Bump Watch!

It's been over a month since I posted a picture of my belly. It's definitely grown in the last five weeks, and here's the latest photo!

29 weeks

I can't believe my due date is only 11 weeks away, and she can be born perfectly healthy in only eight weeks!

I'm beyond ready to get through the last little piece of this semester so I can get out of my dorm and focus on baby stuff. My next big endeavor is creating my birth plan. Should be an interesting blog post...

In the Eye of the Beholder

"You don't look six and a half months pregnant."

I've been getting this comment a lot lately, and I never really know how to respond. Usually I just say something to the effect of "Well, I certainly feel that pregnant," or "She's right on track with how big she's supposed to be, so I guess I am too." Honestly, what am I supposed to say?

I can't help but wonder if pregnant women are supposed to look a similar size at certain times. Is there a standard of largeness that we're expected to reach by the six month mark? If so, I'm apparently slacking. I remember hearing people say that every pregnancy is unique. Every woman's body reacts differently. But now I feel under pressure to puff up a little more in the belly region.

I don't take offense from women who have been pregnant before. Perhaps they're just recalling what they looked like at this stage and comparatively, I seem little. But last week, a girl in one of my classes who has never had a baby gave me a condescending look and told me I didn't look how I should. I would be lying if I said I wasn't tempted to reply, "I've been working my butt off on this baby and frankly, I feel huge. Whether or not it meets your standards, this belly is heavy, so back off!"

I know I sound like I'm being sensitive, but I'm sincerely just confused. Why tell me that all women have different pregnancy experiences and then tell me I'm not rotund enough?!

I used to be tiny. Very tiny. My hips were narrow, my stomach was flat and I didn't have a rump to speak of. If you compare what I used to look like to my current body shape, you would probably deduce that I do, in fact, look six months pregnant.

Another comment I hear quite often is, "You're going to snap right back to normal in no time."

What if I don't? What if it takes me a while to get rid of the extra weight? In all honesty, I don't really want to go back to the way I looked pre-pregnancy. I like my enhanced hips and a hiney that can actually fill out my jeans. And what the hell is "normal" anyway?

My point is this: My baby is growing at the exact rate she's supposed to be. My body is just temporary lodging for hers, and if she's doing well, then I'm just the right size. It really is true that each pregnancy is unique. Pregnant bodies, like non-pregnant bodies, look completely different. Even if I do go right back to looking like I used to, I'll never think of my body the same way. Having a baby is like jumping off a building and realizing that you can fly- it's a superpower.

Shock Therapy

I would be lying if I said I'm not intrigued by Barbara Walters' 20/20 interview with Elton John and his partner, David Furnish. It's supposed to air on ABC tonight, and if I'm stuck inside like usual, I may watch it. I've always had every intention of letting my daughter hear Elton's music. I don't care what generation you're from. It's good stuff.

Anyway, I was reading a preview article to the interview in which the writer described what kind of questions the couple will be answering, including why they decided to take their shirts off in the delivery room when their son was born via surrogate last Christmas. Huh?

I'm already going to have all kinds of body parts revealed during childbirth. Why would I take my shirt off too. According to Furnish, "They call it skin-to-skin bonding because it's such a traumatic thing for the baby to come into the world." Well, ok. If you say so...

Call me a cynic, but I don't think removing my clothing is going to spare my baby from all the trauma the world has to offer. On the other hand, I guess I can understand the concept. I would be pretty pissed if I spent nine months curled up in an anti-gravity water bed only to be yanked into a place where everything is loud, fast and not regulated at 98.6 degrees.

I will strip down completely naked if it will make my daughter feel better about entering the world, but I don't know how much it will help. I wish I could hold her to my skin every time she's traumatized- by birth, bullies at school, a scary movie, or a boy who doesn't treat her right.

One of my earliest memories is of feeling very sick when I was a little kid. I couldn't stop coughing, so my mom took me outside in the middle of the night and put me on her lap while I inhaled the cold air. I don't know why it's such a strong memory for me, but it always comes to mind when I think of comforting a child.

So perhaps there is something to be said for a mother's touch. Regardless, I find comfort in the fact that my daughter won't remember her birth. I'll probably be equally traumatized, and nobody wants to remember their mom spazzed out and doped up.

Fear Factor

Last night I turned on the TV only to see an episode of "16 and Pregnant" on MTV. When I switched on the tube today during lunch, the same channel was playing "True Life: I'm Pregnant." I can't help but watch these shows because I relate to the people in them, but when I realized that the birthing scenes show the mother from the waist up, I couldn't help but wonder what else is going on.

A little while ago, I made the stupid decision to watch a birthing video on the Internet. I'm traumatized. I can get through "Silence of the Lambs" without flinching. I think the "Saw" movies are funny. But this was too much.

Without warning, the OB grabbed a pair of surgical scissors and gave this poor woman an episiotomy. If you know what that is, then you can sympathize with my terror. If you don't know what it is, trust me when I say ignorance is bliss.

I watched a few more videos that were much less graphic, which is to say the mother wasn't massacred by the doctor. Regardless, they were still intense. I used to ask myself, "How is THAT going to come out of THERE?!" I still don't have it all figured out, but I do realize it's not an easy process.

Now that I only have 12 weeks left in my pregnancy, the idea of giving birth is becoming a much more realistic concept to me. A couple months ago, it seemed like such a distant process. Now that I can tell the baby is getting cramped in there, childbirth is on my mind at least once a day. Sometimes, my mind wanders into Crazyland and I think, "What if I went into premature labor right now?" My baby is about 15 inches long and weighs a little over two pounds. She would be a gangly little thing, but she would probably make it.

The best thing about being this far along is that I am very clearly pregnant. For the longest time, I just looked like maybe I ate too much and was toting around a food baby. Not any more. I got plenty of stares today when I wobbled to class for a presentation. My group members and I had to dress up to present, so last night I tried on a modest pair of high-heeled shoes. They felt comfortable enough at the time while I stood in front of the mirror, so I wore them.

After standing on the hard tile floor in front of the entire class for about two minutes, I was horribly uncomfortable. Those little heels were not equipped to hold up my 20 added pregnancy pounds. That discomfort forced me to reckon with the fact that these are the big months, the heavy weeks. Baby girl is very thoroughly developed, and now her main job is putting on weight.

She scary part is that she currently only weighs about a third of what she will when I reach safe birthing territory. This belly is already an intense strain on the rest of my body. I'm loving my pregnancy, but the next 12 weeks make me nervous. I've rounded third base and I'm sliding toward home. Who wouldn't be nervous about that?

I'm very excited to meet this baby, but I would be lying if I said childbirth doesn't make me nervous. I know that in the grand scheme of my life, a day of labor pains will seem very small, but I've never done anything this physically intense in my life. I feel like I'm preparing to jump off a roof and just take off flying.

I have immense respect for the women in those videos, and I'm excited that some time in the next 12 weeks, I'll have a whole new respect for my own body and its capabilities. In the meantime, I'll be wearing flip-flops.

Tough Questions

I've been neglecting my baby. No, not the one in my belly. I've been neglecting my blog! Forgive me.

As much as I wish I could be posting anecdotes and advice taken from my experiences as a mother-to-be on a daily basis, I'm afraid school work has completely absorbed my attention. I went home to Louisville for the weekend to attend a doctor's appointment, do some laundry and regroup. Now I'm right back where I was last week- miserably propped in an uncomfortable wooden chair at the library.

The other day, I was prompted to consider these last few weeks of the semester. How will I remember my days in college? When my daughter asks me about my collegiate career, what will I tell her?

I could tell her about the time I went to my first and only frat party and drank way too much wine from a box. I could tell her about the news story I wrote on a competitive square dancing team. I could even tell her about the spring afternoons I spent playing volleyball when I should have been studying.

Sometimes I can't help but wonder if I've been too dismissive about college as a general rule. I've never liked school period- not since I was in kindergarten. I know I should have worked harder and cared more about my classes, but what about the other experiences? I never pledged to a sorority. I never joined an athletic team. I didn't go to school with people I had known for years.

So what will I tell my daughter?

I will probably tell her about meeting her dad in the newsroom at our college paper and how we laughed at our professors over countless mediocre dinners in the campus cafeterias. I'll tell her about finishing up college and being pregnant at the same time. I started this blog in February of my last semester, and it has led me to meet and speak with other pregnant students who just want to talk through their excitement and terror. I will tell her about running to the corner store on campus for Lunchables at 10 p.m. because sometimes one dinner isn't enough for a pregnant woman.

I haven't had a normal college experience, but my regrets are very few. Sometimes I wonder what my life would look like right now if I wasn't expecting a baby, and then I promptly scoff at myself and remember that it doesn't matter. I am where I am for a reason, whether that be at a table in the library or the waiting room at my OB's office.

I have a feeling that when my daughter asks me questions about my life, I'll have plenty to say. Maybe by then, some of it will make sense.

Sugar High

As I do at least once every month, I visited the doctor today. Aside from the occasional ultrasound, these appointments are largely uneventful. Not today.

At a typical appointment, a nurse makes me stand on a scale and gawk at how much weight I've gained in the four weeks prior, and then she tells me to go pee in a cup. Afterward, I sit in a little room and wait for the doctor to come in. She checks the baby's heartbeat, asks if I have any questions or concerns, and then I leave. Simple enough. Bearable enough.

Today I had to take a glucose tolerance test. The procedure consists of avoiding food all day until the appointment, then downing a painfully sweet drink capable of rotting your teeth once you get to the doctor's office. After one hour, the lab staff take your blood to check for gestational diabetes. Every pregnant woman has to do it.

I had known about the glucose test for a while, so I thought I was prepared. I was so wrong, and part of that is my own fault. I woke up at 6:45 this morning to go to the library at UK and finish a political science term paper on international whaling laws. I've become accustomed to taking the time to eat a bowl of Cap'n Crunch every morning before I do just about anything. That sweet cereal always gets me going, and I truly enjoy chugging the milk out of the bowl like a barbarian. Because you don't want to have elevated blood sugar levels during the glucose test, they tell you not to eat anything, especially anything with sugar.

Naturally, I was already pretty tuckered at noon. By then, I had finished the 14-page paper, turned it in, loaded my car full of stuff to take home, and driven an hour to Louisville- all on an empty stomach. Basic physics of pregnancy will tell you not to do this.

My mom drove me to the 1:50 appointment. For whatever reason, something was a little awry at the office today. Their computers were down, so they couldn't look up my blood type. They gave me the sugar drink, and I can really only describe it as "awful." It tasted like the syrup that pools at the bottom of one of those cheap popsicles in the plastic tube, but I had to drink a whole little bottle of it. When the nurse took me back to the exam room, she asked if I had any "complaints." That was the word she used. When I told her my back has been killing me, she gave me a look that said, "Tough sh*t, rookie." Fair enough.

Mom waited with me for an hour while the sugar seeped into my system. I can only imagine that it was dripping off of my veins like tree sap. The concoction made me incredibly dizzy, lightheaded and nauseous, none of which are things I enjoy feeling. At the reverse end of the spectrum, it made baby girl very hyper. She kicked and rolled with all her might while I groaned in the waiting room.

When it finally came time to take my blood, the lab tech told me she would need two vials. She stuck me with the needle in the crease of my right elbow only to see not a drop of blood come out. She reacted to my body's stubbornness by moving the needle around under my skin like a mouse under a rug. I couldn't help myself. I whispered a curse word and a single tear rolled out of my eye. Fortunately, my left arm was much more cooperative, but I'm really not a fan of being stuck. You'd think I wouldn't mind after four tattoos, but something about the whole process completely unnerved me.

Needless to say, the needles didn't help my nausea and dizziness, so I asked the lab techs if they had any crackers. They replied that I was reacting normally and told me to go get food immediately after leaving the office. Harsh.

By the time I reached checkout, the woman behind the desk could tell I was miserable. She told me to sit down, placed a wet towel on my forehead, sent another nurse to come check my blood pressure, and fetched me some peanut butter crackers and a Sprite. She even put a bendy straw in it.

All in all, the experience was only mildly traumatizing. I know I need to man up for the intense smackdown that is childbirth, but I know now that I was feeling particularly vulnerable from the stress of so much schoolwork. I'm glad the appointment came to a comforting close, even if I did leave the wet towel in my lap for a few minutes, giving me the appearance of having peed myself when I stood up.

Animal Instinct

In the midst of the undeniable chaos that is the last month of the semester, I found myself taking a breather to munch on a bagel yesterday afternoon. Much to my surprise, the UK network was showing "March of the Penguins," and while I dined on cream cheese, I became transfixed on the images of those quirky animals as Morgan Freeman's voice hypnotized me.

I could only spare about half an hour to watch the penguins, but in that time I learned a lot about their lives as parents. After the mother penguin lays her egg, she hands it over to dad and hobbles for miles across the ice in search of food. While she gorges in the ocean, the father penguins dutifully tend to the eggs perched on top of their feet, surrendering food for up to four months while they huddle together for warmth.

Eventually, the mother penguin returns looking fatter than ever, stuffed with food to share with her newborn chick. The father gets a break to go eat, and once he tends to his bare necessities, they are reunited as a whole family- mother, father and baby.

While that sounds like a picture fit for a Hallmark card, the harsh scenarios that punctuated the penguin life cycle were enough to make me cry, "Why, Morgan Freeman? Why?!"

Many of the baby penguins died. For some, their mothers were nabbed by large marine mammals in the sea, so they never returned to nourish the chick. Others were abandoned by the overworked fathers that had no choice but to seek out food before the mothers could return. A few of the little ones were snatched up by hideous predatory birds that looked like a cross between seagulls and vultures.

But the most tragic scene of all was of a mother penguin throwing her head back in anguish upon realizing that a blizzard had claimed her baby. In his dark, understanding voice, Morgan Freeman said, "The loss is unbearable."

Although my only relation to penguins is an unmistakable waddle, I understand the dedication they have to their offspring. Being a parent makes you a protector. We haven't been formally introduced yet, but I already know without a doubt in my mind that I would do anything for my daughter if it would keep her safe and happy, even if it meant carrying her on my feet for the entire winter season.

Early in my pregnancy, I asked my parents how to cope with not ever wanting your child to get sick, hurt or sad. I believe my mom said something to the effect of, "I'll let you know when I figure it out," and my dad replied that it makes you wish you could take the pain in their place. I definitely acquired a new appreciation for my parents when it dawned on me that I'm preparing to be someone's mother.

Nature has a way of endearing children to their parents and vice versa. A mother's love can make her trek through the snow for miles to find a means of feeding her baby. I'm convinced that my love for my daughter is the only thing making me keep calm when she rests on my sciatic nerve at night, causing pain in my back, hips and legs.

I both dread and anticipate my reactions when I see my daughter find her way in a tough world. I can't say just yet how I'll feel, but I can tell you this: If anyone messes with her, I'll resemble a mother grizzly bear a lot more than a penguin.

The Final Push

I hate the end of the semester. It reeks of finals and term papers. As I type this, I'm nested in the library among my binders, handouts and first drafts, dutifully refilling my water bottle on occasion to keep my puffy self hydrated.

At the risk of sounding like a big whiner, I must say that being pregnant and being a student at the same time is tough. I don't want to edit my terms papers or make multiple PowerPoint presentations. Instead, I want to perfect my baby registry and read up on which pre-birth classes I should take at the hospital where I plan to deliver. I sit in the front of my classrooms, put on my glasses and take pages of notes in my loopy cursive, but I get distracted every single time my baby kicks. To add insult to injury, she likes to kick when I'm sitting still for prolonged periods of time, i.e. class.

Being a student and being pregnant at the same time required adaptation. My body is more demanding than ever before, and now is not the time to disregard the signals it gives me. I make sure I have something to drink in every single class. Ninety percent of the time, I also have a snack. I don't always need them, but nothing is more distracting than my growling stomach in the middle of a lecture. I truly feel like I've perfected the art of downing a Pop Tart and listening to international law, journalism ethics or feminist theory at the same time.

Any and all discomforts are also distracting- headaches, joint pains, feet cramps, lower back spasms, not to mention the occasional rogue kick to the wrong spot in my abdomen. Quite early in my pregnancy, I became comfortable with unbuttoning my pants during class and covering the gape with my shirt. "They" say all modesty goes out the window when you deliver a baby. I will attest that it goes out the window long before the little one debuts.

Today I sent multiple emails to my fellow group project members in which I sounded like a control freak/mother hen. I've assumed the role of matriarch over these projects, and while I apologized to my groupmates for appearing a tad obsessive, part of me just wanted to type, "I'm six months pregnant and expecting a baby has made me a compulsive planner. I don't feel like waiting until the last minute to deal with this stuff and I can't stay up until 3 a.m. working on things because my brain shuts off around 10. Thanks for understanding and tough break if you don't! Sincerely, Mama."

I feel as though I've entered a permanent state of learning. I go to class every day and soak up what my professors tell me, but I'm also preparing to be a mom at the same time. I think the greatest lesson so far has been to be patient with myself and take one thing at a time. The other day, I made a list of every test, project and paper I have to complete by the end of the semester, and seeing them laid out in order helped me to organize a plan for tackling them. Nerdy as it may be, I'm tickled every time I get to cross something off the list.

I know the semester will end in no time at all. I just have to make it through these next few weeks of chipping away at this list and tromping through campus in the midst of all these April showers. My pregnancy will be over in the blink of an eye as well, and then I'll be taking on the greatest project of all- motherhood.

Operating on a Delay

If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, then it's probably a duck. If it waddles like a duck, then it's probably pregnant.

Pregnancy alters your body, mind and lifestyle in more ways than I can remember. At six months, I am no longer walking. Instead, I've picked up a less elegant style of moving about that involves alternating a slingshot movement from leg to leg to maneuver them around the sizable bulge in my abdomen. While this sounds like a charming notion, it does have one downside: slowing me down.

I used to be a fast person. I drove my car fast enough to make my mom slam on the imaginary passenger-side brake when she rode with me. Even though I never learned how to type properly and instead chicken-peck at the keyboard, my tiny hands move fast enough at the computer to make anyone who's watching laugh a little. I write in cursive because I can't be bothered to pick up my pen between letters. I often start talking too fast for my brain to keep up.

As of late, however, I am much slower than I used to be. At first, I got frustrated with myself, unable to squeeze every minute out of every day the way I wanted. "Why can't I bounce up a flight of stairs without getting winded anymore?"

Slowly but surely, I've become appreciative of my decelerated lifestyle. I feel as though I'm being subconsciously trained for the challenges of taking care of a baby. She won't care if I'm running late for an appointment. She very well may decide to spit up all over her clean outfit right as we're walking out the door. She's going to make a mess in her diaper whenever she wants, and my job is to stop and change her, regardless of what I'm doing.

For months now, I've been training myself to drive differently. I've always been the type of person to curse the cars in front of me if they make me sit through more than one red light at the same stop. I got my first speeding ticket when I was 17 years old. Not long into my pregnancy, I realized that a baby won't like it when I stop too fast or yell at another driver. I've got to slow down for her.

The same principle applies to waddling. I've got to slow down to accommodate the little person growing more and more every day in my belly. That's fine with me. Thank goodness the waddling set in during one of the prettiest, (albeit rainy) times of year.

Crunching Numbers

I am obviously a language-oriented person. Careful word selection, grammar, syntax and punctuation have been lifelong friends of mine. I am, however, learning to appreciate the precise simplicity that is a number. Why? Because babies and families are a business.

I've spent countless hours researching baby merchandise. Where do my eyes look first? The price. If it seems reasonable, I then skim the user reviews and product descriptions. I, like most Americans, am a seasoned consumer. Having a child when you are young and unprepared demands thrift and sensibility. I've been fortunate enough to have my expenses as a student covered by my parents, but now that I'm about to be a parent, it's time to grow up.

On June 25, 2010, the New York Times reported that it costs a middle-income American family $222, 360 to raise a child from birth to age 18, according to the U.S.D.A. That number shows an increase of 22% from 1960, primarily adjusted for inflation.

The U.S.D.A. Center for Nutrition Policy and Promotion Web site provides a "Cost of Raising a Child Calculator." The generator asks the number of children you have, their age(s), whether or not yours is a single- or two-parent household, regional location and your annual before-tax household income. Within seconds, it calculates your annual estimated costs overall and for each child, breaking down the expenses into categories: housing, food, transportation, clothing, health care, child care and education, and other. The national average total for raising one child under 1 year of age for one year is $9,559.

Naturally, big baby businesses contribute heavily to these numbers.

According to surebaby.com, parents can expect to spend between $1,600 and $2,300 on diapers by the time their child is potty-trained. Babies are expected to use 7-8 diapers a day, even more during the first few months of life. The cost is estimated at $80-$130 per month. I don't even spend that much money on food in a month.

The same Web site reports estimated costs for each item a baby "requires." I can't help but wonder, how much of this stuff do babies actually need? Is a swing essential? No. What about hooded towels? No. I'm also beginning to understand that a lot of these numbers leave certain questions unanswered. Are these estimated annual costs adjusted for families who breastfeed or bottle-feed? Do they take into account the varying health insurance policies available all over America?

I find myself doubting that any of these numbers are exact. Every family in the United States is different, just like the unique fingerprints on each little baby. One thing I am certain of, however, is that babies are expensive. A number may be a simple thing, but finances are not.

Crocodile Tears

I make an effort every day to read about something baby related. The book I have, "Great Expectations," is bigger than any dictionary I've ever owned, so it's been quite the load of information to tackle. But today, I could hardly put it down. The chapter I read today was relevant to my boobs and emotional well-being.

I remember being a preteen and thinking breasts were the most important things in the world. I recall feeling awkward and uncool when it came time to change in the locker room after PE unless I had a training bra on. Such was the case for my classmates, too. Eventually, they quit feeling so life-altering and took a backseat to more important matters. Now they seem to have resurfaced.

When I first began researching breast pumps, I was surprised and confused when I found one that had a "letdown" button. In my mind, a letdown was synonymous with disappointment. Further research revealed that in Mommyland, a letdown is also known as the "milk-ejection reflex."

"Letdown: A letdown happens when the stimulation of a baby's sucking, the action of a breast pump, or a mother's images of breastfeeding cause hormones in a mother's body to stimulate her breasts to flow milk into the ducts ... Sometimes milk will drip ... or even spew out in a steady stream."

It's been explained to me before that the sound of a baby crying can trigger the letdown reflex. Terrifying. Babies all over the place cry all the time. What am I supposed to do when I'm in public with no letdown button?!

The other night, I was in a restaurant when a baby seated at the next table over began pitching an all-out fit. Normally, this would have been little more than irritating, but I found myself oddly perturbed by the sound. Now I know why. Apparently, a baby's wailing can be outright brain-scrambling to a new mother.

According to my book, "Hearing your baby cry can make your heart race, your blood pressure go up, your palms sweat, and your milk start leaking... There's simply nothing that compares to how upsetting and distracting your baby's cry can be."

Wait a minute. You're telling me that the sound of a baby's cry will not only activate the sprinkler system, but also send my mind into a frenzy?

Frightening as all this information may be, I'm still completely fascinated with how programmed the human body is. Throughout my pregnancy, I have felt as if I'm on autopilot, and now I see that this state-of-being continues into motherhood. I'm still nervous, but now I hope that when my baby cries and my body goes haywire, I'll have enough sense of calm to write it off as biology and have a good laugh.

Weekenders

After a week of sniffling, coughing and shuffling to the bathroom like a zombie, this weekend was a much-needed reprieve. I started feeling better just in time to enjoy a few days of fun.

Friday, Roy and I went to the super cheap theater in Lexington to see "True Grit." We're both avid frequenters of Redbox, Netflix and the discount rental place near campus, but there's something fun about making a night of it. I made a bag of popcorn at home before we left and stuffed it into my purse. I also filled up a water bottle and put a flavor packet of peach tea in there once we were seated in the dark theater. I've never been one to pay their prices for snacks, so I just shove mine way down in my giant purse. Told you I was cheap.

Saturday brought with it the NCAA Final Four game all of Lexington has been waiting for- UK vs. UConn. We met up with friends at a bar/restaurant in the afternoon. Since I couldn't down a few beers like everyone else, I opted to help myself to the limitless bread and butter that kept appearing on the table and a healthy portion of edamame.

Roy's not a big fan of crowds, and I get easily frustrated with drunks, so instead of staying there for the game, we made a quick stop at the grocery for game time food and headed home. We cheered for UK when the players did well and sat in silence for a moment when they lost. I'll admit I had a hard time staying calm throughout the game, but I had to keep my cool. I went nuts during their game against Ohio State and had a bunch of Braxton-Hicks contractions that night. Woops.

I woke up this morning to beautiful weather, perfect for shooting my BB gun at beer bottles while snacking on Cinnamon Toast Crunch. While Roy napped, I did homework and blogged. Much to my delight, we went to Gattitown for dinner, where I always eat way too much. We took note of all the small children there- some screaming, some squirming, and some with a fulfilled food-coma look on their chubby faces.

When a toddler nearby refused to stop crying, we looked at each other with resignation and agreed, "Our baby won't do that."

This weekend made me appreciate the little time we have left before this baby makes her entrance. Even though I can't wait to meet her and spend as much time with her as I can, it was nice to have a reminder that there's a fun world out there that has nothing to do with picking out onesies or researching breastfeeding techniques.

Sometimes I forget that even though I'm a mother-to-be, I'm still only 21 years old. If I want to yell at the TV during a basketball game or stand behind 8-year-olds in line at a pizza buffet, there's nothing wrong with that.

Body Language

Pregnancy is a full-body experience. Sure, your midsection swells, but what about all the other body parts? Expecting a baby can mean you need to pay attention to things that used to not matter so much. Now that I've got almost six months of experience under my enlarged belt, I'm going to share some of my personal recommendations.

Mane Event
One of the first things I noticed at the start of my pregnancy was the change to my hair. First of all, it grows like crabgrass. I completely gave up on maintaining my roots because they would show up so quickly. (Unfortunately, now I've got dark brown hair with blonde roots.) Second, the texture changes. I've had thin, stringy hair my entire life, and now it's essentially doubled in thickness.

Because you can expect your hair to take on a new appearance, I strongly suggest giving it a break from any chemical treatments you might otherwise frequent. The new texture can mean it will react differently to dyeing or other processes. Use a mild shampoo that gets your hair clean. Don't worry about smelling like a candy store or a rose garden. Just get it clean. Heavy scents can weigh down your lustrous locks and annoy your hyper-sensitive sense of smell.

Raw Hide
While you're getting squeaky clean, may I suggest that you also use a gentle soap? Fancy body washes with shiny little beads in them named after exotic locales don't really jive with mamas-to-be. Stick with something classic and simple, like Dove, Ivory or Dial. I'm a big fan of Ivory. It leaves my skin feeling clean, not dried-out, and it's cheap, (my favorite).

As for shaving your legs, all I can offer is a sincere "good luck." Believe me when I say that you just won't care as much, and it can be frustrating trying to reach your ankles over that big belly.

Keep your body moisturized with a lotion that includes cocoa butter. Your skin is being stretched out like taffy through the pull, so be kind to it. Apply liberal amounts of lotion to your belly and chest areas- they're enduring the brunt of the work. Call me crass, but I also suggest slathering some lotion on your derrière. I'm personally enjoying the curves I never used to have on my backside, but I've heard some horror stories about ruined hineys and I am not about to jump on that bandwagon.

Saving Face
You know that "glowing" appearance synonymous with pregnancy? Don't get too excited. That stereotype is the result of increased blood flow throughout the body, which can make your cheeks light up a little more, and a massive influx of oil. Lovely, right?

The same rules for allover body care also apply to your face. Nothing fancy, just get it clean. That extra oil can make you break out like a 13-year-old. To get you through the day, I suggest toting around some oil blotting sheets and/or face powder. If you're in a bind, baby powder also works quite well. "Glowing" means skirting a fine line between appearing radiant like a pearl and shiny like Crisco inside a baking pan.

One other word of advice: waterproof mascara. Those raging hormones can bring you to tears when you least expect it, and no one looks good with charcoal stripes running down their face.

Happy Feet
I believe I speak for maternal feet everywhere when I say tread lightly. Heels look nice on any woman, but something a little softer is far more rewarding. I have a great collection of beautiful flats, but I've been sidelining them as of late in favor of my more comfortable, ugly shoes. I wore fur-lined moccasins all winter, and I have no regrets. Now that warm weather has rolled around, I'm all about flip-flops. If you are too, wear thick ones that don't let your feet get too close to the ground. I've been wearing the same old pair of Rainbows for years now, but they keep my tired soles from feeling the texture underfoot and they're molded to the right shape.

As a final word, be good to the bones all over your body. They're under intense amounts of stress and strain from carrying around extra weight and possibly expanding to make room for the little one. If you can, sit in chairs with backs on them. Benches and bleachers become uncomfortable after about 30 seconds, so try to sit on something that gives you a cushion, even if it means taking off your sweatshirt and resting your tush on it.


Embrace the changes to your body. Pregnancy is fleeting and in no time at all, that belly is replaced by a writhing little person who doesn't care if your hair is greasy or your back aches. Take the time to have pride in your appearance. Motherhood is a tough job and you deserve to feel good about yourself.