I'm ready to have this baby.
It seems like every morning I wake up and my very first thought is, 'Geez... I'm still pregnant,' followed by, 'Damn I have to pee!'
At 34 weeks, I'm really just playing a waiting game. I have a crib ready to go, plenty of onesies and approximately 200 newborn diapers. I even did a load of laundry the other day that was nothing but baby blankets and burp cloths. Her car seat is in the car along with a pull-down window shade to shield her precious baby eyes and skin.
After my baby shower on Saturday, I spent the last couple days doing some intense cleaning. I vacuumed and Windexed my car, which turned out to be much dirtier than I thought. Let's just say I found some interesting things stuffed under the seats and enough half-empty water bottles to bathe in. Afterward, I drove down to the car wash and scrubbed the whole thing down with a lot of help from Mom. For some reason, I felt like it was time for the bumper stickers to come off the back. Where it used to say "Love an Artist," you will now find the words "Baby on Board."
You might say I went into full-on nesting mode. I can't help but wonder if my overzealousness is a result of living in a dorm for so long and not being able to nest gradually.
When I shampooed the carpet in my room the other day, I realized that a small army of roly polies had penetrated the perimeter. Far from the remorse I felt when I genocided a bunch of ants on the porch recently, I sprayed those nasty things down with bug poison and sucked up their corpses into the vacuum without a second thought. Then I went outside my window and killed a bunch more that may or may not have been planning on coming inside.
Why the sudden change of heart for insects? The ants I felt bad about killing were just on the porch- outside, where they belong. The roly polies, however, were way too close to the Baby Zone.
I read in a book that a severe, trance-like urge to nest can be a sign of impending labor, so today I packed my bag for the hospital to have it ready for the big day. In the meantime, I'm looking for any excuse to tackle the small things I haven't thought of yet.
I'm trying to remind myself that once the baby is here, there will be times when I miss my solo life. That being said, I love living in an apartment complex with a nice pool. Feeling gravity leave my poor body for a few minutes is intensely gratifying.
So now you know the plight of a very pregnant young woman. In these last few weeks, you can find me vacuuming, pesticiding, laying like a beached whale by the pool and, as always, eating.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Friday, May 27, 2011
Keep Calm and Carry On
Believe it or not, I'm a perfectionist. If you saw my bedroom or the way I dress every day, you might not think that, but it's true. When I'm truly invested in a task, I want it to be perfect.
Right this minute, I'm making the cupcakes that will be served at my baby shower tomorrow. (I know the mama-to-be isn't really supposed to do any work on her own baby shower, but that's just not my style.) I'm baking the cupcakes, making my own buttercream frosting from scratch, icing them, and finally decorating them. If any part of this goes wrong, I will be upset.
You might be thinking, 'Get a grip, Kellie. They're cupcakes.' Fair enough. But I'm convinced that perfectionism is a side effect of pregnancy. I want so much to be an ideal mother that it's only reasonable the feelings would spill over and I want to be an ideal baker as well.
I know there's no such thing as a perfect mom. Parenting is subjective and there's so many opportunities to screw up. The same as I have a living style, I know I'll have a mommy style as well.
Yesterday, my best friend, Kristen, brought me a book titled "I'M A PARENT?! A journal to ponder the unfathomable circumstance that I somehow have offspring even though I have no idea what I'm doing but it sure seems like everybody else does because they're not stinting on the advice as if I don't love my kid(s) which of course I do but the little bugger(s) are going to need therapy no matter what and in all honesty I couldn't adore them more but sometimes I think I'm going out of my mind with frustration and self-doubt." Yep, that's the title.
On each page, there's an anecdotal quote about parenting by everyone ranging from Benjamin Franklin to Bill Cosby as well as space to fill in "Why I'm a Less-Than-Perfect Parent Today." If you haven't caught on, I have a deep love of writing. As much as I may not want to record my inadequacies as they arise, I have a feeling this book will give me the chance to remind myself that parenting is a learn-as-you-go concept.
Still, I want to make the perfect cupcakes. What can I say? I'm an imperfect woman.
Right this minute, I'm making the cupcakes that will be served at my baby shower tomorrow. (I know the mama-to-be isn't really supposed to do any work on her own baby shower, but that's just not my style.) I'm baking the cupcakes, making my own buttercream frosting from scratch, icing them, and finally decorating them. If any part of this goes wrong, I will be upset.
You might be thinking, 'Get a grip, Kellie. They're cupcakes.' Fair enough. But I'm convinced that perfectionism is a side effect of pregnancy. I want so much to be an ideal mother that it's only reasonable the feelings would spill over and I want to be an ideal baker as well.
I know there's no such thing as a perfect mom. Parenting is subjective and there's so many opportunities to screw up. The same as I have a living style, I know I'll have a mommy style as well.
Yesterday, my best friend, Kristen, brought me a book titled "I'M A PARENT?! A journal to ponder the unfathomable circumstance that I somehow have offspring even though I have no idea what I'm doing but it sure seems like everybody else does because they're not stinting on the advice as if I don't love my kid(s) which of course I do but the little bugger(s) are going to need therapy no matter what and in all honesty I couldn't adore them more but sometimes I think I'm going out of my mind with frustration and self-doubt." Yep, that's the title.
On each page, there's an anecdotal quote about parenting by everyone ranging from Benjamin Franklin to Bill Cosby as well as space to fill in "Why I'm a Less-Than-Perfect Parent Today." If you haven't caught on, I have a deep love of writing. As much as I may not want to record my inadequacies as they arise, I have a feeling this book will give me the chance to remind myself that parenting is a learn-as-you-go concept.
Still, I want to make the perfect cupcakes. What can I say? I'm an imperfect woman.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Bump Watch- 33 Weeks
My belly has been growing exponentially lately and getting rather heavy to carry around. I took advantage of my mom's full length mirror to get a picture that would show the bump in comparison to the rest of my diminutive figure. Here's what I'm working with:
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Learning Curves
Tonight I went to my first class at Baptist East, the hospital in Louisville where I plan to deliver. In many ways, I felt like I was back in school, but this time I wasn't studying politics or literature. Instead, I analyzed diagrams of the female breast and proper latching techniques.
In all sincerity, I felt like a little kid when I first walked into the auditorium at the Education Center. I had never been in a room with so many big pregnant bellies before, and almost all of them looked bigger than mine. A tiny girl my whole life, I felt like the runt in class all over again.
This particular class was all about breastfeeding, a very hot topic in Mommy World. A friendly lactation consultant conducted the class using a PowerPoint presentation as her guide. She covered everything from the hormones involved in milk production to different types of pumps to the cues that a baby will give to signal hunger.
The breast expert even whipped out a stuffed boob. On the surface, it looked harmless, but then she pulled the outer surface aside to reveal the inner workings. I'm not sure if my face revealed how horrified I was when she said something like, "As you can see here, the milk-filled ducts actually look like a bunch of grapes." Grapes in my knockers?! No, thanks.
About halfway through the class, we watched a video. When I was in high school, watching a video during class was a chance to nap. Not this time. On the large projection screen, the nipples demonstrating ideal latching procedure were the size of garbage can lids, and the babies roared toward them like chubby, peach Godzillas. The men who were dragged to class looked at the whole spectacle like wide-eyed middle schoolers sitting through sex ed for the first time.
They say breastfeeding is an incredibly peaceful and natural experience. I can't speak for all the women in class, but let's be real, it's a little scary too.
I came home with a substantial packet of information, and even though nursing is often touted as the most basic process, I have a feeling it's harder than it looks. I still have every intention of tapping nature's kegs for all they're worth, but I can't help but wonder what I'll end up doing wrong...
I'm always fascinated by the many ways in which the human body operates to support an infant. A mother's milk supply continuously evolves to meet the demands of what the baby needs at different times. Despite the nutritional autopilot, mom herself is under a lot of pressure to make sure the milk delivery is seamless.
I'm sure I'll be fine and so will baby girl, but I'm not going to apologize for being nervous. I really want to succeed at this. Hopefully when the final exam rolls around, we'll both know what to do. After all, I'm convinced that she's a highly intelligent baby.
In all sincerity, I felt like a little kid when I first walked into the auditorium at the Education Center. I had never been in a room with so many big pregnant bellies before, and almost all of them looked bigger than mine. A tiny girl my whole life, I felt like the runt in class all over again.
This particular class was all about breastfeeding, a very hot topic in Mommy World. A friendly lactation consultant conducted the class using a PowerPoint presentation as her guide. She covered everything from the hormones involved in milk production to different types of pumps to the cues that a baby will give to signal hunger.
The breast expert even whipped out a stuffed boob. On the surface, it looked harmless, but then she pulled the outer surface aside to reveal the inner workings. I'm not sure if my face revealed how horrified I was when she said something like, "As you can see here, the milk-filled ducts actually look like a bunch of grapes." Grapes in my knockers?! No, thanks.
About halfway through the class, we watched a video. When I was in high school, watching a video during class was a chance to nap. Not this time. On the large projection screen, the nipples demonstrating ideal latching procedure were the size of garbage can lids, and the babies roared toward them like chubby, peach Godzillas. The men who were dragged to class looked at the whole spectacle like wide-eyed middle schoolers sitting through sex ed for the first time.
They say breastfeeding is an incredibly peaceful and natural experience. I can't speak for all the women in class, but let's be real, it's a little scary too.
I came home with a substantial packet of information, and even though nursing is often touted as the most basic process, I have a feeling it's harder than it looks. I still have every intention of tapping nature's kegs for all they're worth, but I can't help but wonder what I'll end up doing wrong...
I'm always fascinated by the many ways in which the human body operates to support an infant. A mother's milk supply continuously evolves to meet the demands of what the baby needs at different times. Despite the nutritional autopilot, mom herself is under a lot of pressure to make sure the milk delivery is seamless.
I'm sure I'll be fine and so will baby girl, but I'm not going to apologize for being nervous. I really want to succeed at this. Hopefully when the final exam rolls around, we'll both know what to do. After all, I'm convinced that she's a highly intelligent baby.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Pregnant Weekends
This weekend, I went to Roy's hometown of Lawrenceburg, KY for some fresh air. I'm a city girl through and through, but I have to admit that I enjoy spending time somewhere a little...greener.
Yesterday I went with Roy's mom to a farm in Shelbyville to pick strawberries. The weather hasn't been good enough to go out and pick them, but we did wander around the flower houses for a while and pick out some beautiful blooms. On top of that, I befriended a farm cat with the shortest little legs I've ever seen on a grown feline. I spend so much time at home on my laptop or running errands or working on some sort of indoor task. I know my life will be drastically different quite soon and I'll be doing everything I can to keep up with a demanding infant. I appreciated the chance to slow down and go outside.
As someone who had never even been to a baby shower before, I must say this was a great success. I have another baby shower coming up this weekend with my close friends from high school and family. I know, I'm a lucky girl.
Side note: I apologize for the odd spacing in this post. I did everything I could think of to fix it, but I suspect Blogger is just being tricky.
One thing you definitely can't do in the city is walk out into the backyard and fire a gun. I was a little scared at first because the last thing I wanted was an aching shoulder on top of all my other sore body parts, but Roy insisted I would be fine.
I was better than fine. Aside from not being prepared for the loud popping noise that accompanies a .22, I loved every minute of the practice and had a paper target full of holes to prove it. We went out the next day as well, and the only thing hindering my enjoyment was the swarm of mosquitos drawn to my engorged blood vessels. If only I had mad enough skills to shoot those little monsters right out of the air...
Yesterday I went with Roy's mom to a farm in Shelbyville to pick strawberries. The weather hasn't been good enough to go out and pick them, but we did wander around the flower houses for a while and pick out some beautiful blooms. On top of that, I befriended a farm cat with the shortest little legs I've ever seen on a grown feline. I spend so much time at home on my laptop or running errands or working on some sort of indoor task. I know my life will be drastically different quite soon and I'll be doing everything I can to keep up with a demanding infant. I appreciated the chance to slow down and go outside.
The weekend before, I went to my first baby shower ever. A handful of mine and Roy's friends showed up in Lexington for a "Baby-que." Cute, right? I think the pictures do a lot of the talking. 
If you've never seen a grown man decorate an infant's clothing, you're missing out. After some pouting (bullying) from yours truly, we got most of the gentlemen guests to test out their artistic skills.
As someone who had never even been to a baby shower before, I must say this was a great success. I have another baby shower coming up this weekend with my close friends from high school and family. I know, I'm a lucky girl.Side note: I apologize for the odd spacing in this post. I did everything I could think of to fix it, but I suspect Blogger is just being tricky.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Soft Spot
Pregnant women are delicate creatures. Some people interpret that to mean we are sentitive, hormonal, emotional and irrational. I speak very fluent Pregnancy, so allow me to translate.
For whatever reason, carrying a baby means every single part of your body gets to participate in the action. Your skin stretches, your hips widen, and your stomach acids do NOT stay in your stomach where they belong. Today I noticed that even my fingers have taken a turn for the worse as they have decided to swell to the size of traditional Irish breakfast sausages. It only makes sense that your brain would react to the pregnancy as well.
I recall reading that pregnant women can experience forgetfulness because less of their blood supply is being allotted to their brains and more of it goes to the baby. My child is literally making me stupid. On that same note, babies make you sensitive. That's the best explanation I have...
Today I stepped outside only to realize that my pug was innocently sunbathing on top of a bunch of ants. Because I love her and do not want ants crawling all over her, I promptly grabbed a can of Raid from under the sink. After spraying the affected area of the porch (and covering my face with my t-shirt because who knows if bug killer is pregnancy-safe), I was left with a cement battlefield of little ant corpses.
This is the part of the story when normal people would just go back in the house and pat themselves on the back for a job well-done. Pregnancy, however, prolongs the event because I needed a minute to mourn the ants I had slaughtered. I felt genuinely sad for having killed them all so dismissively. After all, they don't know they're doing anything wrong by coming up on the patio. Poor little ants...
Basic human reasoning says this is not something to be sad about. When you decide to have a baby, though, that same reasoning goes out the window in lieu of some more entertaining thought processes. The following things did not used to make me sad, but they do now:
1. Pest control
2. Crying children
3. Not understanding things (This used to just make me angry.)
4. Movies in which people die even though they deserve to live (i.e. "The Bucket List")
5. Spilling things
I'm not going to pretend to understand the cocktail of hormones coursing through my body at all hours of the day messing with my emotions. For all the pregnant women out there, however, I must ask that you don't write us off as lunatics. In the same vein that no woman ever wants to be asked, "Is it that time of the month again?" we don't want to be written off as uber-sensitive and dismissed because of a pregnancy. Even if it's true, you don't have to point it out. Saying something like, "Don't you think that might be the hormones talking?" is just as hurtful as "Don't you think your ass looks huge in those pants?"
On a side note, a fly the size of a Cadillac came in my kitchen this afternoon while I was making lunch. I grabbed the fly swatter, smacked it out of the air, and it landed in the sink. The only reasonable course of action was to wash it down and turn on the garbage disposal. I didn't feel bad about it for a second. Flies are gross.
For whatever reason, carrying a baby means every single part of your body gets to participate in the action. Your skin stretches, your hips widen, and your stomach acids do NOT stay in your stomach where they belong. Today I noticed that even my fingers have taken a turn for the worse as they have decided to swell to the size of traditional Irish breakfast sausages. It only makes sense that your brain would react to the pregnancy as well.
I recall reading that pregnant women can experience forgetfulness because less of their blood supply is being allotted to their brains and more of it goes to the baby. My child is literally making me stupid. On that same note, babies make you sensitive. That's the best explanation I have...
Today I stepped outside only to realize that my pug was innocently sunbathing on top of a bunch of ants. Because I love her and do not want ants crawling all over her, I promptly grabbed a can of Raid from under the sink. After spraying the affected area of the porch (and covering my face with my t-shirt because who knows if bug killer is pregnancy-safe), I was left with a cement battlefield of little ant corpses.
This is the part of the story when normal people would just go back in the house and pat themselves on the back for a job well-done. Pregnancy, however, prolongs the event because I needed a minute to mourn the ants I had slaughtered. I felt genuinely sad for having killed them all so dismissively. After all, they don't know they're doing anything wrong by coming up on the patio. Poor little ants...
Basic human reasoning says this is not something to be sad about. When you decide to have a baby, though, that same reasoning goes out the window in lieu of some more entertaining thought processes. The following things did not used to make me sad, but they do now:
1. Pest control
2. Crying children
3. Not understanding things (This used to just make me angry.)
4. Movies in which people die even though they deserve to live (i.e. "The Bucket List")
5. Spilling things
I'm not going to pretend to understand the cocktail of hormones coursing through my body at all hours of the day messing with my emotions. For all the pregnant women out there, however, I must ask that you don't write us off as lunatics. In the same vein that no woman ever wants to be asked, "Is it that time of the month again?" we don't want to be written off as uber-sensitive and dismissed because of a pregnancy. Even if it's true, you don't have to point it out. Saying something like, "Don't you think that might be the hormones talking?" is just as hurtful as "Don't you think your ass looks huge in those pants?"
On a side note, a fly the size of a Cadillac came in my kitchen this afternoon while I was making lunch. I grabbed the fly swatter, smacked it out of the air, and it landed in the sink. The only reasonable course of action was to wash it down and turn on the garbage disposal. I didn't feel bad about it for a second. Flies are gross.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
In the Child's Breast Interest
I'm consistently amazed by what the human body is capable of, and the breasts are no exception. Call them whatever you want- boobs, knockers, ta-tas- (I recently heard a British woman call them jublies, so that's my new favorite) but they're pretty impressive.
I remember shopping for training bras at Dillard's with my mom circa fifth grade. If you walked into the locker room to change for gym class without one of those pitiful contraptions made of paper-thin cotton and elastic, being an 11-year-old just wasn't the same. For exactly one decade now, breasts have been a part of my life, and I'm surprised to say I'm just as enthralled by them now as I was when they barely existed.
Over the months, a lot of people asked me how I found out I was pregnant. To put it frankly, my jublies were killing me for a few weeks and I just knew something was off. That's the big story. Select individuals also like to ask whether or not I plan to breastfeed.
Though modern literature will tell you "breast is best," nursing wasn't always in vogue. My grandparents' generation saw a decrease in breastfeeding because it just wasn't popular. These days, it's all about the boobs. You can get nursing shirts that allow you to feed the little one in public sans wardrobe malfunctions and breast pumps that let you continue using both hands while it sucks you dry.
When I consider breastfeeding, I can't help but wonder if I'm old-fashioned. I plan to nurse as best as I can, but I won't be strapping myself into any kind of machine like a dairy cow. For the same reason I don't have an iPhone, I won't be using an electric breast pump. Just because certain technologies exist doesn't mean I have to feel obligated to use them. Still, my baby registry includes several nursing-related items, including a cover-up, manual pump, and breastmilk storage bottles.
I'm also taking a 2-hour class at the hospital next week to learn how to breastfeed. Every book I've read says not to be fooled- it's not the most natural thing in the world. I'm going into it with the same approach that I learn how to use new versions of Microsoft Office. Despite how user-friendly it seems to be, I really don't want to be confused when it comes time to complete a task.
In spite of the complex opinions and accoutrements surroundings the boobs, they bottom line is that they're fascinating. I've always hated the term "fun bags," and I'll never think of them that way again. Now they serve a utility purpose, and that's just cool.
I remember shopping for training bras at Dillard's with my mom circa fifth grade. If you walked into the locker room to change for gym class without one of those pitiful contraptions made of paper-thin cotton and elastic, being an 11-year-old just wasn't the same. For exactly one decade now, breasts have been a part of my life, and I'm surprised to say I'm just as enthralled by them now as I was when they barely existed.
Over the months, a lot of people asked me how I found out I was pregnant. To put it frankly, my jublies were killing me for a few weeks and I just knew something was off. That's the big story. Select individuals also like to ask whether or not I plan to breastfeed.
Though modern literature will tell you "breast is best," nursing wasn't always in vogue. My grandparents' generation saw a decrease in breastfeeding because it just wasn't popular. These days, it's all about the boobs. You can get nursing shirts that allow you to feed the little one in public sans wardrobe malfunctions and breast pumps that let you continue using both hands while it sucks you dry.
When I consider breastfeeding, I can't help but wonder if I'm old-fashioned. I plan to nurse as best as I can, but I won't be strapping myself into any kind of machine like a dairy cow. For the same reason I don't have an iPhone, I won't be using an electric breast pump. Just because certain technologies exist doesn't mean I have to feel obligated to use them. Still, my baby registry includes several nursing-related items, including a cover-up, manual pump, and breastmilk storage bottles.
I'm also taking a 2-hour class at the hospital next week to learn how to breastfeed. Every book I've read says not to be fooled- it's not the most natural thing in the world. I'm going into it with the same approach that I learn how to use new versions of Microsoft Office. Despite how user-friendly it seems to be, I really don't want to be confused when it comes time to complete a task.
In spite of the complex opinions and accoutrements surroundings the boobs, they bottom line is that they're fascinating. I've always hated the term "fun bags," and I'll never think of them that way again. Now they serve a utility purpose, and that's just cool.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
The Good Fight
When I found out I was pregnant, I knew I would never be the same. My lifestyle, decisions and agenda were permanently altered, and I knew my body would change as well. But little did I realize that as my love for my baby girl has grown, so has my ass...
This morning, I was getting ready to go help out my mom at her law office for the day. She told me I could dress casual and wear jeans, but I still wanted to look decent. So after I did my hair, it was time to find an outfit. For months, I've been wearing a pair of jeans that still magically fit despite my expanded waistline. Unfortunately, there's a hole in the thigh and the bottom seams are completely shredded- definitely not office-appropriate.
I dug through my drawer of jeans looking for some classy dark-washed denim. I grabbed a pair of old favorites. They slid over my feet, ankles, knees and lower thighs before coming to a screeching halt. 'Fair enough,' I thought. After the exact same thing happened with another pair, I hobbled into my mom's room, butt hanging out of my pants, and said something to the effect of, "Mom! My ass is too big for my all my pants..."
To understand the significance of this story, you have to realize that I didn't used to even really have a butt. I had bony little hip bones that jutted out from my narrow figure and wore only low-rise pants. Those same pants are now the enemy.
Two more pairs of jeans refused to yield to my new figure. The size 0 labels on every single one seemed to be mocking me as if to say, "Get over it, mama! You'll never squeeze in here again!" Finally, one last attempt barely slid over my backside. I rigged the button to "close" with a hair elastic and slid on my belly band for extra support. A long maternity tank top covered the mess. All day I dreaded my frequent trips to the bathroom because I was strapped into that outfit tighter than a tourniquet. Urged by my mother to give up the good fight, I cried, "I'm not ready!"
A lot of people are still telling me that I don't look as far along as I am. This afternoon, a very kind lady said to me, "It's all in your belly," to which I snapped and replied, "I wish, but trust me, it's not! I couldn't even fit in my pants this morning." Hopefully she understood that it was the hormones talking...
So here I sit after a day's work in the office, clad in a pair of life-saving maternity sweatpants that completely cover my swollen thighs, widened hips and newfound butt. Despite the inconvenience, I think I like this new body. Mom says I'll eventually go back to normal, but I still can't help but wonder if my low-rise days are over. I'll have so many important things to concern me as a new mother; the last thing I need to worry about it whether or not my buttcrack is fully concealed.
*************************************************************************************
Update (approx. 4 hours after original post):
For weeks I've been whining because so many people say I don't look as pregnant as I really am. Well, now it's time for me to shut my big mouth and take compliments where I can get them. I just came home from the grocery store, and as I was leaving, a friendly store employee who didn't look a day over 17 struck up a brief conversation with me.
"When are you due?"
"July 13."
"Wow, you've still got a while! You look like you're about to go really soon."
"Really?"
"Yeah. I would have guessed you've got about three weeks left."
My very first thought was, 'Ok, fella, you're adorable with your little faux-hawk and all, but tell me, how many kids have you had?!?!' Instead, I said, "Well, I wish. I'm very ready to have her. Have a good night!"
No one ever says, "You're 32 weeks? That's funny, because you look like you're exactly 32 weeks!" I thought I was sick of hearing that I look smaller, but now I'll take a compliment wherever I can get one. Soon enough, I will only have three weeks left. I'm sure by then, someone will say, "Wow! Are you having twins!"
This morning, I was getting ready to go help out my mom at her law office for the day. She told me I could dress casual and wear jeans, but I still wanted to look decent. So after I did my hair, it was time to find an outfit. For months, I've been wearing a pair of jeans that still magically fit despite my expanded waistline. Unfortunately, there's a hole in the thigh and the bottom seams are completely shredded- definitely not office-appropriate.
I dug through my drawer of jeans looking for some classy dark-washed denim. I grabbed a pair of old favorites. They slid over my feet, ankles, knees and lower thighs before coming to a screeching halt. 'Fair enough,' I thought. After the exact same thing happened with another pair, I hobbled into my mom's room, butt hanging out of my pants, and said something to the effect of, "Mom! My ass is too big for my all my pants..."
To understand the significance of this story, you have to realize that I didn't used to even really have a butt. I had bony little hip bones that jutted out from my narrow figure and wore only low-rise pants. Those same pants are now the enemy.
Two more pairs of jeans refused to yield to my new figure. The size 0 labels on every single one seemed to be mocking me as if to say, "Get over it, mama! You'll never squeeze in here again!" Finally, one last attempt barely slid over my backside. I rigged the button to "close" with a hair elastic and slid on my belly band for extra support. A long maternity tank top covered the mess. All day I dreaded my frequent trips to the bathroom because I was strapped into that outfit tighter than a tourniquet. Urged by my mother to give up the good fight, I cried, "I'm not ready!"
A lot of people are still telling me that I don't look as far along as I am. This afternoon, a very kind lady said to me, "It's all in your belly," to which I snapped and replied, "I wish, but trust me, it's not! I couldn't even fit in my pants this morning." Hopefully she understood that it was the hormones talking...
So here I sit after a day's work in the office, clad in a pair of life-saving maternity sweatpants that completely cover my swollen thighs, widened hips and newfound butt. Despite the inconvenience, I think I like this new body. Mom says I'll eventually go back to normal, but I still can't help but wonder if my low-rise days are over. I'll have so many important things to concern me as a new mother; the last thing I need to worry about it whether or not my buttcrack is fully concealed.
*************************************************************************************
Update (approx. 4 hours after original post):
For weeks I've been whining because so many people say I don't look as pregnant as I really am. Well, now it's time for me to shut my big mouth and take compliments where I can get them. I just came home from the grocery store, and as I was leaving, a friendly store employee who didn't look a day over 17 struck up a brief conversation with me.
"When are you due?"
"July 13."
"Wow, you've still got a while! You look like you're about to go really soon."
"Really?"
"Yeah. I would have guessed you've got about three weeks left."
My very first thought was, 'Ok, fella, you're adorable with your little faux-hawk and all, but tell me, how many kids have you had?!?!' Instead, I said, "Well, I wish. I'm very ready to have her. Have a good night!"
No one ever says, "You're 32 weeks? That's funny, because you look like you're exactly 32 weeks!" I thought I was sick of hearing that I look smaller, but now I'll take a compliment wherever I can get one. Soon enough, I will only have three weeks left. I'm sure by then, someone will say, "Wow! Are you having twins!"
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Less Than Ideal
Have you ever been scared to do something because you're pretty sure you're going to mess it up somehow? Like baking a cake from scratch or wielding a tattoo gun, motherhood presents a whole slew of opportunities for you to screw up.
From my excessive reading, I've learned that no matter how flawless a new mother wants to be, she will experience imperfection at one point or another. The terror, however, derives from the simple truth that children appear to be reflections of their parents. If a toddler pitches fits incessantly, people will automatically think he's not disciplined properly. If a 6-month-old baby isn't sleeping through the night, we may wonder if her sleep habits weren't controlled enough. My greatest fear is that some problem will present itself upon my daughter's birth and I will wonder if it's my fault.
On Monday, I visited my doctor and got an antibody screening for good measure. As it turns out, I'm Rh negative and they wanted to make sure my body wasn't essentially attacking my baby's blood supply. Scary, right? As it turns out, all is well and both of us are just fine, but I couldn't help but wonder if I was somehow causing her harm all week.
Despite the fact that I have absolutely no control over my blood type, that didn't stop me from feeling that I might be doing something wrong. If you've ever had a baby and felt this way, then you probably heard a number of people tell you that "everything is and will be fine. You can't control what happens... blah blah blah."
My opinion on the subject: Just because a new mother expresses fear, that doesn't make her irrational. It's how we express an overwhelming desire for our children to be healthy, happy and well-adjusted.
When I first found out I was pregnant, I felt awful because I had recently celebrated my 21st birthday with expectable levels of abandon. I remember going to my OB's office and telling her, "I drank alcohol during the first few weeks of my pregnancy. I just had no idea." I think I asked questions about whether or not I may have accidentally condemned my baby to deformity. She reassured me that many women who aren't consciously trying to conceive drink alcohol during the early weeks of their pregnancy. There's nothing you can do about it except move forward.
I know I'm going to mess up. I know that I'll probably scratch the baby or bonk her head at some point. I know I may give her some type of food that upsets her stomach. I know she might not walk at the exact number of months that she's expected to and I'll blame myself. Heck, I'm just hoping to conquer the terrible animal that appears to be breastfeeding.
As long as my daughter isn't lying on her back someday telling a psychiatrist that she blames me for any and all failures in her life, I think I'll survive this whole parenting thing.
From my excessive reading, I've learned that no matter how flawless a new mother wants to be, she will experience imperfection at one point or another. The terror, however, derives from the simple truth that children appear to be reflections of their parents. If a toddler pitches fits incessantly, people will automatically think he's not disciplined properly. If a 6-month-old baby isn't sleeping through the night, we may wonder if her sleep habits weren't controlled enough. My greatest fear is that some problem will present itself upon my daughter's birth and I will wonder if it's my fault.
On Monday, I visited my doctor and got an antibody screening for good measure. As it turns out, I'm Rh negative and they wanted to make sure my body wasn't essentially attacking my baby's blood supply. Scary, right? As it turns out, all is well and both of us are just fine, but I couldn't help but wonder if I was somehow causing her harm all week.
Despite the fact that I have absolutely no control over my blood type, that didn't stop me from feeling that I might be doing something wrong. If you've ever had a baby and felt this way, then you probably heard a number of people tell you that "everything is and will be fine. You can't control what happens... blah blah blah."
My opinion on the subject: Just because a new mother expresses fear, that doesn't make her irrational. It's how we express an overwhelming desire for our children to be healthy, happy and well-adjusted.
When I first found out I was pregnant, I felt awful because I had recently celebrated my 21st birthday with expectable levels of abandon. I remember going to my OB's office and telling her, "I drank alcohol during the first few weeks of my pregnancy. I just had no idea." I think I asked questions about whether or not I may have accidentally condemned my baby to deformity. She reassured me that many women who aren't consciously trying to conceive drink alcohol during the early weeks of their pregnancy. There's nothing you can do about it except move forward.
I know I'm going to mess up. I know that I'll probably scratch the baby or bonk her head at some point. I know I may give her some type of food that upsets her stomach. I know she might not walk at the exact number of months that she's expected to and I'll blame myself. Heck, I'm just hoping to conquer the terrible animal that appears to be breastfeeding.
As long as my daughter isn't lying on her back someday telling a psychiatrist that she blames me for any and all failures in her life, I think I'll survive this whole parenting thing.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Summer Reading
For several weeks, Roy asked me what I wanted for Mother's Day. I'm a pretty content person and will rarely ask for anything beyond food, but on Sunday afternoon I requested and promptly received Tina Fey's recently-released autobiography, "Bossypants." Enthralled by the sincerity with which she commits to self-deprication and anecdotes that made me laugh audibly, I devoured the entire book less than 36 hours after it was placed in my eager hands.
After forcing myself to hurriedly shuffle around a college campus for the first seven months of my pregnancy, I'm more than content to settle down on my mom's porch with a good book and a tall glass (or four) of black cherry Kool-Aid. On campus, I lived in a sphere and only took note of the things I could stand to let inside my bubble with me. I wouldn't quite say the bubble has burst, but I can definitely let in a lot more, like the multitude of songbirds fluttering around the balconies above my head and a subtle appreciation for extended sunlight hours.
I like to write about my life, but I also savor reading about other people. The concept of reality has been a television fad throughout the 21st century, but it's been a long-standing tradition in literature for centuries. With that in mind, I drove down the street to Barnes and Noble this afternoon to indulge my love of the written word in a huge, air-conditioned room where I can disappear among the shelves. I also just really love the smell of bookstores.
Let's not forget, however, one of my most unshakable lifestyle habits- I'm cheap. I perused the fiction, biography and parenting sections full of brand spanking new books perfectly organized by author and genre for a while, wrote down the titles of the ones I wanted to read, and made my way toward the Half-Price Books nearby.
Frugality demands a willingness to really search for what you want. Because the half-price bookstore subsists on a cycle of people bringing in their own books, the staff can never predict where in the store the books will be placed, making it a bit less organized than good ol' Barnes and Noble. I wandered around the store for a solid 45 minutes before deciding on $3 worth of books that I dug out of the clearance section. Did I mention that I sold $19 worth of books on the way in?
I was genuinely sad when I finished "Bossypants" so quickly because I loved it and wanted to read more of Tina's crafted brand of humor. Much to my delight, I now get to hunker down with "Sippy Cups Are Not for Chardonnay" by Stefanie Wilder-Taylor. Yes, I'll also be reading my $1 copy of "What to Expect: The First Year" on the side, but give me a break. Some time in the next nine weeks, I'll have a newborn and my days of gratuitous reading will be severely diminished.
My favorite thing about reading is that unlike watching a half-hour TV show, you have no idea how much time has gone by when you finish a chapter. At this rate, the following weeks will fly by and in no time, I'll have a baby girl in my arms.
After forcing myself to hurriedly shuffle around a college campus for the first seven months of my pregnancy, I'm more than content to settle down on my mom's porch with a good book and a tall glass (or four) of black cherry Kool-Aid. On campus, I lived in a sphere and only took note of the things I could stand to let inside my bubble with me. I wouldn't quite say the bubble has burst, but I can definitely let in a lot more, like the multitude of songbirds fluttering around the balconies above my head and a subtle appreciation for extended sunlight hours.
I like to write about my life, but I also savor reading about other people. The concept of reality has been a television fad throughout the 21st century, but it's been a long-standing tradition in literature for centuries. With that in mind, I drove down the street to Barnes and Noble this afternoon to indulge my love of the written word in a huge, air-conditioned room where I can disappear among the shelves. I also just really love the smell of bookstores.
Let's not forget, however, one of my most unshakable lifestyle habits- I'm cheap. I perused the fiction, biography and parenting sections full of brand spanking new books perfectly organized by author and genre for a while, wrote down the titles of the ones I wanted to read, and made my way toward the Half-Price Books nearby.
Frugality demands a willingness to really search for what you want. Because the half-price bookstore subsists on a cycle of people bringing in their own books, the staff can never predict where in the store the books will be placed, making it a bit less organized than good ol' Barnes and Noble. I wandered around the store for a solid 45 minutes before deciding on $3 worth of books that I dug out of the clearance section. Did I mention that I sold $19 worth of books on the way in?
I was genuinely sad when I finished "Bossypants" so quickly because I loved it and wanted to read more of Tina's crafted brand of humor. Much to my delight, I now get to hunker down with "Sippy Cups Are Not for Chardonnay" by Stefanie Wilder-Taylor. Yes, I'll also be reading my $1 copy of "What to Expect: The First Year" on the side, but give me a break. Some time in the next nine weeks, I'll have a newborn and my days of gratuitous reading will be severely diminished.
My favorite thing about reading is that unlike watching a half-hour TV show, you have no idea how much time has gone by when you finish a chapter. At this rate, the following weeks will fly by and in no time, I'll have a baby girl in my arms.
Monday, May 9, 2011
List of Grievances
I love being pregnant. Truly, I do. I whine about my achy breaky back and the love handles that seem to be popping up on my face to a few select people, but for the most part, I'm quite content as a mother-to-be. Every day that passes brings me closer to my daughter in an emotional and literal sense. I wouldn't trade a minute of it.
That being said, I have a few issues that I would like to address. These are my least favorite things about pregnancy in no particular order:
1. The needles.
When I was 17, I got grounded for a whole month. For no real reason, I decided piercing my own ears would be a fun way to pass the time. Mind you, they were already double-pierced, but I took it to a level that made me look like someone had taken a Bedazzler to the sides of my face. In short, needles don't normally bother me.
For whatever reason, however, I have fretted every single time a needle has touched me during my pregnancy. I hate having my blood drawn (possibly because the vein they always choose to stick me in first appears to be a dud and will not yield blood no matter how much deeper into my skin they shove the needle).
Getting shots has never bothered me. Ever. I will sit there with a calm look on my face and watch the whole thing as the nurse sticks me with whatever solution I need at the time. Until today, though, every shot I've received was in my arm. When I found out that I am Rh negative this afternoon, the physician informed me that the problem could be solved with one shot... in the hiney. I don't think I need to give a full run-down of my experience, but my right butt cheek is killing me as I type this.
2. Heartburn
Never in my life have I been a sufferer of heartburn. I think I was pushing 20 years old when I first learned that it's actually a problem with one's stomach, not the ticker. I never battled indigestion before, and the only time I can recall acid reflux was when I ate way too many barbeque chips after school one day.
These days, heartburn is almost as predictable as making 30 or more trips to the ladies room every day. If you are anything like I used to be and you don't get heartburn, let me sum it up for you: It hurts. Often, when someone notices my contorted face as I grip my chest in frustration, they tell me that heartburn means my baby will have lots of hair, which brings me to item number three...
3. Wives' Tales
If heartburn is an indication of how much hair my baby will have, then someone better be standing there with an electric razor when she comes out. Yes, she probably will have hair; I'm not carrying a naked mole rat. The truth is that most women experience heartburn during pregnancy, so when a baby is born with a full head of hair, it's easy to say, "I told you so!"
I subscribe to the theory that the whole "If... then..." concept is bogus when applied to pregnancy. Before I knew I was having a girl, a lot of people thought I would have a boy because I was "carrying low." I'm sorry, but I could have sworn that my uterus was always located in my lower pelvis, not my sternum. Some folks are still surprised that I'm having a girl because my belly apparently sits low. Frankly, I don't think I can really carry low or high. I'm just over five feet tall so my torso is roughly the length of a quality hardcover novel. There's really no room for high or low! If you still don't believe me, I have an ultrasound photo of her little baby girl parts as proof.
4. Sleep difficulties
I remember my first trimester fondly. I didn't have terrible morning sickness, but I'm pretty sure I had a temporary case of narcolepsy. I could fall asleep just about anywhere and without any warning whatsoever. Now, in my third trimester, falling asleep is a chore I dread more than vacuuming the floorboards of my car or plucking my eyebrows.
For one, I overheat like it's my job, but I feel most comfortable with the sheets pulled up to my chin. In turn, I need a fan or nearby air conditioner on while I sleep, a pain for anyone operating on a normal temperature trying to sleep in the room. Much to my chagrin, I can only sleep in two positions- left side or right side. Back in the day when my midsection was flat, I slept on my stomach every single night, face smooshed into the pillow and limbs extended like a starfish. That comfort disappeared about four months ago.
I'm convinced that the limited options for sleep positions are a biological teaching tool that forces pregnant women to sympathize with their unborn babies, who are also limited with regard to positioning. If my daughter tried to starfish in there, I think my ribs would crack. Well played, little one.
You may be thinking that I have no real reason to complain. I'm carrying a healthy baby that I will deliver in a sterile hospital environment and bring home to a lovely crib with polka dot sheets. Fair enough. My goal here was not to extract sympathy, but to point out that no matter how much I love my baby, impending motherhood brings with it some pains in the ass. I would know- I've got a Band-Aid on mine.
That being said, I have a few issues that I would like to address. These are my least favorite things about pregnancy in no particular order:
1. The needles.
When I was 17, I got grounded for a whole month. For no real reason, I decided piercing my own ears would be a fun way to pass the time. Mind you, they were already double-pierced, but I took it to a level that made me look like someone had taken a Bedazzler to the sides of my face. In short, needles don't normally bother me.
For whatever reason, however, I have fretted every single time a needle has touched me during my pregnancy. I hate having my blood drawn (possibly because the vein they always choose to stick me in first appears to be a dud and will not yield blood no matter how much deeper into my skin they shove the needle).
Getting shots has never bothered me. Ever. I will sit there with a calm look on my face and watch the whole thing as the nurse sticks me with whatever solution I need at the time. Until today, though, every shot I've received was in my arm. When I found out that I am Rh negative this afternoon, the physician informed me that the problem could be solved with one shot... in the hiney. I don't think I need to give a full run-down of my experience, but my right butt cheek is killing me as I type this.
2. Heartburn
Never in my life have I been a sufferer of heartburn. I think I was pushing 20 years old when I first learned that it's actually a problem with one's stomach, not the ticker. I never battled indigestion before, and the only time I can recall acid reflux was when I ate way too many barbeque chips after school one day.
These days, heartburn is almost as predictable as making 30 or more trips to the ladies room every day. If you are anything like I used to be and you don't get heartburn, let me sum it up for you: It hurts. Often, when someone notices my contorted face as I grip my chest in frustration, they tell me that heartburn means my baby will have lots of hair, which brings me to item number three...
3. Wives' Tales
If heartburn is an indication of how much hair my baby will have, then someone better be standing there with an electric razor when she comes out. Yes, she probably will have hair; I'm not carrying a naked mole rat. The truth is that most women experience heartburn during pregnancy, so when a baby is born with a full head of hair, it's easy to say, "I told you so!"
I subscribe to the theory that the whole "If... then..." concept is bogus when applied to pregnancy. Before I knew I was having a girl, a lot of people thought I would have a boy because I was "carrying low." I'm sorry, but I could have sworn that my uterus was always located in my lower pelvis, not my sternum. Some folks are still surprised that I'm having a girl because my belly apparently sits low. Frankly, I don't think I can really carry low or high. I'm just over five feet tall so my torso is roughly the length of a quality hardcover novel. There's really no room for high or low! If you still don't believe me, I have an ultrasound photo of her little baby girl parts as proof.
4. Sleep difficulties
I remember my first trimester fondly. I didn't have terrible morning sickness, but I'm pretty sure I had a temporary case of narcolepsy. I could fall asleep just about anywhere and without any warning whatsoever. Now, in my third trimester, falling asleep is a chore I dread more than vacuuming the floorboards of my car or plucking my eyebrows.
For one, I overheat like it's my job, but I feel most comfortable with the sheets pulled up to my chin. In turn, I need a fan or nearby air conditioner on while I sleep, a pain for anyone operating on a normal temperature trying to sleep in the room. Much to my chagrin, I can only sleep in two positions- left side or right side. Back in the day when my midsection was flat, I slept on my stomach every single night, face smooshed into the pillow and limbs extended like a starfish. That comfort disappeared about four months ago.
I'm convinced that the limited options for sleep positions are a biological teaching tool that forces pregnant women to sympathize with their unborn babies, who are also limited with regard to positioning. If my daughter tried to starfish in there, I think my ribs would crack. Well played, little one.
You may be thinking that I have no real reason to complain. I'm carrying a healthy baby that I will deliver in a sterile hospital environment and bring home to a lovely crib with polka dot sheets. Fair enough. My goal here was not to extract sympathy, but to point out that no matter how much I love my baby, impending motherhood brings with it some pains in the ass. I would know- I've got a Band-Aid on mine.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Alternate Reality Television
Succumbing to the annoyances of a cough deeply settled in my chest, I found myself channel surfing two nights ago around 7 p.m. only to stop on the Bravo network when I caught a brief glimpse of multiple baby bumps.
Little did I realize it was the opening sequence for a show called "Pregnant in Heels," a surreality show about a British woman named Rosie Pope who calls herself a maternity concierge and answers to the every whim of pregnant women who pay her a handsome fee.
The first woman the show focused on was a former model who seemed to enjoy her husband's wealth a bit too much. After suffering three miscarriages, she was pregnant with a son and had assembled a team of six people to help her through pregnancy. When Rosie expressed confusion as to why she was needed on top of everyone else, Model Mom informed her that she was there to help plan a maternity fashion show for her baby shower.
Later in the show, they auditioned pregnant models for the show, a scene that left me wrinkling my forehead at the television. "How tall are you? Can you pose for us? How far along are you?" In the end, they selected five rather rotund models for the show. I clearly can't speak for pregnant women everywhere, but you couldn't pay me to strut-waddle down a runway in heels pretending that I look just fabulous when my back feels like it's being struck by lightning. Good thing I'm only 5'1" and my modeling opportunities are non-existent.
The other focus of the show was a hardcore rock n' roll mother-to-be who lived in a small apartment with her husband who looked like he crawled out of a heavy metal music video. Rocker Mom explained that they didn't even have space for the baby and had no idea where to put him. Their home was covered in skulls, guitars and sharp objects. Needless to say, the husband was none-too-pleased when Rosie told them to make the apartment baby friendly. I believe his exact words were, "Rosie came into my house and totally disrespected my he-man sword collection." Forget the heels; this woman was pregnant in hell.
I have never pretended to be an expert on pregnancy or parenting, but I think I'm doing ok when I don't need half a dozen people at my disposal and my living space isn't full of items my baby could use for stabbing. True, I do need my parents and I haven't covered up the outlets in my room yet, but I won't be calling Rosie any time soon.
Building the Nest
For the last three years, I've lived in an all-girls dorm on the University of Kentucky campus. Yesterday, I moved out for the very last time.
I'll admit, I was a pitiful sight to see during the moving-out process. I waddled up and down the stairs for an hour and a half carrying small loads of stuff to my Jeep. Everything had to be light enough for me to carry on my own. I probably could have found help, but I'm notoriously independent. I couldn't even get a reprieve from the weather yesterday, and every single armful of stuff I carried was loaded up while the rain poured down around me. Nevermind the nasty cold I've had for the last few days. Still, I was happy.
I'll never again have to swipe my student ID to get into a building. I'm no longer sleeping on a mattress that other girls have been using since the 1970s. Teenage girls aren't teetering outside my bedroom door at 3 a.m. on Thursday nights barely able to walk in their 4-inch heels from one too many hard lemonades.
For weeks, I've been eagerly anticipating moving out of my dorm room because I knew it was a temporary residence. My daughter's crib wasn't there, nor her tiny wardrobe. I love being able to take her everywhere with me, but at 30 weeks pregnant, I want to be surrounded by the things that will help me take care of her.
On top of persistent cold symptoms, last night I was dealing with the worst bout of heartburn I've ever had. Did that stop me from putting sheets on the baby's new mattress? Nope. I also couldn't sleep until I tied each little ribbon on the bumper pad to fasten it to the bars of the crib.
Selfishly, I'm also enjoying the comforts of home. Considering how many potty breaks I have to take throughout the day, I love being able to run to the bathroom without worrying about putting on shoes first. For years, eating at home has meant fixing something in the microwave, but now I have a whole oven at my disposal. Today my mom brought home my favorite Smurf ice cream -vanilla with blue cake frosting mixed in- from the Pie and Ice Cream Kitchen nearby. It reminds me of being a little kid and becoming so enamored with a sweet treat that the rest of the world seemed to vanish. Good luck finding that in a dorm room.
At the beginning of April, I made a list of all the academic things I needed to complete by the end of the semester. I hated looking at that list because no matter how many things I checked off, there were still more tasks to remind me that I had to finish being a student before I could do the maternal things I've been itching to do for months. I've read tons of information about that nesting instinct, and I couldn't surrender to it until I abandoned my temporary nest made of concrete bricks.
My "mommy list" consists of typing up my birth plan and going to baby showers. I've also signed up to take a few classes at the hospital where I'll deliver. Apparently no matter how hard I try, I can't escape my student instinct just yet.
I'll admit, I was a pitiful sight to see during the moving-out process. I waddled up and down the stairs for an hour and a half carrying small loads of stuff to my Jeep. Everything had to be light enough for me to carry on my own. I probably could have found help, but I'm notoriously independent. I couldn't even get a reprieve from the weather yesterday, and every single armful of stuff I carried was loaded up while the rain poured down around me. Nevermind the nasty cold I've had for the last few days. Still, I was happy.
I'll never again have to swipe my student ID to get into a building. I'm no longer sleeping on a mattress that other girls have been using since the 1970s. Teenage girls aren't teetering outside my bedroom door at 3 a.m. on Thursday nights barely able to walk in their 4-inch heels from one too many hard lemonades.
For weeks, I've been eagerly anticipating moving out of my dorm room because I knew it was a temporary residence. My daughter's crib wasn't there, nor her tiny wardrobe. I love being able to take her everywhere with me, but at 30 weeks pregnant, I want to be surrounded by the things that will help me take care of her.
On top of persistent cold symptoms, last night I was dealing with the worst bout of heartburn I've ever had. Did that stop me from putting sheets on the baby's new mattress? Nope. I also couldn't sleep until I tied each little ribbon on the bumper pad to fasten it to the bars of the crib.
Selfishly, I'm also enjoying the comforts of home. Considering how many potty breaks I have to take throughout the day, I love being able to run to the bathroom without worrying about putting on shoes first. For years, eating at home has meant fixing something in the microwave, but now I have a whole oven at my disposal. Today my mom brought home my favorite Smurf ice cream -vanilla with blue cake frosting mixed in- from the Pie and Ice Cream Kitchen nearby. It reminds me of being a little kid and becoming so enamored with a sweet treat that the rest of the world seemed to vanish. Good luck finding that in a dorm room.
At the beginning of April, I made a list of all the academic things I needed to complete by the end of the semester. I hated looking at that list because no matter how many things I checked off, there were still more tasks to remind me that I had to finish being a student before I could do the maternal things I've been itching to do for months. I've read tons of information about that nesting instinct, and I couldn't surrender to it until I abandoned my temporary nest made of concrete bricks.
My "mommy list" consists of typing up my birth plan and going to baby showers. I've also signed up to take a few classes at the hospital where I'll deliver. Apparently no matter how hard I try, I can't escape my student instinct just yet.
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