Good-bye, jeans. You've served me well these past few years. I know I haven't spent much time with you since last spring, but please know that I miss you, and I always loved you. I miss your casualness and comfort. I miss your buttons and zippers. I miss rolling out of bed on a weekend (or messy project day), throwing you on with a long-sleeved T or sweater and sneakers, checking out my non-tank sized butt, and starting my day. You made me look and feel good. My heart is truly cracking for the time we could have spent together and the time we'll never have. I'm sorry I never truly apprecaited you. Please know that if we are ever reunited (either in this life or the next), I will give you the love and attention you deserve.
Good-bye shirts and sweaters that don't say "Maternity" on the tag. Every time I put one of you on, I know it's the last time. My eyes blur as I write this just thinking of a year (at least) without my striped rugbys, jcrew button-ups, and solid colored polos that made my decently sized and shaped boobs look great. I looked forward to the time we'd spend together, and I'd plan all the different pants and skirts I could wear with you. You could make any outfit casual or dressy, depending on the bottoms I put you with. Please forgive me for not utilizing you as much as I could have.
Good-bye dry clean only clothes. Please forgive my neglect in not taking you to the cleaners when I should have. You truly brightened my wardrobe, and it crushes my spirit to know we will not be reunited any time soon.
I will always love all of you-my dark jeans and black and white striped stretchy sleeveless shirt I wore on my 3rd date with Husband, my jean skirt and Bronx T I wore on our first date, the striped pants from the Ann Taylor outlet in Williamsburg, the long-sleeved rugbys I bought at the outlets when I should have been attending a conference. You've left me with memories and credit card bills to last the rest of my life, and I thank you for that.
21 October 2006
01 October 2006
Fat Clothes
Yesterday, Husband and I did something scary. We went to the mall, frightening in itself, but then, we went to a store that specifically sells clothes for girls who've managed to get themselves in the family way. I think I would have felt more comfortable had we been on safari and ravenous, ravenous rhinos were charging our jeep. I was relieved when we entered the store and Husband was not the only man-person in there. Another couple, who looked to be our age, and VERY Catholic were also in the store. This poor, domesticated husband was not only forced to go to a store of this nature, but he was also forced (chose?) to go into the dressing room with his wife. After they picked out a few clothes, she stayed in the dressing room, instructing him on which clothes to bring her next. But this is about my adventure, not anonomyous Catholic couple's adventure. I started lightly flipping out when Husband and I went into the store, and he told me to stop being silly and why was I flipping out. He'd just heard my treatise on why I didn't want to go into the store (I think it's totally normal to worry about jinxing things, but apparently the rest of the world doesn't share this view), so I understood why patience might have been a little thin. I picked out a pair of pants and carried them around, dragging my feet and pouting. Husband, always a good sport, then started picking out clothes for me. It went something like this.
Husband: Do you like this shirt/pants/sweater?
Me: Yes.
Husband: Here. (Thrusts item of clothing at me)
Repeat. Several times.
When I had four or five items, I attempted to find a dressing room. The first one was occupied by the other couple. Honestly, had they not already procreated (and been wearing a sweatshirt proclaiming devotion to Mary), I would have assumed that that's why both halves of the couple were in the dressing room. I passed on the other four because they each had a massive, massive bra in them. When I realized that all of the dressing rooms had bras with enough padding that I could have comfortably napped on them in the dressing room, I chose one and started trying on. Pants and skirts in this store all come with a fourteen inch elastic panel where a zipper and button should be. Being unsure what to do with said panel that reaches to my boobs, I folded it down a few times and went to show Husband my outfit. He approved and handed me several other items of clothing.
While modeling one particular sweater/pants combo, the lone employee at the store happened to notice me. She informed me that the size I was wearing was too small (it felt okay to me), that I needed a medium (I was already wearing a medium), and she'd be happy to go get me one. I nodded and smiled, and while she aquired the proper size, she explained the bras in the dressing room. They're not bras. They're "3 month pillows." 3 month pillows are egg shaped pillows with a velcro strap attached on both sides so a person can strap the pillow to her stomach and see what she'll look like three months later. In three months, I will look like I have an egg shaped tumor growing out of my pregnant stomach.
Despite my impending tumor, I found that fat-girl clothes are actually quite comfortable, and will happily recommend them to all my friends, knocked up or not.
Husband: Do you like this shirt/pants/sweater?
Me: Yes.
Husband: Here. (Thrusts item of clothing at me)
Repeat. Several times.
When I had four or five items, I attempted to find a dressing room. The first one was occupied by the other couple. Honestly, had they not already procreated (and been wearing a sweatshirt proclaiming devotion to Mary), I would have assumed that that's why both halves of the couple were in the dressing room. I passed on the other four because they each had a massive, massive bra in them. When I realized that all of the dressing rooms had bras with enough padding that I could have comfortably napped on them in the dressing room, I chose one and started trying on. Pants and skirts in this store all come with a fourteen inch elastic panel where a zipper and button should be. Being unsure what to do with said panel that reaches to my boobs, I folded it down a few times and went to show Husband my outfit. He approved and handed me several other items of clothing.
While modeling one particular sweater/pants combo, the lone employee at the store happened to notice me. She informed me that the size I was wearing was too small (it felt okay to me), that I needed a medium (I was already wearing a medium), and she'd be happy to go get me one. I nodded and smiled, and while she aquired the proper size, she explained the bras in the dressing room. They're not bras. They're "3 month pillows." 3 month pillows are egg shaped pillows with a velcro strap attached on both sides so a person can strap the pillow to her stomach and see what she'll look like three months later. In three months, I will look like I have an egg shaped tumor growing out of my pregnant stomach.
Despite my impending tumor, I found that fat-girl clothes are actually quite comfortable, and will happily recommend them to all my friends, knocked up or not.
14 September 2006
Rocky's First Pictures
Well, here's Rocky's first photo. It's thirteen weeks old now. I'm still sick, but I have managed to make it off the couch. I've kind of been forced to get off the couch. School started a few weeks ago. I have twenty-three second graders to keep me busy; unfortunately I'm still nauseous most of the time, so I worry that I'm not giving them what they need.
I had my ultra-sound yesterday, hence the picture. The doctor said Rocky is progressing normally, but there's a slightly elevated risk of Down's Syndrome. They drew some blood and will call with the results next week. I'm not too worried, as long as I keep myself distracted. I couldn't stop looking at it while it was up on the screen. I could see the hands and feet and the spine and brain and stomach. It was more exciting than I expected. We got to keep some of the pictures, and whenever I had free time today, I looked at them. And I was finally able to tell most people. It's a relief being able to talk about it freely and not feel guilty for telling people.
Everyone seems to want to give me advice. Sometimes I want it; sometimes I still feel a little overwhelmed.
14 August 2006
Couch again
I've realized that as far as couches go, mine really isn't too bad. I bitch and moan about it a lot, but it's served me well these last three weeks. Sure, it smells like cat pee and has stains on it from the last 15+ years, but I can nap on it, eat on it, use my computer on it, and watch House on it.
I proudly admit that I am a House fan. I was skeptical at first. Really skeptical. Skeptical to the point where a commercial would come on and I'd mockingly yell, "He's going to die, damnit!" I got into it even before we found out about The Thing. When you don't have cable and a show has been put on a rotation similar to American Idol's, it's hard to miss. Since we were watching it two or three nights a week earlier in the summer, Husband bought me the first season as an early birthday present. Go Husband! In less than a week we've plowed through the first season and have already planned how we're going to finance the second season. What amazes me is how a show that has the same plot each week can continue to be compelling. Each episode follows a similar path: House is forced into taking a case, or forces a case upon himself because he finds something interesting about it. He berates his team into making a swift diagnosis, tells them the proper treatment for the condition and confidently predicts that the patient will be walking out of the hospital in a matter of hours (even if the patient's legs have been amputated). Treatment ends up making the patient worse, so House and his team confer once again, usually with some sarcastic banter included. They arrive on an alternate diagnosis, begin treatment, and the patient usually improves. Suddenly, something goes terribly wrong (usually indicated by rectal bleeding), and the patient's condition drastically worsens. House has his team break into the patient's bag/house/place of employment to find any possible cause of this elusive condition. After the break-in either yields no results or the wrong results, House has an epiphany, usually while watching television or treating another patient, gets his team back together, and grandly proclaims the proper diagnosis and treatment for this patient. Or else he runs (as fast as his can will allow him) to the patient's room, offends the visiting friend/family member/employee/homosexual partner, and
dramatically treats the patient usually by injecting something or unhooking something. The dramatic measure works, the patient is cured, and while not thrilled with House's attitude, the friend/family member/employee/homeoexual partner is so relieved that their friend/family member/employer/homosexual partner is cured that they weep with joy. Cut to House, in his office, sarcastically berating one of his team members, friend, or boss who is trying to reason with him. Or else, we leave the episode with House, alone in his office, listening to music and popping Vicidan. All in all, and enjoyable way to spend 43 minutes with the DVD player. Still not sure why it's good, but it is.
Rocky is still making me feel terrible. It's nauseating to do a crossword puzzle on the computer or read anything intellectually challenging. I am only drinking 24 oz of water each day, when I know I should be drinking a minimum of 64 oz. It's things like this that make me worry.
I proudly admit that I am a House fan. I was skeptical at first. Really skeptical. Skeptical to the point where a commercial would come on and I'd mockingly yell, "He's going to die, damnit!" I got into it even before we found out about The Thing. When you don't have cable and a show has been put on a rotation similar to American Idol's, it's hard to miss. Since we were watching it two or three nights a week earlier in the summer, Husband bought me the first season as an early birthday present. Go Husband! In less than a week we've plowed through the first season and have already planned how we're going to finance the second season. What amazes me is how a show that has the same plot each week can continue to be compelling. Each episode follows a similar path: House is forced into taking a case, or forces a case upon himself because he finds something interesting about it. He berates his team into making a swift diagnosis, tells them the proper treatment for the condition and confidently predicts that the patient will be walking out of the hospital in a matter of hours (even if the patient's legs have been amputated). Treatment ends up making the patient worse, so House and his team confer once again, usually with some sarcastic banter included. They arrive on an alternate diagnosis, begin treatment, and the patient usually improves. Suddenly, something goes terribly wrong (usually indicated by rectal bleeding), and the patient's condition drastically worsens. House has his team break into the patient's bag/house/place of employment to find any possible cause of this elusive condition. After the break-in either yields no results or the wrong results, House has an epiphany, usually while watching television or treating another patient, gets his team back together, and grandly proclaims the proper diagnosis and treatment for this patient. Or else he runs (as fast as his can will allow him) to the patient's room, offends the visiting friend/family member/employee/homosexual partner, and
dramatically treats the patient usually by injecting something or unhooking something. The dramatic measure works, the patient is cured, and while not thrilled with House's attitude, the friend/family member/employee/homeoexual partner is so relieved that their friend/family member/employer/homosexual partner is cured that they weep with joy. Cut to House, in his office, sarcastically berating one of his team members, friend, or boss who is trying to reason with him. Or else, we leave the episode with House, alone in his office, listening to music and popping Vicidan. All in all, and enjoyable way to spend 43 minutes with the DVD player. Still not sure why it's good, but it is.
Rocky is still making me feel terrible. It's nauseating to do a crossword puzzle on the computer or read anything intellectually challenging. I am only drinking 24 oz of water each day, when I know I should be drinking a minimum of 64 oz. It's things like this that make me worry.
02 August 2006
Observations from the couch
1. The house doesn't magically clean itself.
2. Despite getting rid of the cats, the house still smells like pee.
3. There's nothing on TV in the middle of the day if you don't have cable.
4. Being on the internet, reading, doing crossword puzzles makes me nauseous.
5. Crossword puzzles tend to repeat clues over and over and over again. For example, I now know there's a type of cheese called edam. Sadly, it's probably on the list of things I can't eat right now.
6. I'm waiting on a cheeseburger to arrive at my house (courtsey of Husband and Five Guys), and I'm starting to think that's a REALLY bad idea...
7. House is a really good TV show
2. Despite getting rid of the cats, the house still smells like pee.
3. There's nothing on TV in the middle of the day if you don't have cable.
4. Being on the internet, reading, doing crossword puzzles makes me nauseous.
5. Crossword puzzles tend to repeat clues over and over and over again. For example, I now know there's a type of cheese called edam. Sadly, it's probably on the list of things I can't eat right now.
6. I'm waiting on a cheeseburger to arrive at my house (courtsey of Husband and Five Guys), and I'm starting to think that's a REALLY bad idea...
7. House is a really good TV show
It's my nth day on the couch...
I've lost count of how many days I've been on the couch/in bed. It's over ten. I've never been out of commission for this long. I question whether I should just push through it, be miserable all day, and go to work, or if I should continue to stay home, bored, feeling sick and a little lonely. I feel guilty for not going to work, but when I went to work on Monday, I felt awful and vomited as soon as I smelled some of the areas of the building. I don't want to work if I'm going to be useless, but staying at home is not something I'm enjoying either. I'm kind of caught in the middle between feeling too bad to go to work, but too good to stay home. That being said, both of my trips to the grocery store last night about did me in. So now I'm bored and blogging. I don't want to be one of those people who gushes about pregnancy and gives friends, family, and total strangers the minute details of the horrible things my body is doing. I would, however, like The Thing (or Rocky) as we call the baby, to possibly have something in writing about this time. I'm hoping it won't turn into maudlin, gushing about the miracles of life.
So yeah, Rocky is 7 weeks old now. I thought about posting a picture of what it looks like now, but I'm a little concerned about copyright issues. If you do a google search for "fetus at 7 weeks" you should be able to find plenty of pictures, mostly put up there by anti-abortionists. So to recap...nauseous. Bored. Somewhat cynical. Going stir-crazy. Will post more observations (for example: This morning I saw a cricket walk under the TV stand!) later, but right now, must force Gatorade into my body. I hope I'm not hurting The Thing. I hope it turns out healthy.
So yeah, Rocky is 7 weeks old now. I thought about posting a picture of what it looks like now, but I'm a little concerned about copyright issues. If you do a google search for "fetus at 7 weeks" you should be able to find plenty of pictures, mostly put up there by anti-abortionists. So to recap...nauseous. Bored. Somewhat cynical. Going stir-crazy. Will post more observations (for example: This morning I saw a cricket walk under the TV stand!) later, but right now, must force Gatorade into my body. I hope I'm not hurting The Thing. I hope it turns out healthy.
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