Seeing as I actually completed a decent-sized project tonight, and don't really have any pressing assignments or studying hanging over my head, I decided I would do some catch-up with this bloggy-thingy that I used to be so good at updating.
I suppose ultimately the reason I quit writing last fall was because I kind of just fell apart. I received the news that I was pregnant in early October, and everything deteriorated pretty quickly after that. My mood disorder, which I had been battling for some time before that, coupled with psycho-pregnant-lady hormones and the typical "freak out" that accompanies an unplanned pregnancy for an unwed college junior, basically turned me into an endless ball of crazy. So that's where I have been for the past few months: up the crazy tree.
Luckily, I've escaped the crazy tree, and with more than enough hours logged there to avoid another visit in the near future.
As far as being pregnant goes...I had no idea. No. Freaking. Idea.
I've always had this odd fascination with pregnancy, childbirth, and babies in general. I guess since my brother was born, and my mom handed me the giant, illustrated pregnancy month-by-month book to look through, I had this weird interest in the whole process. Pregnancy always seemed beautiful, and fascinating, and the birth process equally riveting.
I now consider myself sufficiently disenchanted with this idea.
First and foremost: pregnancy is NOT BEAUTIFUL.
Pregnancy is laying on the bathroom floor, crying involuntarily after having expelled every last remnant of whatever was in my stomach. It is, in two words, disgustingly unpleasant. I can not, for the life of me, figure out why the human body's reaction to its new job, supposedly nurturing and protecting a new life, is to make it virtually impossible to eat or drink anything. I am not exaggerating. This is perhaps the dumbest of dumb things the human body does. Any attempt at nourishing myself and, in the process, my new baby, was immediately rejected. This really, really, unbelievably stupid circumstance, known as morning sickness, was not just limited to the morning hours, either.
No, I'm pretty sure I barfed for about three months straight. I wish I was being dramatic.
Apparently, my body took the instructions of "sustain two lives for nine months" as the cue to cooperate as LITTLE as possible. I now eat Tums like candy.
Another thing I should mention:
Everyone talks about how magical and special it is to feel the baby kick. People rub pregnant women's bellies like they are some kind of fertile Buddha.
Nobody ever talks about how flippin' scary it is.
No, seriously. Imagine that you're just laying on your bed, reading a book, with the book resting on your stomach (which has now acquired its own gravitational pull), when a LIVING BEING INSIDE OF YOU KICKS THE BOOK OUT OF YOUR HANDS AND ONTO THE FLOOR. I kid you not. I promise, I tried to be all "D'awww, that's so cute," but I just can't shake the thought of some little mini-human parasite, feeding off my blood supply and practicing martial arts on my literary material. Maybe I've watched a few too many Alien movies, but I don't doubt this kid's ability to rip through my chest cavity if she felt the desire to.
Don't get me wrong; I am very happy that my baby is thriving, especially since I thought I was going to die for the first trimester-and-a-half of her life, and was concerned that she wasn't getting what she needed. I was convinced I was going to vomit up part of my digestive tract, which is totally possible. It was on an episode of House. I just wish she could maybe just keep her acrobatics down to a nudge or two every so often, be all "Hey, Mom, I'm doing well, and just chillin'. Don't mind me," instead of "MOM. MOM. MOM. MOM. MOM. MOM. HEY. IS IT TWO IN THE MORNING? THAT'S THE TIME TO WORK ON PERFECTING MY BICYCLE KICK, RIGHT? MOM. MOM. PAY ATTENTION TO ME."
There she goes again as I type that. I seriously don't think there's a baby in there. It's like something went horribly wrong somewhere, and she's actually an octopus. There is NO WAY four limbs from a fun-sized mini-human can move THAT MUCH AT ONCE.
Infuriatingly, she also only calms down to a FREAKING HALT when Alex is involved. It's like he gets anywhere in the proximity, and she turns into a little angel. I call B.S.
Don't even get me started on maternity clothes. Or attempting to come up with a name for the being that is now waging war on my ribcage, as if my bone structure did her some great personal wrong.
I also seriously cringe thinking about anyone other than a medical professional, my boyfriend, or myself touching my midriff at all. Luckily, everyone has kept their hands to themselves up to this point...I just feel so awkward about the idea of having people rubbing my stomach. There is nothing but a hard, twitching bump there. I promise that she will probably be cuter, and a lot more fun, once she's left my body and can wear fun hats and such.
The next three-and-a-half months cannot go fast enough. Despite all signs that she is demon spawn with about ten limbs and an attitude problem, our sonogram/ultrasound pictures of her indicate that she's just about perfect. At least, she's perfect to me. We are getting closer to deciding, for-sure, on her name, and I haven't had to call the dinosaurs in weeks. I may be young, and she may not have come at the most convenient of times, but she's our baby girl, and I love her already.
I just want her in my arms, and not bouncing on my bladder.
|Don't let her fool you: she's got an attitude.|