God has a sick sense of humor

Ask any pregnant woman and she'll tell you that when you are pregnant you are gassy. I'm not talking you just ate Taco Bell gassy, I'm talking you just ate an entire plate of beans and onions smothered in chili gassy. It's horrible. Unfortunate as it may be, it's something that as the pregnancy continues, you learn to deal with. You find creative ways to cover the smell and the sound so that people within your fog range won't know it's you. I've also found that I've developed an excellent poker face. Ninety percent of the time the husband can't figure out if it was me, the dog or another random noise.

However, recently the husband has launched a "lifestyle change" initiative that has him quitting smoking and eating healthier. Normally this would be wonderful, except we have learned that when you mix the husband with green leafy vegetables the bi-product is the most foul, gag yourself gas I've ever smelled. It's worse than my pregnancy gas. I literally need a gas mask just to sleep next to him at night. Apparently the husband not only is gaining sympathy weight, he's also getting sympathy gas. God help our pets.

Still catching up

Talk to many mom's and they'll tell you one of the best things about being pregnant is feeling their little one move and squirm inside them. They love the feeling and love that it is a shared moment just between them. I also enjoy the movements, sometimes they tickle and make me smile, other times it feels like he's spread-eagle and rearranging my internal organs. However, by all accounts it is simply awe inspiring. Lucy the cat however, is completely terrified.

Lucy is my extremely affectionate stray that I took in over a year ago. Her hobbies include, terrorizing Fred the basset, making Riley the abnormally large tabby jealous and scaling large pieces of furniture in a single bound. Her favorite past time is curling up on my belly and taking a "cat nap". This has become increasingly difficult in recent months as my belly has increased in size forcing her to take her naps half on half off my belly. However, after a couple of weeks ago, she avoids my belly like the plague.

We were both comfy cozy snuggling on the couch watching whatever nerd show annoyed the husband the most, when Tyler began his usual 6:30pm acrobatic session. However, instead of it being a shared moment between just he and I, he apparently enjoyed Lucy's incessant purring that vibrated my belly, and began thumping and poking in response. The movement startled her so much that she jumped up, backed into a corner of the couch and twitched her tail feverishly. For a split moment I pictured her pouncing with claws extended confusing Tyler's movements with a mouse, but thankfully she spared me that pain and simply chose to nap on my feet instead.

Since this occurrence she has not returned to her nap spot perched atop my belly, and perhaps she never will. However, just wait till Tyler gets here and he grabs her tail with a sticky hand. Should be tons of fun!

And the saga continues...

I am constantly dumbfounded by the bodily changes that I incur each day. But the winner by a landslide has to be my new crop of body hairs that have sprouted on my belly. Where once I just had a small patch of light blondish hair just below my navel has morphed into all out peach fuzz. I stare at myself in utter amazement. Good Lord, I'm a hairy beast! Do I need to shave? I have a five o'clock shadow on this beach ball of a belly! Oh, please god don't let the husband noticed, he'd laugh for hours over this!

As if the husband doesn't find my little nuances funny enough. His favorite past time has got to be watching me attempt to put my shoes on any time we go anywhere.

In order to leave on time, I have to ensure I'm fully dressed a good 10 mins before just to allow enough time to put my shoes on. The process is very overwhelming and exhausting. Socks are somewhat ok, because they've got some stretch to them. So once I get my big toe in I can usually wiggle my foot around until it's on. However, getting the shoe on it much more difficult. I prefer to wear my tennis shoes because they are supremely more comfortable than anything else I have in my closet, and flip flops in 30 degree weather would have me looking like a complete moron. Not to mention require me to actually reach my toes to paint them. So after about 5 minutes of strange looking yoga moves in a feeble attempt to put the shoe on, the husband usually resorts to having to help. We keep saying we'll buy slip on tennies when I get further along, however they have yet to miraculously appear in my closet.

The emotional upheaval that I experience regularly has the husband wondering if aliens have kidnapped his wife. The books warn about weepiness and depressed mood swings, so he is "somewhat" prepared for when I have one of my weekly emotional breakdowns. I use the term somewhat loosely because I never cease to amaze him with what will reduce me to a blubbering mess in 10 seconds flat. But what they don't warn the husbands about is the sheer panic feelings that launch a sneak attack on me.

I'm a planner by nature, I'm also a worrier by nature. These two traits combined with an increase in hormones equals constant nagging of the husband to complete the nursery and other honey-do items on my completely unrealistic time table. Which, when said work isn't completed results in one of two things: tears or yelling. Neither of which is a favorite around our house.

Better late than never

So it has been pointed out to me that I am severely lacking in my blogging. Uhm...perhaps :)

What do you mean you noticed I hadn't posted anything since Nov 29th??? (nervous giggle)

So to get this train back on track, over then next couple posts, I'll attempt to recap the past two months. Imagine this literary montage set to music with fade in and outs with lots of canned laughter. Action!

We'll kick this recap off with my 3hr $1200 stay in L&D (labor and delivery for you non-preggos) in early December. When what I thought was just really bad gas built up from my inability to fart, turned into severe cramping/nausea the husband panicked, called the doctor, rushed me to the hospital, only to find out waiting in the hospital is extremely boring. Especially after a diagnosed UTI and several good drugs knocked me out for 3hrs. Have no fear though, he kept himself busy wandering aimlessly the halls of L&D poking his head into other peoples occupied rooms only to respond, "Don't worry, I'm just picking out our room". To which he did of course and promptly wheeled me down the hall to present it as if it were an undiscovered treasure. Some days he's just too cute.

A week later it was the day of the BIG ultrasound. I really don't think the husband slept the night before. And despite the fact that my UTI was still giving me horrible nausea, we heard the doctor say:
"I think it's a boy..."
His eyes lit up, and he was almost giddy. I, on the other hand, was trying desperatly not to puke all over my doctor as she tried to get me to lay still and get a few good pictures. On the way home, I'm pretty sure he'd called everyone in the yellow pages to announce that it was a boy. He was one proud papa.

We were floating on cloud nine for about a week, when the rash started. It was red, bumpy, itchy and it was spreading. Yes, it could have had a debut in it's own horror film.

"Just when you thought it was safe to go without a shirt...."
"It's the RASH!!" (screaming pedestrians, run fleeing from my sight)

It just kept spreading. After several hours on Web-md and convincing myself of the fact that I was dying from something similar to west Nile virus, I called the doctor.

"Yes come in we'd better take a look at you."

Imagine my surprised to see the puzzled look on her face.

"I don't know what that is, better go see a dermatologist. "

Enter in doctor #2,

"Uhm, not quite sure, why don't you come back tomorrow, lets see if it spreads"

Thump, thump, thump. Hello in there, didn't you hear me, I already told you it's spreading. No use, so I reluctantly returned a second day in a row only to continue to puzzle her.

"I think it's shingles" she remarks with a hint of doubt in her voice.

Which led her to take a biopsy, stitch me up, tell me to stay away from old people, children who hadn't had chicken pox and pregnant women and sent me on my merry way. Uhm, ok...what about the fact that I'M PREGNANT?!? Hello???

"Oh you'll be just fine" she smiles and says.

So, two days before Christmas eve, and I'm quarantined. (sound of jail bars slamming shut) No Christmas ham and cookies for me.

So I resort to the only thing I can think of. I make my own Christmas cookies. I invite my BFF over on a Friday night and we keep ourselves up until 1am making 16 dozen evil Christmas cookies. I call them evil because at the time I did not know that they would bring about the demise of my modest weight gain.

"Damn you frosted snowman cutouts! Why must you taste so soft and creamy, why do you beckon me from the kitchen, taunt me with your sprinkles and your waving hand. As if almost to say, I love you, come eat me!"

And I realize the full weight of my actions at my January appointment. The nurse calmly guides me to step on the scale. I was prepared to have gained some weight. It was obvious to everyone around me, my belly was HUGE! But I wasn't prepared for the big fat number it put up on the digital screen. I nearly fell off the scale.

"Uhm, looks like we gained 7lbs." I rolled my eyes and dared her to laugh.

"Not what you wanted to see, huh?" Look lady does it look like I'm happy about 7 freaking pounds!! And of course my doctor had to pound the final nail in the coffin when she looked at my chart, looked at me and asked:

"Do you think this is right, seems a bit much. Oh well, I guess we did just come off the holidays"

Light bulb

"Ya those stupid Christmas cookies did me in" I joked back.

Stay tuned tomorrow to find out what else goes wrong in the second trimester