Denial? No, That’s Just a River in Egypt

Last week I went to Publix and the bagger literally pointed at my stomach and said “Congratulations!” Now, I’m not saying that I don’t look pregnant – I do – and, of course, I would much rather have someone assume I’m pregnant as opposed to simply just packing on the extra pounds, but I was still slightly horrified. No one should ever accuse a woman they don’t know (or even one they do) of being pregnant. I think that when you actually spot a baby coming out of my nether regions THEN you can safely assume I’m pregnant … and not a moment sooner. And I’m sure that almost all women would be with me on this one. Being falsely accused of being pregnant is one of the most heinous crimes that could possibly be committed. Even if you are absolutely convinced a woman is knocked up I assure you – it’s just not worth the risk to say anything. (Although I should note that a former boss of mine recently informed our VP that I was “pregnant, not just fat” and I thought that was probably not the best choice of words either. I dunno, call me overly sensitive but ...)

Perhaps part of the reason I took this seemingly harmless remark about my obvious “pregnant-ness” so hard is that I’m still in complete denial that my belly is growing so rapidly. For some reason my brain hasn’t registered this – or refuses to process it – whichever. I just keep acting surprised when my stomach gets in the way of things. I knock into my kitchen counters when I’m trying to reach for something that is now, thanks to my tummy, clearly out of reach. I am thoroughly amazed when I can’t bend over easily. Heck, I even knocked some poor guy in the head with my belly when I tried to shimmy between two closely placed tables at lunch. Each time I thought “Huh, what’s happening?” before I was finally able to put the rather obvious puzzle pieces together.

But today I went to return some non-maternity dresses to Old Navy because, weirdly, they totally didn’t fit me right at all (why? They ARE my size ... that's odd) – and I was also wearing non-maternity clothes at the time (with the elastic waist on my skirt sitting well below my stomach ... you know, like how Al Bundy used to wear his pants) – when some guy in the store says to me “You 2 go ahead of me.” As I looked at him quizzically (2 of us??) he smiled and, of course, pointed to my stomach. Ah yes, me and the baby. Now I remember.

Of course I knew this would happen eventually. For awhile I was able to deny it though. In fact, the bulk of my growth thus far has sort of come in spurts. It was only a month ago that people would see me and declare “Are you sure the baby is ok in there? You barely look pregnant at all!” And so you couldn’t blame me in thinking ... HOPING ... that I’d look a little more like pregnant Princess Kate than pregnant Kim Kardashian. But, just like any tabloid “star,” the reviews of me looking “too skinny” turned quickly into deflating declarations of my rapid, burgeoning growth. Well, it was good while it lasted.

And, as someone who is now quite obviously with child, I have to say that I haven’t really been taking enough advantage of this whole “being pregnant” thing. I haven’t really played the pregnant lady card to get what I want very often at all. Thankfully someone I have no recollection of ever meeting before stopped by my office today just to tell me how big I'm getting (thanks random lady!) and it reminded me that I really should be milking this for all it's worth.

So I called and scheduled a pre-natal massage. Why not? I deserve it. (Though, did you know you have to get a doctor's note saying it's okay? I don't get it – it's just someone rubbing me, right? Do I also need to get a note saying it's okay to drive my car over speed bumps? This is madness people - madness!) And this weekend I'll also be trying out a little pre-natal yoga as well (though I really don’t know how my belly won’t get in the way of me being successful at that). But I know I should be taking this so much farther. Why am I pumping my own gas still - aren’t the fumes bad for me? GAR should be doing this for me. And I hauled in groceries yesterday with very little assistance. Why did no one offer to carry them for me? Come to think of it, should I really be forced to do anything for myself at all anymore? Where is the chivalry? The compassion? Shouldn’t everyone be doing their part to help this humongous pregnant lady out?

Or maybe I’ll just keep doing all those things but carve out a little more “me time” while I still can. That’s really more my speed. Plus, I’m not really THAT big ... you can hardly even tell ... barely ... just a little ...

 

Oh, but I did let GAR convince me that I’m entitled to use the “expectant mom” parking spots (where you can find them). I really don’t “need” to use them (not yet anyway) but this is summer in Orlando after all and I don’t want to look gigantically pregnant AND sweaty. Vanity wise that might really push me over the edge.

So here I am. Full disclosure, this photo was taken by GAR who, despite his many wonderful attributes, has never been great at getting a good belly shot of me. I am, in fact, much bigger in person than this photo lets on. That said, I am now convinced that this is the only outfit that makes me look even remotely "thin-ish" anymore and I will likely be wearing it daily from this point forward. Ha ha - no one will ever guess I'm pregnant in this dress!!

An Education that Gives Me More Than Just a Naked Ricki Lake

GAR and I have been joking for months that, despite all the apprehension and nervousness we feel about becoming first-time parents, we really have but one mission to focus on (at first) – keep the baby alive.

I think that most new parents feel this way in the beginning. After all, newborns are so tiny and frail … and their head is still soft and squishy in parts … it’s hard not to think you’re for sure going to “break” him. I mean, what do I know about caring for another human’s life? You’re just going to let me walk out of this hospital with a fragile little baby and no training? Heck, I need a permit to go fishing but not to assume total responsibility for the health and well being of a defenseless infant? It’s just wrong! You are putting your trust into the wrong hands! I drop my cell phone 10 times a day and you’re handing me this wiggling thing? Bad idea mister. Bad idea.

It really is ridiculous if you think about it. There’s nothing that occurs during the 9 months I’m carrying this baby inside of me that in any way prepares me for what it will be like to actually care for this child once he’s out of the womb and in my arms. And yet people do it every day. People who are, as a general rule, often seemingly much LESS capable than I. People who qualify as adults merely due to their age in physical years, not in mental ones. And yet somehow, miraculously, their kids survive (I’m not saying they raise them well or serve as great role models or what have you – that is a post for another day – but in the sheer matter of keeping the baby alive they are able to succeed). So surely, SURELY, mine will too.

So perhaps babies are slightly more hearty and resilient than I imagine. Nonetheless, I do think it’s still my job to go ahead and educate myself on how to care for my baby now. This seems like the type of information I should know … even if, oddly, there is no law, rules or regulations requiring me to do so. I guess I’m just a real nerd like that. But it seems I’m not alone in my pursuit of knowledge on this topic. When I went online to sign up for prenatal classes at the hospital I found that they were booked for weeks to come. I am, it seems, dreadfully behind already!

Well, actually, that’s not exactly true. Not ALL of the classes were full. In fact, the “basic infant care” class which, per my reasons stated above, seems like to most critical one to take for first timers like GAR and myself, had lots of availability. Tons of openings. Apparently everyone else who’s pregnant knows exactly what they’re doing and thinks caring for a new swaddling dependent will be a breeze … a task that requires no training. No, in fact the class that was so full I had to schedule it a little too close to my due date for comfort is the all-day “childbirth preparation” class (though I am still uncertain why a class on giving birth, which is, relatively speaking, a fairly small part of the whole “having a child” equation is 8 hours and the class for actually caring for said baby in the months and years that follows is a mere 2 hours. But it’s not my place to question such things when I am, thus far, completely uninitiated into the club of people who know about this stuff).

This has led me to one, fairly major, conclusion – people are more concerned about physical labor pains than they are about the years of labor they’ll endure once that pain has passed. And by “concerned” I really mean “terrified.” Perhaps they’ve reached the same conclusion I have – that people everywhere manage to keep their kids alive, surely they can do the same. Perhaps they think they don’t need training for that part. But, if there’s one thing that every first time mother seems to be completely flabbergasted about it’s how she’s going to fit that giant (albeit squishy) head and broad shoulders through such a small opening … and how to minimize the pain and trauma it will surely bring about. And she wants as much information as possible about it.

But I don’t. Actually, the less I know the better. Now, it must be stated that I am not one who is of a delicate deposition. I am not too bothered by blood and pain and all the gross, horrifying stories people just love to tell you about childbirth. I am not naïve about it. I get it. I know what happens. I know it hurts like Hell. I am harboring no grand delusions about it. But, aside from the basics, I don’t really feel like I want to think about it too much in advance. The day will come when it must be done and, by the end of that day … or the next (or so) … it will be done. So why worry myself about it? I mean, one way or another that baby is coming out of me. And even if I have no clue what I’m doing, I will (lest I’m trapped due to a hurricane or some other unforeseen freak occurrence) be surrounded by trained professionals who DO know what they’re doing. And that’s a heck of a lot more than I can say for what things will be like once I check out of the hospital and GAR and I are truly on our own to figure this whole “parenting” thing out for ourselves.

So, while I am worried sick about how to care for a newborn, I am not too concerned about childbirth itself. In the grand scheme of things it’s really the very least of my worries (and, using my same logic as before, I’ve known plenty of true wimps who’ve made it through the ordeal just fine. If they can do it I am quite confident that I can as well). And, if I weren’t such a geek about being educated, I wouldn’t even take the childbirth class at all. I mean, why discuss and worry about things that are, to some degree, out of my control? But of course I signed us up anyway. You know, gotta learn all those breathing techniques that I’ll never actually be calm enough to perform when it comes time to use them. Heck, I’m sure we’ll be so rattled that I’ll be lucky if GAR even remembers how to drive me to the hospital when my water breaks (or doesn’t break – I’m sure I’ll learn all about what can, or may not, happen in my class). In this case, getting there really may be half the battle. So at least this class will, if nothing else, serve as a nice trial run for getting from our house to the hospital. And that’s almost worth the price of admission.

Plus, I am strangely curious to check out the food selection in the cafeteria. While it’s not exactly the same as checking into a luxury hotel for a couple days I know I will, at some point after I managed to get that baby out of me, be wanting to nosh on something. Now THAT is the part of childbirth that truly terrifies me – the cafeteria food!

Now if you’ll excuse me I’ve decided to start off this whole education business with a little private “at home” viewing of some DVDs I’ve been given. But, as I said, I’m really trying to stick to the ones that highlight how to care for an actual baby. I already watched a documentary that showed Ricki Lake’s natural homebirth. Like I said, I’m not too squeamish generally, but naked Ricki Lake truly is a sight that cannot be unseen. Wish me better luck with this batch of videos!

Damn It Jim, There’s Not Enough Time!

So I saw the latest “Star Trek” movie this weekend (hence the title of this post and the reference to someone named “Jim” who, for the purposes of what I’m talking about here, doesn’t really exist). Nonetheless, the “there’s not enough time” feeling is really overcoming me at the moment and there’s no better therapy than putting off all those things I don’t have time to do and using that time to tell you about how stressed I am about not having enough time (got it? Also, apologies to my husband, the mental health professional, who would likely argue that there are, indeed, MUCH better therapy options … options which he gets paid a pretty penny for).

You see, something monumental has happened – I have entered my third (and final) trimester. GASP!! PANIC! FREAK OUT!!!

Yes, I know I was experiencing all these same emotions in my last post, so please forgive me for belaboring (pun intended) the point, but this new milestone has sent me headlong into true meltdown mode as I try to feebly craft a list of “must dos” for my life over the next 12 weeks (assuming the wee one stays tucked inside until his due date, which is always the variable you just can’t really fully prepare for completely). And, of course, people just LOVE to tell me stories about how their baby came a month, two months early – cue the hyperventilation!

And all of this has led me to one conclusion … something I’ve known for a long time actually but have been afraid to come right out and admit to openly – that I have serious control issues.

Now, if you know me you’re likely laughing right now saying “Isn’t that cute? Like EVERYONE didn’t already know that.” And you’re right. It’s no big secret. If you’re not playing kickball the way that I like I will take my ball and go home. At work I am less than cooperative about giving up ownership of any projects and will drown myself in extra hours of hurried typing to get everything done on my own rather than share the burden with anyone else. And at home? At home I demand nothing but perfection from poor GAR and constantly agonize about everything in my residence that is not completely up to my standards (which, if you’ve read my previous posts, you would know is just about everything).

Oh sure, there have been some ways in which I’ve been able to “let go” a little. And, yes, having “perfect” home is a big one. GAR and I have been living under construction for 3 years now and, in general, I have accepted this fact and even, for the most part, embraced it. But, call it crazy pregnancy hormones … or some buried nesting instincts finally poking their way to the surface … but lately I have been less than thrilled about the “partially finished” nature of everything around me. What I used find exciting and full of adventure when it comes to home improvement now feels like a burden as I frantically race to get it “all” done before baby arrives. Everyday my list of “honey dos” grows exponentially and yet the countdown until baby’s b-day is constantly getting smaller. I know it won’t all get done in time. I know I’m setting myself up for failure by pressing for it all to get done in time. I know that most of it doesn’t even NEED to get done in time because, let’s face it, this kid needs little more than milk, shelter and a place to sleep (but did I mention that we don’t have our crib yet? Aggghhhh!!!) so, really, I need to cut myself some slack here.

But I can’t. I won’t. I keep driving myself nuts insisting that everything be exactly how I want it. I keep trying to control it. But I can’t. And I realize that I’m going to have quite a lot of things that are out of my control soon … so what I really need is to learn to let it go (some of it anyway). But how?

If you were an avid watcher of the show “Friends” like I was you may recall that Monica had similar problems “letting go” when she and Chandler were starting a family. This is one of my favorite parts that I still think of and it makes me laugh.

Monica: It's just, I think, there's never gonna be a right time to have a baby. I mean, now you're unemployed and in a little while you'll find a new job that'll keep you really busy. There's always gonna be a reason not to do this, but I think once the baby comes, forget about all those reasons.
Chandler: I guess. It's always gonna be scary when we have a baby.
Monica: It's gonna be really scary. I mean, god. When we have a baby, there's gonna be so much that we're not able to control. I mean, the apartment's gonna be a mess, I won't have time to clean it. What if the baby gets into the ribbon drawer? Messes up all the ribbons?! What if there's no room for a ribbon drawer, because the baby's stuff takes up all the space!? Where will all the ribbons go!?!
Chandler: Should we go make a baby right now before you change your mind?
Monica: Yes, please!

So here I am, trying to get my ribbon drawer in order, but I also know that soon I’ll have much bigger fish to fry and that ribbon organization will just have to take a backseat. But it is a total mental shift. And I think that, just as my baby will be growing and learning each day, I’m going to have to approach this whole thing as a learning opportunity for myself as well. He is going to have complete control over me – when I eat, when I sleep (if at all), when I shower – you name it. He shall be my tiny little Christian Grey (without the S&M stuff and billions of dollars), controlling me and acting as my puppet master, and I will have to do as he wishes – ribbon drawer be damned! And if I think there’s not enough time to get it “all” done before he gets here well then I am in for a rude awakening about how much time I’ll have to get anything at all done once he is here.

Perhaps it’s best to start with baby steps. To accept that there will never, ever again in all of my life, be time for everything, and that these next 12 weeks (give or take – but, seriously kid, try to stay in there for 10 more at least, okay?) of feeling like I’m behind … feeling out of control … feeling like something’s got to give – that THIS is how it will always be from now on. This is just the loss of control that happens before I totally lose control forever. And it’s best if I learn how to embrace it – just like I learned how to embrace living in a house that’s in a constant state of upheaval – because that’s my life now and, when I look at it, that’s what I really want. I want a crazy, hectic, somewhat insane life full of diapers, playtime and bedtime stories, even if I know that also means dirty dishes in the sink, unplucked weeds poking through the cracks in the driveway and home improvement projects that have long ago fallen by the wayside.

Still, if I could just get a few ribbons organized first that would be great. You hear that kid? Just a little more time. No rush.

In the meantime, please enjoy these adorable photos of my niece that I took while in Michigan this weekend (while I was away and, therefore, not accomplishing everything on my “to do” list at home). It’s hard to believe that soon she’ll have an even more bitty cousin!

The Great American Nest-Off

Not that it’s a competition or anything, but my husband is totally out-“nesting” me.

To tell you the truth, I’ve been doing a pretty poor job of nesting in general (unless you count the completely out of my control act of growing a baby inside me as nesting … in which case, I guess I’m “doing” a lot … while not actively doing much at all). GAR, on the other hand, has become a man on a mission. He is determined to make our nest (a.k.a. our home) the perfect place for our baby to grow. His home improvement efforts, both big and small, have really ramped up these past few weeks/months. In fact, at times it’s hard to convince him to leave our “nest” at all on the weekends because he is either working on a project or tired from working on a project.

I, on the other hand, am torn. While I don’t want to disrupt his makeover mojo, and I’m certainly more than overjoyed to see him embrace some of the projects he’d normally avoid, I’m also keenly aware of the fact that our time to simply enjoy life as a twosome is quickly slipping by us. And, while I’m somewhat limited on the types of activities I can still participate in (and the energy with which I have to actually enjoy said activities), I feel the need to balance my time spent nesting with time doing impulsive activities that, in the future, would require a babysitter and potentially weeks of advance planning.

So I’ve been doing what I do best – activity planning. Last weekend I took GAR to the beach and Memorial Day Weekend I’m flying up to Michigan to see my family (and my niece – squeal! I love that little baby pumpkin), and this weekend I’m even dragging GAR to a movie double feature because, even though we’re not people who go to the movies very often at all, I always hear parents complain about not being able to go out to the theater anymore. Truth be told though, I won’t miss going to the movies per se, but there are a lot of freedoms I know I will miss – and I’m desperately trying to cram everything in before it’s “too late.” In a way I’ve had this “kids make it impossible to do anything ‘fun’ and selfish anymore” mentality my whole life – which is why I’ve waited until my mid-30s to have a child in the first place. And, frankly, if biology didn’t set a time limit on me I would probably still be holding out … saying I’m not ready … becoming the oldest mom in human history (okay, not quite, but you get my point).

GAR, on the other hand, seems to have already settled into “daddyhood.” He appears content to build our nest and wait for the egg to hatch. And my lord I love him for it. I NEED one of us to be the semi-settled down one in this equation and he is much more suited for it than I am. And, when I do drag him to the beach … or a theme park … or a roller derby match-up … wherever – he passes the time by saying “I can’t wait until we can bring our baby here.” He’s not even thinking about being in the here and now, he’s already thinking – dreaming – about the future. And it’s so darn cute. Totally naïve and unrealistic about what life will really be like with a newborn, but so, so very cute. He’s excited, just as I’m excited – we just handle this excitement in different ways (mine more resembles a quiet panic … but I promise it’s really just unbridled enthusiasm MIXED with a healthy dose of freaking out).

So I’m trying to nest along with him. I started a little “clean out the kitchen” project weeks ago that I’ve been moving forward on at a snail’s pace (I mean, I try … but shelf paper is really not that exciting, whether I’m nesting or not). And when I actually tally up all the things I want to get done before baby arrives I realize that I really should be in full-on mega nesting mode if I ever want to get it all done in time (or, realistically, I should be giving GAR even MORE to do around the house. But I doubt I could tear him away from the projects he deems necessary for baby – like building a toy abacus practically from scratch … because our infant, who will have few motor skills or the ability to hold his head up on his own, will no doubt need an ancient mathematical calculation device immediately upon birth. Yes, THIS is truly a critical thing to get done).

But there is one nesting instinct that has hit me hard and, frankly, it’s one that shocks me to my core – I can’t stop baking. It’s a compulsion really, and it’s totally new territory for me. I mean, I’m baking things I don’t even really like – all the time – and I have no idea where these urges come from. A year ago I wouldn’t even have been able to tell you if we owned a cupcake pan (or a rolling pin … or flour …), and now I’m whipping up something a few times a week. I would chalk it up to pregnancy cravings but that’s not quite right … it’s more like pregnancy has kicked into high gear some sort of previously unbeknownst to me domestication gene that has long been repressed inside of me. I get knocked up and wham – I’m freakin’ Betty Crocker all of a sudden. I truly am barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen. Hmmm … Perhaps this whole motherhood thing won’t be so foreign to me after all. It looks like maybe I’m already becoming a little more “mom-ish” every day (minus the short haircut, high-waisted jeans and lack of knowledge on current pop culture).

What I really need, however, is to get off my ever-expanding, cookie loving arse, stop playing cruise director as I try to cram endless pre-baby activities into my social calendar and, you know, sign up for a child birthing class … or maybe even read a book about what to do when this baby actually arrives (as opposed to spending all my time reading novels for pleasure because I know I won’t have time for such frivolities in just a few months) … and simply “prepare” myself for really becoming a mother. But I have to get there mentally first.

Maybe tomorrow. Tonight I’m going to hit the hay early – after all, I need to stock up on future missed sleep now, right?

Now You See Him, Now You Don’t

I’m fairly certain my baby is Dwight Schrute.

I have to be honest, I’ve struggled with whether or not I wanted to write this post for some time. I generally try to keep things on this blog lighthearted and, frankly, the subject I’m about to explore is not a “fun” one. In fact, my doctor is so absolutely against people ever knowing about my Dwight Schrute baby that he reminds me at every appointment that I must never tell anyone – ANYONE – about it. And yet, it’s exactly his persistence on this subject that makes me more and more certain that I have to let others know about it.

How do I know I’m carrying a mini future paper salesman inside me? Do I suddenly have an unquenchable desire to devour and/or plant beets? Do my ultrasound pictures depict a fetus wearing a yellow hued button-up shirt with short sleeves? Not quite. But for those of you who are not avid watchers of “The Office” (and even for those of you who are but require a small refresher), I give you this evidence:

Yes, much like the not-so-loveable Dwight Schrute, our dear little boy also began his life as a twin. And (also like Dwight) we watched on ultrasounds as this twin disappeared and was reabsorbed by our one, remaining fetus (whether this will one day give our son the strength of a grown man and a tiny baby is yet to be determined however). This is actually the result of a relatively common thing that happens to women who are pregnant with multiples. It’s generally referred to as Vanishing Twin Syndrome. While the reasons that it happens to any individual are partially unknown, the general consensus on the subject is that, for whatever reason, the “weaker” baby is unable to make it full term and, therefore, is naturally weeded out through a process of womb-based natural selection.

Generally this happens very early on in a pregnancy (in my case at around 8 weeks pregnant), though I’m sure when it happens later on it can be even more traumatic for everyone involved. And, while we now know that it’s actually a fairly common occurrence, since early ultrasounds are not performed on everyone (and since they are a relatively “new” thing to do in general), there’s really no way of knowing just how often this happens. Any one of us could have also started life as a twin (or triplet) and we’d never know. Without an early ultrasound to show you that yes, you were at one point carrying more than one baby, there aren’t necessarily any signs that this was ever the case. Nonetheless, it’s estimated that upwards of 30% of twin pregnancies end up resulting in Vanishing Twin Syndrome. And, due to the increased number of multiples conceived through assisted reproductive technologies (like my own little fetus was), this number is even higher for women who didn’t conceive their baby naturally (upwards of 50% in these cases).

So, now that I’ve bored you to death with some medical lingo let me get to the real point of why I decided to write about this today. In short, I wanted to tell you about this because it’s something that happens … it’s even, relatively speaking anyway, “normal.” And yet, no one ever talks about it. When GAR and I went in for our first ultrasound and learned we were pregnant with twins our doctor (at the time we were still seeing a fertility specialist) told us that, in her professional opinion, the one baby was just too much smaller and weaker than the other to survive. She told us this casually, and repeatedly indicated (in not so many words) that it’s “no big deal” and is “quite common” and sent us on our way. I, of course (despite the many years of medical work in her favor), was skeptical. So what if one baby was smaller? He/she had a heartbeat … I could see him/her on the ultrasound … surely I just needed to eat more and take it easy while this second baby “caught up” size wise.

So I gorged myself on enormous quantities of pad thai (and assorted meals composed of “pregnancy super foods” I had researched, of course), plopped myself on the couch to rest and willed my second little embryo to absorb everything he/she needed to survive. But it didn’t work. At our next ultrasound the bitty twin was just as small and, this time, he/she had no heartbeat. Despite my best efforts I couldn’t do a thing to “save” my baby’s twin and, realistically, there really never is anything I could have done. There had been no warning. No adverse symptoms. The other baby was simply “gone.” Again I was told by my doctor, without any mincing of words, that this is normal and nothing to concern myself about because yay! – You are having a baby!!!

But, truth be told, I was a bit broken up about it (and GAR was even more devastated than I was because he really believed we could “fix” this … whereas I had done my research and knew it was a long shot). GAR and I had only wanted one child but, nonetheless, to have 2 (even if only for a short time) and “lose” one felt incredibly sad. However, we made a choice – and that choice was to allow ourselves to feel sad about it but not overwhelming so. Instead we chose to focus on that same facts our doctor did – the fact that we are, after all, having a baby. And, really, nothing could make us feel any more ecstatic than that.

Nonetheless, since I had done some research on the matter, I knew that not everyone who experiences Vanishing Twin Syndrome handles it as well. On internet chat rooms and discussion boards I found countless women who were absolutely inconsolable about their loss. The lack of understanding around the subject was evident with every story I read and, since doctors all seem to share this same “it’s totally normal and nothing for you to fret about” philosophy, I saw that women who experience this aren’t getting the moral support they need around this subject either. On one hand the doctors are right – this is common. There is nothing you can do about it. That baby was never going to make it. And, yes, you SHOULD be allowed to feel happy about the baby you are having. But, as common as this problem is, it’s so little known that, as parents to be, we never even realize it’s a possibility and, therefore, we’re completely mentally unprepared for how to handle this when it does happen. And often we feel “guilty” celebrating the fact that we’re having a baby when, in fact, we know inside that we once were carrying two.

Our only knowledge of Vanishing Twins (if we have any knowledge at all) are of characters like Dwight – controlling little weirdoes who we can just imagine devouring their twin in utero in their first unborn act of dominance. And for this I do blame the elaborate cover-up that doctors like mine are orchestrating. While my current doctor means well when he tells me not to ever tell anyone about this I do think it does more harm than good. He is concerned that someday one of you will tell my son that he was supposed to be a twin and that it will upset him. And he’s right about that. This could happen and it WOULD be upsetting … not the least because, as I just explained to you, realistically, he was never going to be a twin – his brother or sister was never going to make it. So why torture him by even bringing it up? But, where he’s wrong is that, if I don’t talk about it, people will continue to have no idea that this sort of thing happens. And I think people should know.

For awhile whenever a nurse would look at my chart she’d exclaim “Congrats on the twins!” and I’d have to explain to her that no, I’m not having twins anymore. I didn’t get upset about it really. But my doctor did. He was concerned it would upset me and so, again in my “best interest,” he removed any reference to my “other baby” from my chart. I didn’t know that you could just delete someone’s personal medical records like that, but he did. And now, on an ultrasound, there’s just one baby – my healthy baby boy – that can be seen. The other fetus has, as the name suggests, “vanished.” So now there’s really no record of that baby’s existence. And that’s what really bothers me. After all, as I said before, there really aren’t great stats on just how common Vanishing Twin Syndrome is and here is at least one case (and I’m guessing there’s many more since this same doctor sees many women who have experienced this – does he remove all evidence from all of our charts?) that won’t be tracked – can’t be included in the stats – either.

GAR asked me the other day if I ever think about our “other baby” and we both agreed that sometimes we do. I imagine it’s the same for anyone who’s ever “lost” a child, although I can’t even begin to comprehend the pain one feels to have suffered a full miscarriage or abortion. It must be truly heartbreaking in a way that I, frankly, don’t know how I’d be strong enough to handle. Thankfully, for those who have experienced that sort of loss there is a great deal of public understanding (well, maybe not so much for abortions – a mentality that needs rethinking in a big way that I can’t even begin to explore here) and many support options. As for me and GAR, we have certainly been able to keep our focus on the positive and we are nothing but excited for the upcoming arrival of our son. But we have kept the early, teeny little ultrasound pics of “Fetus B” … tucked away in a filing drawer. Our reams and reams of ultrasound photos for our now solo fetus – from tiny lima bean up to our baby’s current “Barbie” size (though I doubt he’s got those unrealistic proportions … those size knockers on a male infant would be downright disturbing) – are now too numerous to hang all on our fridge door, but we’ve still got at least a dozen on display. And when I think that, in just a few short months, they’ll all be replaced with photos of our newborn I could pretty much just dance with glee (although, really, GAR is the one who’s more likely to break into a random “jig of joy” – a pretty common occurrence for him).

And while I joked about Dwight earlier, I doubt our baby will be born with a giant forehead, poor eyesight and an unreasonable hatred for anyone named “Jim.” But for certain he will be hell-bent on dominating our hearts. And in that he will succeed.

Mama’s Boy

If you couldn’t tell by last post, I’m not the type of gal who’s particularly impressed by “macho” men (though I do greatly enjoy the song “Macho Man,” and I saw the Village People in concert this weekend so I’m still pumped from that – whoo!) In fact, while I wrote about some ways in which some parents are failing their sons by raising them to be too aggressive, too bullyish and, well, just too “dickish” in general, I could write volumes upon volumes more about the ways in which parents fail their daughters who are inexplicably attracted to this sort of Neanderthal, chest-banging “protector” of a man.

So, obviously, I’m more the type of woman who appreciates the softer, kinder, dare I say delicate, aspects of men. As a modern, strong, independent woman I’ve never felt I needed a man to be my savior in any way, and I’m strongly turned off by any man I view as domineering or controlling in any manner (clearly I did NOT see what all the fuss was about with the “50 Shade of Grey” series). But, okay, I’ll admit it, this has led me to really make some piss poor decisions in my dating life as well. Instead of dating strong, masculine, corporate ladder climbing assholes I spent far too many years schlepping along with some real (for lack of a more politically correct way of saying this) mamby pamby losers. I overcorrected in many ways and wasted years dating men who were simply too much of a pushover, who lacked drive of any kind, who not only didn’t stand up for me, but who didn’t stand up for themselves long enough to not be totally walked all over, who were too “sensitive” and, worst of all, I dated oh so many mama’s boys.

In addition to hearing everyone tell me that boys are so “easy” to raise, people also tell me all the time that it’s great I’m having a boy because “boys love their mamas!” Awww… Well isn’t that so true? But, I mean, doesn’t (most) every child love his/her mother? Granted, I think during some of my teenage years my mother wasn’t really seeing (or hearing) the love from me, but it was still there. Perhaps boys appear to love their mamas so much more because, as I said in my last post, moms tend to go a little easier on their sons than their daughters. Case in point (to use a reference that, if you’re of my generation, you should easily identify with): On “90210,” when Brandon tells his parents he lost his virginity his Dad takes him out for a game of friendly basketball, has a brief chat with him where he loosely mentions being responsible and then, essentially, gives him a congratulatory pat on the back. Flash forward to the episode where these same parents learn that Brenda is sleeping with her boyfriend and, instead of taking her out for a manicure and some “girl talk” about being responsible, they threaten to file statutory rape charges against her boyfriend Dylan for sleeping with her (with her consent). Well, gee, if I was Brandon I sure would “love” my mama/dada a heck of a lot more than Brenda was “lovin’” her parents at that moment.

While certainly I want my son to love me and, selfishly, I would not so secretly love it if he did grow up to be a complete and utter mama’s boy (oh I know, no woman could ever live up to ME darling … now let me make you your favorite spaghetti that only I know how to make the way you really like it), I know that I’d be doing a great disservice to him (and to his future wife – or husband, I don’t want to make any assumptions) if I didn’t try to steer him somewhere down the middle … to help him grow up to become someone that’s neither a complete macho man or a wimpy, unable to let go of my dress hem, mama’s boy.

At the risk of inflating GAR’s ego to epic proportions, I essentially want to our son to grow up to be just like his Dad. While I suppose this is where some boys go wrong (with the whole “no son of mine is going to play with dolls! Stop crying – men don’t cry!” type of “be a man like your father” mentality), our child should be so lucky as to grow up to be just like Dad – intelligent, independent, thoughtful, rational, successful, strong and a really fantastic husband. GAR is soft and mushy in all the “right” ways while still being smart, forceful when necessary, passionate about important things, and towing that line between steamrolling others to get what he wants without managing to get walked all over by anyone. Thankfully our son will have GAR around to be this great example for him (even if he will pick up some really terrible tv watching habits as well – I mean, all-day viewing sessions of “Maury?” … And I may never, ever get to live in a house where the toilet seats are put back to their correct position – 4+ years of training and I still haven’t gotten my way on that one). And with GAR serving as a great male role model maybe I can spend more of my time just focusing on, you know, making sure my son is the kind of boy who fits the cliché and really does “love his mama!” (within healthy limits, of course).

And maybe we’ll also be a little stereotypical and get him playing football too (or, if GAR gets his way, rugby … just like his Dad played in college). It couldn’t hurt. After all, the first thing every sports star does when he makes it big is buy his mama a house, right? But don’t worry, in the spirit of keeping him well rounded we’ll also teach him chess and enroll him in ballet (or, again, if he really wants to be like Dad he’ll take tap lessons so they both can “shuffle off to buffalo” together), okay?

If our son does grow up to be like his Dad he could be a published author...

A doctor (of the brain, like Dad ... or simply handy at home improvement - after all, he'll certainly be making LOTS of trips to Home Depot with us over the years) ...

Or maybe he'll be athletic, even if he is a little on the "short" side like his Dad ...

But not afraid to flaunt some awesome moves on the dance, or roller skating, floor ...

And mock sophisticated enough to enjoy a cheap glass of wine while dressed in a sports coat and t-shirt with a tie painted onto it ...



On second thought, maybe I should put a little more focus on raising him to be like his mother.

Boys Will Be Boys

These are 4 words that, when spoken together in this order, make me cringe (okay, so technically they are only 3 words, with 1 word used twice, but you get my point). And, now that we know (pretty much) definitively that GAR and I are, indeed, having a boy (ha ha! I was right! The “angle of the dangle” doesn’t lie!) I’m guessing that I’ll hear these words a lot. And it will take every ounce of control I have in my body not to scream when it happens.

Though I may be over generalizing here, I’ll say it anyway – it’s this “boys will be boys” attitude that parents use when raising their sons that’s responsible for so much of what’s wrong with the grown “men” I encounter in society on a daily basis.

You have no idea how many times I’ve been told that raising a boy is soooo much easier than raising a girl. And, while it’s true that I’ve yet to raise a single child and, therefore, my opinion on such things generally can’t be trusted, I still feel rather confident in declaring that statement total hogwash – raising ANY child, and raising him/her “well,” is very, very hard. In addition to teaching our children the basics and nurturing their intellectual growth we also have to teach them how to be good people … how to grow up to become a functioning, contributing, well-rounded, considerate and an all-around kick-ass adult someday. And this is hard because, let’s face it, as we look around there are a ton of really shitty adults out there setting examples for everyone to see.

And it all probably started when they were kids.

Once, years ago, a coworker brought her young son into my office because he had been kicked out of daycare for biting. While in our office he was really beating up on his mom and dad – slapping, kicking, ramming his toys brutally into their shins and making loud explosion sounds – nothing out of the ordinary for a child exploring his boundaries really. But his mother didn’t once correct him. She stated that they were choosing to ignore this behavior instead of rewarding it with attention (even if that attention was negative). Certainly this is one school of thought of raising children, and I’m neither agreeing nor disagreeing with it right now – just stating it here. But suddenly this child turned towards me and punched me right in my stomach. I wasn’t sure how to respond. For one thing it hurt like Hell, but should I ignore it as his mother wishes? After all, isn’t punching strangers where you draw the line? But before I could even react everyone else in the room began to laugh and my favorite words were uttered: “Ha! Boys will be boys, won’t they?”

Yes, yes they will. If that’s how we believe boys SHOULD be acting. While this sort of behavior is normal for children of both genders I’ve noticed that a little girl who pinches or bites or even so much as shouts out in a manner that’s considered too loud is scolded or told she’s been “unladylike,” whereas a boy who does such things is generally treated much less harshly. This is just one small example of what I mean here, but you can no doubt see the general point I’m trying to make – people say that raising a boy is easier because we expect less of them in so many ways (and then we expect sooo much more of them when they’re adults and running for president and whatnot – it’s a weird way of thinking that I’ve never really understood). Or, at the very least, we associate things like roughhousing and rowdiness, which are normal “kid” behaviors, as being “boy” behaviors and, thus, when boys do them we find them less objectionable, less in need of “correction,” than when a little girl does them.

I guess my point is this – boys aren’t a single bit easier to raise. If you want them to grow up to not exhibit these behaviors later in life you can’t laugh them off with a “boys will be boys” mentality when they’re young. In fact, I think raising my son to be kind, caring, gentle and yet also emotionally very strong will be incredibly hard because everywhere he goes outside of this house he will be given the green light by others to “act like a boy” in all these other (in my opinion) unhealthy ways.

My mother-in-law said to me once that she was so glad she had 2 sons because she never had to worry about them “getting in trouble.” Since my own dear, sweet, wonderful husband has seen the inside of a jail cell a time or two (while still under the care of his ever watchful mother), I can only assume that by “get in trouble” she really meant that he couldn’t get knocked up. While there’s no denying that this IS a perk of being born with man bits it sort of leaves out a very important fact – that boys can get GIRLS pregnant (in fact, that’s generally how it works). And it’s exactly that sort of laissez-faire philosophy that mothers of sons have about teaching their children about responsible sexual practices that is why every mother/father of a daughter lives in constant fear every time they let their teenager out of their sight for more than 5 minutes.

I am very much looking forward to raising my little man (and I do already think of him that way, as a “little man” who will someday be a “big man” and it’s my job to raise him to be the type of man that deserves respect), but I’m not laboring under any delusions that it will ever be even remotely “easy.” Parenthood is full of so many challenges and, let’s face it, I don’t have a freakin’ clue what I’m doing (nor do I even really have a handle on what challenges I’ll even be faced with – and I’ll probably never see most of them coming). It’s an incredible adventure that I am excited and nervous and overwhelmingly overjoyed to begin. I love my son so much already and I can’t wait to bring him into this world and show it to him. And, no, I’m not always going to be his best friend. He’s not always going to fill me with incredible pride with all of his actions and decisions. But I can’t wait for both of us to learn from our mistakes, try again and emerge as better people. To me this is what raising a child, any child, is really all about.

Oh, and I’m sure I’m going to screw it all up – bad. We all do. And he’ll hate me and resent me for all the things I didn’t get right – that ungrateful little fetus that he is. But damn it if I won’t try my very hardest every step of the way … and maybe start buying wine in bulk … I’m sure they’ll be plenty of times in my future when I’ll need it!