waist bandwagon. One fateful day before we headed out to Vegas, Daniel and I popped into Old Navy to pick up a few new outfits for our trip (obviously before mortgage payments, car payments and a baby to clothe and feed). I distinctly remember the moment when I picked up an adorable gray dress that I just had to have - empire-waist of course. I also clearly remember Daniel saying that he thought it was nice, but kind of looked like something a pregnant woman would wear... to which I said, "WHATEVER!" and went straight to the register. Fast forward one week... we're in Vegas, at the Blackjack table. I'm in my gray dress, sipping a Screwdriver or Mimosa or something that could easily be mistaken for straight orange juice. After a while, we became friendly with the dealer, and began chatting. After a few minutes of casual conversation, Mr. Blackjack looked at me and said, "So when are you due?" It was like a record screeched, as I stared back at him, in shock. He immediately knew he had made a mistake, and began stammering, "I am sooo sorry... your dress... it looks like something my wife had when she was pregnant... and you were drinking orange juice... and....and..." Daniel and I burst out laughing. I honestly wasn't upset or embarrassed at all - probably because I knew my stomach was flat, I was at a thin point in my life, and I would have assumed the same thing if I were him. The dress was indeed super-maternity looking. And what brings up this memory today? I am wearing the dress - while 7 months prego. Ends up it really is the perfect maternity dress, after all : )

Me, in Vegas, wearing the infamous gray dress. Note my look of fear/disgust in having to pose in front of Star Trek characters.