Jul
9
July 9, 2007
I forgot to mention in the previous post that while it was more than a little thrilling to get an ultrasound so early and confirm there is a real living baby in there (well, I guess it could have been a blob of bean-shaped Silly Putty, I suppose there’s no real way to be certain) it came at a very high cost: I had to also get a pelvic exam. From an intern. A female intern, thank god, but she was MY AGE. Or possibly younger—she certainly had nicer skin, probably from being around lubricant all day.
I know it shouldn’t really matter who is wedging a freezing cold speculum in my hinterlands, as long as they’re qualified and have a decent bedside manner, but still. Awkward. I like a comfortable age buffer between me and my stirrup partner, is all I’m saying.
Is it weird to be told you’re going to have a Pap smear, and immediately panic because you didn’t know ahead of time? I had this feeling like I should have spruced up the place, maybe put a little welcome mat out in front. Because during that cringeworthy moment when they get you all spread-eagle and yoink that light over to get a better look—all I can think is, where’s an airbrusher when you need one. If ever there was a time for a selective real-life Gaussian blur, it’s when someone’s aiming a bright light at your embarrassed naked vagina, that’s when.
Also, am I the only dork who breaks out in nervous hyena giggles during a breast exam? It’s not the boob handling that gets me, it’s the part where they briefly root in your armpit. Every time I sternly tell myself I am NOT going to laugh, and every time I crack up like a sixth grader in astronomy class (Uranus, huh huh huh huh). “Ticklish?” the Youthful Intern asked.
“HAR!” I replied, suavely.
The best part was how my doctor came in during the exam, and proceeded to have a totally chatty conversation with me while I was lying there on my back with my southern exposure all, you know, exposed. The doctor’s going, “So! Did you get that tan around here or were you on vacation?” and at the same time the intern’s got half her arm and possibly also a lacrosse racket up my lady parts.
The visit was basically fraught with humiliation right from the get-go, when they first called me in and a nurse presented me with two cups and a Byzantine set of instructions: “I’ll need approximately this much urine in this cup, and then if you can stop the stream, wipe with this, and resume urinating into this cup, and then I’ll need about this much.” Yeah, just TRY not to pee on yourself when you’re dutifully following those steps—you can wash all you want, but the fact remains that you peed on your own hand, jesus, it was all warm.
In summary: ultrasound = good, remainder of appointment = somewhat lacking in the personal dignity department.
Jul
9
July 9, 2007
I occasionally do some freelance writing for a Large Producer of Consumer Goods, typically short articles that get published on one of their websites or sent out in newsletters. The topics are always parenting related, and I often find myself producing all sorts of expert advice on subjects I know almost nothing about. Once I wrote a whole chirpy piece on how to curtail the mess caused by small children—as though my own house doesn’t look as though a Toys R Us exploded in the living room, as though my kitchen floor doesn’t show the remnants of a thousand dropped banana slices, as though we don’t rely on the bottom of Riley’s shirt to keep his nose clean. Please.
My latest assignments have all been pregnancy-related, appropriately enough, and the article I was working on over the weekend had to do with pregnancy weight gain. So, I ask you to imagine a women dealing with her own personal blend of first-trimester discomfort, which features a constant overwhelming desire to eat anything and everything remotely foodlike that might contain 1) sugar, 2) salt, or 3) fat in vast quantities, possibly by upending an entire bag of salt n’ vinegar chips into her gaping maw and following it with a massive glug of banana milkshake, mm-MM, and maybe throwing some “tropical” flavored Jelly Bellies in there too, what the hell, and oooh, how about a peanut butter sandwich, oh yes, yes, yes, YES! . . . uh, and anyway, in the midst of all that, writing an article that includes the ugly little factoid that it’s not necessary to gain any weight in the first trimester, and in fact even later in pregnancy you only need an additional 300 calories a day, which you can easily obtain by having an extra glass of milk and some lowfat yogurt. It’s like being ON FIRE and having to write a helpful piece on how it might seem like dousing yourself in water is the best solution, but have you tried prenatal yoga and eating more greens, because that’s really more healthy in the long run.
In related news, my diet is out the goddamned window. Oh, I had good intentions a few weeks back, I had grand plans to continue to eat a restricted—but totally healthful—diet throughout this pregnancy, and I would remain exactly the same size everywhere except my belly.
Ha ha ha ha HAAAAAA! Seriously. You’d think they gave me a lobotomy along with that C-section.
I forgot how the combination of all-day nausea and food cravings results in an absolutely unstoppable desire to eat certain kinds of foods, and sometimes those foods are Cheetos. Certain other foods—the Spicy Shrink-Yer-Butt Salad I loved for so long, for instance—are unacceptable to the point of triggering a tiny little cat-hork gag in the back of my throat. White beans and lettuce, together? Huurgh.
I’m fearful of instantly gaining back the weight I lost before I can even start blaming it on the baby (I’ve already put on a few pounds), but I guess I’m nowhere near concerned enough to actually limit what I’m eating in any significant way. Pregnancy is the only time I’ve ever experienced this sort of crazy lustful relationship with food, where the right thing—and yes, sometimes the right thing is motherfucking Cheetos— can actually elevate me to a higher plane of existence, a place where angels are singing and my tastebuds are doing a happy little hoedown and sparkly unicorns are blowing heart-shaped balloons from their lifted, rainbow-y tails.
Once, many years ago, I got really baked with a friend and we sat for hours ecstatically eating Hershey bars dipped into a jar of peanut butter. It was so delicious I was sure I could actually see the joyful food-appreciation molecules bouncing around us (singing “Yellow Submarine”, no doubt). I don’t want to say pregnancy is like being stoned (except maybe for the long-lasting brain damage), but there must be some kind of chemical trickery going on to make certain foods taste so freaking good.
Food cravings, headaches, low-grade nausea—like being carsick—gas, and a belly that’s vigorously straining the confines of those new size 6’s (solution: elastic hairband looped through the buttonhole. I am a knocked-up MacGyver over here!). Despite all the symptoms, I keep having this sensation of disbelief: am I really going to have another baby? Too early to say for sure, maybe, but I had my first prenatal appointment today, complete with ultrasound—and holy shit, there he or she was, in grainy black and white. My kidney-bean-shaped baby-to-be, with the tiniest heartbeat, beat beat beating away.
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