Tuesday, October 31, 2017

The mad scramble when you only acknowledge a baby half-way through the pregnancy.

Nutmeg is kicking my bladder as I write this, I'm almost 29 weeks.  Moms at the school drop off are just starting to notice and comment, and thankfully, no one has said anything that hasn't been sweet and kind.

(And is my work bathroom the most depressing space in the universe, or what?)

Sometimes I can't believe how much this pregnancy is like the one I carried Niblet.  I look the same, feel the same, eat the same things.  I happily DO NOT have gestational diabetes.  My cervix remains sealed up tight.  I'm starting to get a little more sleepy in third-trimester-land, slowing down a bit from my usual frenetic pace.

Our house is a disaster - there is literally no where to put this baby should she arrive early.  Nibble joked that in one of her books a baby was placed in a dresser drawer, and I sadly realized we don't even have this option.  Viking and I have even come up with a desperate action plan this holiday season - I will take Niblet to NYC to see my 'rents alone, while he stays behind to get the office cleaned out and baby furniture assembled and installed.  (TBH, this is fine, his relationship with my parents is best summed up as "cordial").

I've drafted a detailed work plan for my work-husband in my absence, which I now am certain will be six months.  Back to work sometimes in July.

I've begun a registry, because coworkers are harassing me about it, but I can't get my act together to throw a shower.  There's no way people will be allowed to enter my house en masse at this point.

We need car seats.  We need an infant carrier.  We need a day care spot reserved (STAT).  We need a will and new power of attorney papers because despite our youthful visages, Viking and I are as old as fuck.

Eleven weeks left y'all. 

Wednesday, October 18, 2017

The things that were said

Things said to me today, when I gave a zumba warm-up at Nibble's school as part of a PTO "walk-a-thon" fundraiser, my bump in full view in work-out clothes:

"OMG, wow, are you like, excited?  Or maybe not?"
I was excited when I thought we were bringing a new kitten into our house.  This, well, meh.

"Was this planned?"
Are you asking me if I still have sex with my husband?  

"I had no idea!  Actually, I thought that [Niblet] had two homes, I have never met her father and just assumed...."
Are you asking me if I still have sex with my husband?  Well you're right.  This one's got a different baby daddy, I've got another hot one on the side.

Monday, October 16, 2017

Social media and the sum of its parts

Last night I added a miscarriage and infant loss ribbon to my facebook profile picture.  It's about as "out" as I have ever been about my losses on social media.

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Meanwhile, I am somewhere in the ballpark of 13 weeks away from meeting this little person.  I've just had the conversation with my HR department about my leave benefits (and don't hate me, but for the US they are plentiful).  We Also started trying to clean the house out a bit more this past weekend.  It's clear to me that Viking doesn't have the same sense of urgency as I do (and Niblet for that matter).  But after fifteen years together this isn't a surprise.

Later this week I am volunteering some zumba-ish dance warmups for a kids fundraiser at the school.  There are plenty of neighborhood friends of ours who still don't know I am expecting.  They see me dropping Nibble off at school in the carpool lane.  I'm guessing that word will spread fast after their kids get a load of me in workout clothes.

It's occurred to me that the Parent Teacher Organization will likely take some pictures of me zumba-ing with the kids and post them with tags (they did last year).  That's certainly one way this news might spread.  It's not like I can hide a baby, and it's not like I would want to.  With the world being a literal dumpster fire right now, my news is joyous and bright.

I always said I would never share a pregnancy on social media, partly because I didn't want to trigger other people who were struggling.  But, like fertility itself, the control we have over our selves and stories isn't as cut and dry as we would like to believe it is.

Monday, October 9, 2017

Musical furniture and Help me.

So I am approaching 26 weeks, and there are so many things. That aren't getting done.  My house is a hilariously fucked up obstacle course .  Donated rocker/glider chair with an ottoman sitting in the hallway?  Check.  Children's art shelves sitting in the dining room?  Sure.  Attic crammed with five million things that need to be cleared away so I can store other things in there?  But of course.

We have an office crammed with Viking's desk and our books that is ostensibly going to be a nursery.  Maybe?  Assuming she makes it to 40  weeks?  I don't wanna cast blame, but Viking, I'm looking at you.  Those books won't stack themselves and carry themselves off to the book donation site we like, or the attic.

Nibble has a million school projects (third grade is no joke at her school), ballet class 3X a week, violin and sunday school every other weekend.  That's not counting the birthday parties and play-dates.

I have a fuck ton of work to get done before I hand off my work life to my work husband.  One of the reasons I can't post here as often as I'd like is when I get to the office, I am working.  Nonstop.  So I can leave by 5 to get the Nibble across the universe.

I am also the asshole who agreed to help the PTO do a fundraiser with some Zumba next week.  Because sure, why not.

Ok, we have fifteen weeks to get this shit done, if I'm lucky.  I'm operating under the theory that something will go awry and Nutmeg is going to try to emerge sooner.  I wish that this would spur Viking into action, but sadly it isn't.  He spent his last Sunday lying around - with me audibly sighing and furrowing my brow at him.  This is the sexy stuff marriage is built on of course.  I know you've been hitting the gym in the early mornings and just sanded our kitchen counters, but what makes you think you can just lie around Viking????

My co-workers are appalled that I haven't started a registry.  What do I need?  What don't I need?  Honestly, I have to do an inventory of the attic, and kids, PSA announcement, this is what happens when you choose not to really acknowledge a pregnancy until after 20 weeks.

I am amazingly fortunate to have these stresses, but I have to get my act together, stat.  I am even second-guessing the trip I booked for us to the beach, later in the month.  A cheap four-day weekend at the ocean, while amazing, is also four less days to accomplish something.

Oh well.  We DID save a nice bassinet we can put this baby in.  We don't have a room with any space for it, but we'll get there.  We could use some clean sheets, and some car seats too, but we'll get there when we get there too.

Let the marathon begin!

Monday, October 2, 2017

ballet as anxiety relief and celebration

Like, as soon as I make a post that's all "Yay!" about this pregnancy, I woke up at 5am in a cold sweat with my heart racing.

A nightmare about losing Nibble had baby Nutmeg kicking wildly as well, it seemed.  Set in my old elementary school, I arrived to pick up Niblet, only to find she was missing.  Cue the frantic racing through the hallways of my old school (only more maze-like), and the screaming at teachers, shouting Nibble's name in agony.

Princess - who usually sleeps at my side - appeared as shaken as I did, I must have flailed a lot.

Anyways, there was only one way to reset my brain, that was a ballet class.

So, I haven't really had any doctor's orders about dancing.  I mean, Dr, W has said she didn't want my heart rate going too high, but like most doctors, she knows jack about classical ballet.  And likely doesn't know how conditioned ex-professional dancers like myself are to take classes and pace themselves through all kids of ailments and injuries.

Man, I hope I can keep dancing.  Maybe it's hormones, but I am looking pretty fucking spry these days, I'm still executing some limited jumps and turns.  And I guess my pelvic joints are readying to push a baby out eventually, because I'm pretty flexible.  Last night I had one of my calming dreams, where I am perfectly balanced at the end of a series of double pirouettes (unlike the weeble-wobble that I currently resemble when I attempt multiple turns).

So, with that, I firmed up an idea I had a few weeks ago:  I would like to do some pregnancy photos with the Nibble - both of us in leotards and tights at the barre.  With my belly in full view.  And I think I found a great dance photographer who can make it happen.

I have no idea who would ever see these photos besides my closest friends and family right now, but I have some regrets that I never really took any professional photos when I was carrying Niblet.  I've come a long way for baby Nutmeg, and Niblet's reaction and love for this tiny creature that now kicks me all night is something I can't capture.  When I was thinking of memorializing this pregnancy, it struck me that I look pretty fucking good for a 43 year-old aging ballerina.  I'm proud of what I've gotten this body to continue doing.  And I'm proud of my one living daughter, who moves with so much joy to music in her own ballet classes.  So why the fuck not capture some of that joy - for this baby, for dance - in some pictures?
Oh, and when I walk into class I say to myself, be this chick.