I want to give birth

It's official, I want this baby out of me NOW. For weeks, I've been wishing for this pregnancy to end. I'm not in any pain or extreme discomfort, but the novelty of being almost 30 lbs overweight and having no control over my bodily functions has waned. I want my body back. I want to move on to the next stage, so I can get closer to getting my life back.

Desperate to get this critter out of me, I asked my OB what I could do to speed things up. He offered two suggestions: stay active both on your feet and between the sheets. He cited that 50% of women who prescribe to this recommendation give birth early. These are perhaps the very last things I'm interested in doing at this point, but with such odds, I couldn't not try.

I've been a trooper, but as my doc confirmed a couple weeks ago, my critter likes his/her current home and shows no signs of leaving anytime soon. It was at this point that he looked at me and asked me to start thinking about alternative options to bring on labour. Since I still had some time, I waved a hand and stated: "We'll do better next week."

So, Mr. Oh and I put in double duty. I began eating very spicey foods, engulfed foods that will get my bowels moving and gave myself regular foot massages (all supposed cures). I've also had some serious conversations with my belly, explaining how proud mamma will be if he/she sticks it to the doc, showing him who the boss really is. Unfortunately, all was for not.

So, at my last appointment, my OB asked me to pick a date to go into the hospital to induce labour. Seeing the tears welling up in my eyes, he paused and asked what I thought of the suggestion. My response: "That doesn't sound natural. I want to give birth to this baby."

Shocked by my words, my hands flew up to cover my mouth. Like many things with this pregnancy, I had never given any real thought to how the critter was going to leave my body. So, this idea of "natural" and "giving birth" surprised me. Why did I care if it was "natural"? I know I'm not a tree-hugging, granola-eating hippy who prescribes to the natural side. I'm a modern gal who likes 21st century conveniences. So, why all of a sudden do I have an issue with getting a little help from modern medicine?

I've been pondering this question for days and I've come up with no answers. For some reason, absolutely unbeknownst to me, I want to give birth to this baby the way women have for thousands of years - grunting (or perhaps screaming) my way through it all. Even Mr. Oh was surprised by my admission. Like me, he can't understand why I'd want to stay pregnant longer, especially since he's been listening to me whine and beg for an end to come.

I have agreed to the doctor's recommendation and have scheduled an appointment at the hospital for next week. But, I'm completely apprehensive about it all and have yet to decide if I'm going to keep my appointment.

Body voodoo

I can't complain, this pregnancy has been an easy one. Incredibly so. For the most part, I've been able to do what I've always done with the exception of a few inconveniences.

Unlike what I've heard from other pregos, I haven't had many of the "regular" symptoms of pregnancy. Heartburn has been non-existent. My breathing hasn't been compromised in anyway. Swelling of the feet and hands has been minimal, allowing me to still wear my rings and sport my heels (I have given up on my 4-inchers as I just look silly wearing high heels while sporting a dodge ball for a belly). And, I haven't experienced any illnesses - other than one major headache (which was so not fun), I have been cold and flu free.

In return for my good fortune, the gods or perhaps it's the critter within has been playing voodoo tricks on my body. There's the whole rib thing, which continues to stab me with pain at the most inconvenient times. During a round of meditation in yoga class, an imaginary knife sliced through me, causing me to break my silence and releasing a pack of concerned pregos on me to make sure I wasn't going into labor.

Then, there was the hip lock. Our shower is part of a very deep soaking tub/jacuzzi thing. I'm not a bath person, so it's more a nuisance than anything else. And, in the last couple of months, I've come to hate it. Why? Well, the only way for me to exit the shower is to lift my leg above hip height. With my massive belly and heavy limbs, this is an almost impossible feat that has almost landed me head first on the tile floor more times than I care to remember.

A couple of weeks ago, as I was trying to exit the tub after my morning shower, I had one hand tightly gripping my towel to keep it closed over my engrossed body and the other hand on the slippery tile wall. I lifted my left leg successfully over the barrier, but and as I try to straighten my leg so I could place my foot on the floor, my hip locked and rendered me paralyzed. Of course, with everything all wet, I slipped, and in straddle position, smacked my ass (and lady parts) on the rim of the tub. With all my excess weight, Mr. Oh heard the unfortunate thud and ran into the bathroom to check out the scene.

With crocodile tears streaming down my face, together we tried to pry me out of the tub. It took a couple of attempts, but I finally got out, but I had no use of my left leg - it was completely frozen in an awkward, elevated position. Unable to balance my weight on one leg, Mr. Oh half dragged me to the bed where in all my morning glory I slowly moved my leg in giant circles until my hip cracked. Thankfully, it has yet to happen again.

Then, about a month or so ago, I started experiencing this sensitivity in my left ass cheek that would stretch down to my upper thigh. Since I've pinched my sciatic nerve in the past, I figured I had done it again. So, I hobbled to my acupuncturist for some relief. Unfortunately, my pregnant state denied me the full blown acupuncture experience I've come to love. After a couple of mild sessions, my therapist informed me that my nerve isn't pinched and instead I've developed a muscle knot in my buttocks likely because I sit in a chair all day and the baby has put pressure on my sitting muscles.

So, what's the cure for an ass knot? I thought a massage of the region would do the trick. However, as my acupuncturists and several masseuse therapists have confirmed, the ass is home to many pressure points that can "stimulate" the uterus and induce labor. Now, in my 40th week, I'm all for uterus stimulation, but no one is willing to help me.

For the most part, the knot has been a mere inconvenience than an out right "pain". Most times, a little stretching usually cures the mild ache. But, last night after a vigorous walk around town (I'm desperate for labor), the knot came back with a vengeance. Every movement I've made since - from placing the slightest of pressure on my left heel to trying to turn over in bed - has left me grabbing hold of my ass cheek and yelping like a wounded dog.

I asked my OB what in the world is going on with my body. His response: it's getting ready for the big day. I can see the mild connection with the hip thing, but what in the world does my ass cheek have to do with labor?!

No trailblazing here

I like to stay busy and working is a a great way for me to do so. The idea of having a day off without a plan to keep me preoccupied is absolute torture. Knowing this about myself, I made the decision early on in my pregnancy that I would work until I could no longer do so - either until the baby's arrival or until my body gives out on me.

Plus, my company offers its employees the flexibility of working from home, which I've been taking advantage of a lot lately. So really it's a no brainer!

Last week, while in my 38th week, I was feeling good and was in some desperate need of human contact. So, I made my way into the office. It was a pretty uneventful work day, until one of my trips to the lady's room led to an assault of the verbal kind. As I was exiting, a female colleague (and relatively new mom) entered.

The last and only time I interacted with this woman she accosted me in an elevator. It all started out pleasantly with a smile and nod. After some mild chitchat, she asked me if I'd spoken to my manager about my leave of absence plans. I thought it an odd question, but I've heard odder these days, so I responded truthfully that I hadn't gotten around to it yet. BIG MISTAKE. Within seconds, the rather pleasant-looking woman turned into a overly aggressive maniac. Her rant, in summary, lectured me on my "obligation" to understand my "rights" and to make sure I take advantage of everything "owed" to me.

The good little researcher I am, I was fully aware of my benefits. But, no longer interested in conversing with what my mind's eye had visually stereotyped as the hairy-armpitted feminist, I stayed mum and continued to pray for the elevator doors to open. When they finally did, I set off for the exit. Unfortunately, she walked in step with me - which wasn't too hard to do since I've become a waddling tortoise - and continued her lecture. With no other way to lose her, I held onto my belly and ran into oncoming traffic to cross the street.

For weeks I successfully avoided the grizzly libber, but trapped in the tiny entrance/exit of the lady's room there was no where for me to hide. So, politely, I smiled and gave my hellos, hoping I'd escape unscathed.

Blocking the door, she gave me the once over. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I swear I saw flames spark in her corneas. Resting her malicious eyes on my belly she said through gritted teeth, "What are you still doing here?" The smart-ass I can be, especially when in uncomfortable situations, I looked back to the toilets and said, "Likely for the same reasons you're here." That didn't win any points with her and so she began ranting - this time with real screaming:

"This company owes you disability leave for 2 weeks before your due date.... You are obligated not just for yourself, but for all of us to take advantage of this benefit.... You're going to ruin it for everyone else...."

I can respect people who are passionate about their beliefs, but I have zero tolerance on those who push their ideas and judgements on others - especially me. So, having had enough, I straightened my shoulders, pushed my belly forward (I use it as a weapon now and again - it's been great in scoring a seat on the trains) and roughly brushed passed her to get to the door. Once there, I turned and said, "Well, I guess I don't see my pregnancy as a disability. Why should I sit at home when there's nothing wrong with me."

Before I let her respond, I walked away - trembling. The little coward I am, I then spent the rest of the day going up and down the stairs just so I could use the facilities on another floor. Luckily, I haven't seen her since. But, I've been working from the safety of my home, too!

A mother? Really?

Oh. My. God. I'm going to be a mother.

When I say mother, I mean, like, a mom to a kid - a real one. A kid who needs to be cared for, like all the time. And by cared for, I guess that means making sure it eats, sleeps, shits and is kept out of harms way. But how in the world can I be responsible for a kid when there are days - more often than not - that I forget to eat, sleep or shit myself (sometimes all on the same day)?

My mother's a mother, my aunts are moms, my friends' moms are moms. Me? Not so much. It's like that Sesame Street game, which one of these doesn't belong here, where I'm the stiletto in a group of sport shoes. It just doesn't work!

Like Mr. Oh, you may be thinking, "And... this is just dawning on you now?" The answer: Y-E-S!

It hit me last Friday - out of the blue. I was sitting at my desk, totally engulfed in my latest assignment when all of a sudden a thought shoots through my mind: the critter moving inside me is a REAL, LIVE kid. And in a few short weeks, it's going to make its way out of my body (let's not ponder how that will happen) and it will be MY responsibility to care for it.

Are they out of their freakin' minds?

As the panic rose inside me, my breathing became shallow and if my huge belly wasn't blocking me, I would have thrown my head between my legs to prevent me from fainting. Instead, I practiced my ojai breath and repeated my mantra, "I can do it" over and over.

As determined as I was to believe the repetitive voice in my head, I knew there was no way I was even close to being able to "do it." What did I know? For 9 months I've avoided the reality of my situation, I tossed aside all the baby books given to me, I only half-listened (if that) to the unsolicited advice of other mothers, and I kept telling myself and anyone willing to listen that I'd figure it out in due time.

Well, due time is fast approaching and with less than 3 weeks to go, I don't see when the "figuring out" is going to happen!

Wishing for the comfort and safety of my bed, so life could pass me by, I packed up my belongings and headed home. As I made my way through the streets and trains, I passed a number of babies and kids with their moms (who looked and acted like real moms), which only added more fuel to my fire.

By the time I got home, there was no stopping the tears streaming down my face and I couldn't catch my breath. And, my mind had given up on my positive mantra and was replaced with angst-ridden questions that asked me how in the world I was going to pull this off.

By the time Mr. Oh returned from work, he found me in a puddle of tears and tissues. Cautiously, he asked if everything was okay, which I took as my cue to pepper him with question after question: how exactly were we going to be parents? what exactly did a kid need after it's born? why didn't either of us make the logical connection that pregnancy, in most cases, leads to a baby that has to be cared for by the people who created it? And so on.

Although Mr. Oh attempted to console me in a variety of ways, I was inconsolable. To avoid any further drama, Mr. Oh kept a safe distance from me and left me to deal with the doubting, anxious voices screaming inside my head.

A look to my future

The days and weeks seem to be blowing by and my belly seems to be getting bigger. Since I live in a perpetual, blissful state of denial, most things like the calendar, mirrors, and the moving dial on the scale haven't had much of an impact.

However, the last couple of weeks, I've had many family, friends and workmates try to pry my rose-coloured glasses from my eyes.

It began with my mother - yes, my very own mother, whom I most resemble, especially in our indifferent and unassuming attitude to life's most important events. Sitting around her kitchen table a couple of weeks ago, we were chatting about nothing of interest. When she says, so have you looked for a crib yet. Now, for a normal 8-month prego, this wouldn't be a surprising question, but for me, I nearly fell off my chair.

My aloof response of "we'll figure it out" didn't win any points with her and I was then reverted back to a 12 year old child as my mother lectured me on how I can't just figure things out, that a baby has needs right from the start and I won't have time or the energy to figure it out when I get there.

Well, thank you very much, mother!

The next day, I had a playdate with my neices, which unexpectedly turned into a baby training camp.

I was asked to feed my 4-month old neice. Sounds easy enough, right? Well, the chubby munchkin supposedly chugged her bottle too quickly and ended up projectile vomiting all over me. Slopped in regurgitated milk, I was told that I have to pace her feeding. It's 2009, shouldn't bottles be designed to do that for me?? I then went in for a diaper change - just for practice. Thankfully, there was no comedic episode. But, my proud zia bubble was pinpricked when I realized that it took me more than 20 minutes to complete. If I keep up that pace, my child will never leave the diaper station.

If that didn't leave me feeling defeated and absolutely unprepared, I've had one kind, generous friend after another ask me where I'm registered. Since I'm not, I'm then provided with a list of things I just must have. And, while steeped in kindness, every suggestion comes with a "bad mother" clause. You know, the if-you-don't-do-what-is-recommended-I'll-be-a-horrible-mother-that-puts-her-child's-life-and-well-being-in-jeopardy clause.

While I could do without all the pressure and the feelings of utter dispair, the reality of my situation - that I'm really going to have to take care of a child in a few short weeks - is starting to sink in. This, of course, has only increased my urge to hide under the bed covers and wish it could be six months from now and everything's fine.

A preview to D-day

I have to say, so far, I've been pretty lucky. I've been able to live a rather normal life throughout this pregnancy. Yes, there have been a few inconveniences, some of which have been right pains in the ass (some literal), but overall I don't have much to complain about.

Well, that was until recently. I developed this odd pain in my upper abdomen. At first it was a mild burning sensation and so I thought maybe there's some stretching going on. Like a good prego, I shared it with my doctor who couldn't provide a real explanation and just said that sometimes the prego body does things that cannot be explained.

I was okay with that, but as the weeks went on, the pain become more excrutiating - to the point where I've scared Mr. Oh out of his dreams with my screams of sheer agony. But usually, after a short time, the sharp pain would subside to a dull thud in my upper abs. With each episode, Mr. Oh would beg me to go to the hospital. I'm a believer in listening to my body, what Mr. Oh calls yoga sh!t, so I knew that while the pain was intense the baby was fine. So, try as he might I wasn't interested in going to the hospital.

Well, I finally gave in a couple of Friday nights ago where every move I made ripped through me like a knife. The tough (perhaps stubborn) gal I stupidly can be I gritted my teeth and tried to get through each one. Unfortunately for me, Mr. Oh walked in from work to find me on the floor, trying to bear through another spasm.

Unwilling to take no for an answer, he dressed me (I was paralyzed, so couldn't do this myself), placed me in the car and drove me to the hospital. By the time I got to the ER the pains had eased up, but there was no going home until Mr. Oh was satisfied.

The moment I walked through the doors, an orderly approached me with a wheelchair and indicated for me to have a seat. As I did so, the receptionist got on the phone and barked into the receiver that a woman who was 38 weeks pregnant was being wheeled upstairs. I took a quick look around the rather empty ER to see if there was any other pregos awaiting service. Nope, she was talking about me. As I was being pushed away, I called out, I'm only 32 weeks along, but she wasn't interested in what I had to say.

Quickly, I was brought to the Labor & Delivery ward. If I wasn't experiencing anxiety from the pain, I sure was just by seeing this sign! I was carefully lifted from the wheelchair, ordered to put on the dressing gown and produce a urine sample. Again, unable to do all this on my own, I threw dignity out the window and asked Mr. Oh for help. Upon emerging from the bathroom, I was ordered to get into bed where I was efficiently wired up - two monitors were strapped around my belly, a heart monitor was placed on my finger and an IV tube was inserted into my hand.

As the chaos ensued, I overheard another nurse order Mr. Oh to fill out the stack of insurance papers and submit them, with our co-pay of course, to the cashiers office (Ahh, America!).

Bewildered by it all, I finally looked down at the nurse who was filling up a third vial with my blood and calmly said, "Do you know why I'm here?" Her response: "Honey, you're in labour." I laughed at her and explained that in fact I wasn't in labour. She told me not to worry and that another nurse would be in to check in on me soon.

Once left alone, my spasms came back with a mighty vengence. And with each one, one of the machines would go beserk. I thought nothing of it until the head nurse came to check in on me and reported that I was having sporadic contractions.

I scoffed and told her that I wasn't having contractions and explained the pain I was experiencing. She asked me if this was my first, which it is and then said, well the machine says it's contractions. Like most people, I don't like being dismissed, especially when it has to do with my body. So, I asked her where I would feel pain if I was having contractions. Answer: lower abdomen, which I sternly explained was not my case.

At this point, Mr. Oh's face had lost just about all its color and he was fully engaged in all of his nervous ticks - biting his lips, rubbing his hair and pacing. While a little concerned, I kept telling myself that I know my body and everything's fine.

Now, to make things more interesting, my little critter was enjoying its evening bouncing routine. As opposed to its morning, early-, mid- and late-afternoon jaunts, the evening ones are more energetic and spastic (I envision dancing capabilities akin to Elaine from Seinfeld). It seemed that one of the straps across my belly was to monitor the baby's heart beat.

So, of course, with every bounce, turn, and who knows what else, the baby's heart beat would elevate. On the head nurse's second visit to me, she explained I was still having contractions, and looking at the baby's heart monitor, the baby may be in distress. Incredulous, I asked why she thought so, to which she explained that although always in the normal range, the baby's heart rate was all over the map.

Although I was concerned, I was sure that everything was fine. But, Mr. Oh? He was paler than I've ever seen him and I wasn't sure if he was going to hurl or pass out. But to be safe, I stopped arguing and continued to be monitored.

Four hours later, the doctor finally came in, who engaged me in a full poke and prod session to which he reported that I, in fact, wasn't in labour. Relieved that finally was talking my langugage, I released an expressive, exasperated, "I KNOW!" and then went on to explain my pain.

After about 6 hours strapped to machines, I was finally released and told that I had torn the cartilage just below my rib cage, which can cause intense pain similar to a rib fracture. Oh, but there was even better news, there was really nothing they could do, the pain would likely get more intense as the baby grows and then I'd have a while until it fully heals postpartum. It's not a normal occurance, but I was told it does happen in some rare cases. Lovely!

As we left the hospital, I expressed both my annoyance for all the trouble and my sense of relief for knowing what is wrong with me. Mr. Oh, who started to get some of the blood circulating back into his face, turned to me and in his shakey voice, said, "I really thought it was all going to go down tonight."

I knew otherwise, but at least we got a preview as to what's to come on the real D-day!

Working girl angst

My whole life I have been working on my career. Every move I've made since I first joined the workforce, at the ripe age of 12, was in pursuit of my professional goals.

To be honest, I'm not sure where my intentions came from, but I've had them from as far back as I can remember. For a second grade assignment, I was asked to draw a picture of "what I wanted to be when I grew up." Heavily influenced by the evening soap operas of the '80s (yes, even at the age of 6), I drew a woman in a shoulder-padded suit with a string of pearls standing by a desk. I proudly presented the picture to my parents later that evening. While my mother appreciated my fashion sense, my father asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. Boldly, I told him, "I'm going to be a lawyer." He scoffed, and perplexed by my admission since my immediate and extended family were all "blue collar" workers of one type or another, asked why. My response, "So I can wear a suit everyday!" Now that's a goal!

Since then, I've been working towards my ever-changing goals. But, within 6 or so weeks, I will be leaving my job and not to pursue other opportunities. This will be the first time I'm leaving the workforce for personal reasons! And, I can't tell you the anxieties I'm feeling!

At this point in the game, you'd think I'd be worried about labour and the excrutiating pain that is awaiting me before I get to welcome my new babe into this world. Or, perhaps, I should be worried about the upcoming 18 years and how horribly I'm going to screw up my child. Or, the other million and one things I should be worried about.

But, lo and behold, I'm working harder, and when my eyes can stay open, longer hours than I've ever done. Work and all I think I need to do before my departure are the things that wake me up in the middle of the night. Pathetic, I know. Last night, I woke up at 2:25 am in a fit because I had forgotten to send an email about something to someone. After trying to fall back asleep for 30 minutes, I got out of bed and sat down at the computer and started working. I worked until about 6, at which time I went to sleep for an hour or two, only to return to the computer at 8.

Mr. Oh can't understand me. In truth, neither can I. Perhaps, this is simply my practice for middle of the night feedings. Instead of tending to my computer, I'll be nurturing my little one.

Dreamin' dreams

Dating back to my time in a crib, my sleeping hours have been plagued with dreams. Not the regular ho-hum dreams like being outdoors naked or falling through the air. No, that would be normal. For me, my dreams are violent-infused, horrific, Quentin Tarrantino-scary, yet funny, kind of dreams.

I've had dreams where I was taught how to use a gun (yet I've never held one or seen one in my life), transported into bodies of criminals, I've participated in incredible feats of crime, I've watched people being harmed in ways that I don't think the craziest criminal has thought of (and won't share here, should any crazys read this blog and get an idea), I've seen my loved ones get taken from me time and time again, and the list goes on and on.

Not only are they bizarre and outright frightening, but they are so vivid that I have to remind myself that they aren't real and the events playing in my mind didn't really happen - at least not in my life. I sound crazy, right?

Well, since becoming prego, the dreams have become more frequent and surprisingly more outlandish than ever before. Most mornings, I awake perplexed that my mind could have conjured up such scenarios. I've dreamt scenes that porno directors and those who avidly watch their movies would die for; there have been the medical scenarios that Dr. House himself wouldn't be able to figure out and there have been the detailed, mobster-themed sort that Scorsese would create.

What's more - and quite hillarious if you ask me - I'm told that I've been more vocal and active while I'm dreaming. See, Mr. Oh is a very light sleeper and on occassional mornings he reports what I said or did. I don't remember any of what he reports, so I'm a little suspect of his reportings. However, since Mr. Oh is devoid of creativity, I can't believe he could make up some of the things I supposedly say or do. There have been nights where he has heard me moan in utter ecstasy, mumble words with serious force like "centrifuge" (which I had to actually look up its definition), and scream out in sheer terror. Most recently, however, I've physically lashed out.

The other night a sequence came to me where we were at a lake in a beautiful park. Mr. Oh and I were with friends when a child (I couldn't tell the gender) was flapping its arms in the water, screaming for help. Noticing the child in distress, I yelled for Mr. Oh to save the child. Unfortunately, he didn't get there in time and the child drowned. Although this was my dream - and Mr. Oh was none the wiser as to what was happening in my mind's eye - my unconscious-self felt he deserved to be punished. So, I turned over in bed, yelled at Mr. Oh about how could he let the child drown and wacked him square in the jewels. Then, satisfied that he got his just desserts, I turned back over and returned to my regular deep slumber. Nice, eh?

I remember the dream, but I do not remember what I did in the real world. As Mr. Oh recounted the evening's assault, I was mortified, which, to add insult to injury, caused me to break out into fits of giggles!

I'm convinced it's my hormones causing my mind to play tricks on me. I have 3 months to go, what will my mind will me to do next? Perhaps Mr. Oh should sleep with armour for the time being.

What's with all the kicking?

What's with all the kicking, flipping, punching, and only God knows what else?

For days on end, the critter within hasn't given me a break. S/he starts before the sun comes up and I still feel it well after the sun has gone down.

Of course, in the early months, I was craving the little one to make its presence known. I've a very active imagination that lends to the mobid. Saying that, I spent most of my first and early-second trimester imaging horrible scenarios and preparing myself for the grave news that I was no longer with child when I visited my doctor.

The only thing that would calm these fears would be knowing that it was still in there, moving. Since I didn't feel anything, I'd force Mr. Oh's ear to my belly and ask him to report (and, at times, mimick) the sounds he'd hear. Most of the time he'd report "blurp blurp", an auditory sound that reminded me of blowing bubbles in gooey hair gel.

Then, finally, on June 1, as Mr. Oh listened to our babe, it gave a swift kick that knocked Mr. Oh off my belly. Up until a week or so ago, the movements have been sporadic and the kicks have been mere tappings. And, I've loved everyone one of them.

However, for the last two weeks, the movements have been non-stop and they've gotten progressively more energetic, more aggressive. I'm glad that the little one is alive and kicking - literally - but really, isn't enough enough?

I probably sound like a horrible mommy-to-be, but when you're awakened at 4:30am almost every morning and then kept awake until well after midnight, the novelty of movement starts to wane. In truth, it has only caused me further concern as what's it going to be like when it's finally born?!

Finally, yesterday, tired of being awakened before the cock crows, I had a chat with my belly. Not wanting to discourage the active lifestyle s/he has developed, I told it that I loved that s/he is having such a good time discovering its world. But, and I used a firm, mommy-means-busy tone, that sleep is something mommy cherishes, especially on the weekends.

I obviously didn't convince him/her totally, but we did make some progress as the knocking starting at around 5:15am this morning. A mere 45-minutes, but I guess I have to take what I can get!

I still got it!

So, I've been in a slump. After several days of feeling a burning sensation around my belly button, my stomach popped. One day I was able to get out of bed like I always did and then the next, I was trapped until I wiggled my way to the edge of the bed so that I could heave myself up.

Since that morning, I've looked more like an overly yeasted puff pastry than a woman. I can no longer see my toes when I stand upright. What's more, I feel heavy and as a result I lumber like a drunken ape, with my arms dangling at my sides working like oars to propel me forward when I walk.

As a result, I've been feeling pretty sorry for myself. That was until today.

In the mood for miso udon soup, I took the short walk from my office building to the deli about a block away. As I lumbered along, I locked eyes with a polished-looking guy. He then, very obviously scanned me up and down, locked eyes with me again and gave me a knowing smile. It wasn't a creepy once-over and I didn't get that skeevy vibe that creepy guys emanate. While I felt good for about a nanosecond, I shrugged it off, thinking it couldn't be as who, other than a mass murderer with an obscure fetish for pregos, would find me attractive.

But, before I reached the deli, I spotted another polished-looking guy (it seems there are many of these in mid-town Manhattan) - this time much cuter than the first and much better dressed - giving me the once-over. We were walking through a narrow and congested piece of the sidewalk, so I had some time to determine if what I was seeing was really happening or just a figment of my hormonal imagination. As I contemplated the likelihood that this could be happening I stared into his light-coloured eyes and he smiled a sweet smile. Embarassed and timid - come on, I'm married and pregnant! - I diverted my eyes, but as we brushed past each other he said, "You look great."

I was elated!

Other than a few oglers checking out my boobs or those so-called men who desperately try to avoid looking at me, so they don't have to give up their seat on the train, I haven't had any positive reinforcements from the male population in at least 6 months! And, today, within a couple of meters of each other, I scored the attention of two good-looking, non-creepy men, flirted with one of them and got a compliment that will carry me through the rest of the week!

16 and pregnant

Have you checked out this show on MTV? I am not - by any means - an MTV viewer. To be honest, most of those real world-esque shows kinda annoy me. Yes, I'm showing my age, but whatev!

Now, while I'm not a regular MTV viewer, I've been sucked into the show 16 and pregnant. It's a pretty horrible show and it's become a guilty pleasure that I watch every chance I get.

Why the attraction to what are children from underprivileged, and at times, unsteady homes? Well, to be totally blunt, it makes me feel good. I'd never dare watch any of those other baby-themed shows - you know the ones with women who've had a calling to be a mom their whole life and now that they are having a child will finally realize their dream; or worse off, those shows with multiple sets where the women make managing 18 kids seem like a piece of cake. I already feel ill-equipped, I don't need television to further reduce my self-esteem.

Instead, I need a television show to show me how much worse my life could be. Thus, 16 and pregnant! I'm twice the age of a 16 year old, and unlike many of the featured baby mammas, I'm in a steady relationship, have a home to shelter the child and access to the finances to feed and clothe the babe.

As I've continued to watch episode, after episode, after episode, I've realized all the things I have are the superficial things. While important, they really don't matter. As a result my good feelings from watching the show have dissipated. I guess that's the crutch of guilty pleasures - they reel you in until you're addicted, but then leave you feeling empty and in need of an escape.

The truth is, even at the age of 16 or 17, with all their naivety, cluelessness and eternal optimism, these chicks have it more together than I. Yes, there was the cheerleader who told her friends she'd stay pregnant because she'd look cute and the couple who tried to move out on their own only to have their realtor tell them their monthly income wouldn't cover the rent check. As sad as they were, they lifted my spirits. But the real downers were the baby mammas who quickly accepted their fate, changed their priorities and said goodbye to their childhood so they could focus on building a life for their child.

How can I be twice the age of these girls and not even half my way to accepting my fate? Although the belly has grown and the child within makes its presence known regularly, viciously; I have yet to say hello to my new life. I'm left wondering if it'll ever happen.

Here's a question for you...

Why, oh why, do women ask stupid questions to their men? Questions like "Do I look fat?", "Does my ass look big in these jeans?" and the like are irrelevant and put the men we are asking into very uncomfortable positions.

And, let's be honest, do we really care what their responses are? We've already formulated an answer in our head and no matter what he says - or how he says it - there will be little persuading us. If we think we look bloated, there's no convincing us otherwise.

As such, I've usually spared Mr. Oh such questions. That was until this past weekend.

We were having a wonderfully relaxed Saturday. Before settling onto the sofa for a movie, I excused myself to relieve my bladder (yet again). On my way back to the sofa, I glanced at my burgeoning profile in our full-length bedroom mirror. Disgusted by what I saw, I turned the question to Mr. Oh: "Do you still think I'm sexy?"

Now, this is not a question that I have ever asked of him - I guess I've never needed to. But, lo and behold, there the question hung in the air. While the question surprised me, Mr. Oh was stunned. It read all over his face as he tried desperately to first understand where the question came from and then how to appropriately answer. After some hesitation, he said "Well, yeah. But, different than before."

Really - the best he can do is "different than before"?! Is he kidding? For months he's watched me weigh myself daily and measure my girth weekly; wince as I squeeze into pre-prego clothing and howl that I have nothing to wear every single day. He had to of seen this coming. Shouldn't he have seen this coming? If not this particular question, something similar?

Was it too much for me to ask to have him say, with such resounding confidence that would make me weak in the knees, "Yes, li you are still the sexiest thing on Earth." As far fetched as that reality is - I know I look like I swallowed a bowling ball and my thighs make a sticky swishing noise when I walk - would it really have killed him to lie to me? I know he's lied to me before; why couldn't he do it now?

To make matters worse, instead of trying to take back what he said, he attempted to explain what he meant. Shocked and with tears welling in my eyes, all I could hear was the sound of dirt being shoveled as he dug himself deeper and deeper into sh!t. Without another word, I turned on my heels and retired to bed. Smart enough, Mr. Oh followed to witness my first full-fledged emotional breakdown. Yes, for the first time in my living memory, I cried myself to sleep for no reason whatsoever.

So, this is what hormones can do to you!? I just hope Mr. Oh is prepared for the next bout.

I NEVER thought...

As you go about life, there are certain products you'd never thought you'd have to buy or use. I remember having this feeling when I was a child watching Always commercials: why would anyone want to wear a diaper all day and why, oh why, is someone discharging blue pee!? Of course, as I grew into a woman I learned the value of such feminine hygiene products.

Well, I guess this same evolution is happening now that I'm prego. Here's a list of products I never thought I'd have to purchase, let alone use regularly:

Neti Pot: This tiny tea kettle like container holds a water-saline solution that you pour into one nostril, hoping and praying, it shoots out the one. The purpose? By flushing out your sinuses, it's a "natural" (although really how natural is shooting water up your nose?) remedy for allergies. While it's proven some relief, there is no replacing drugs - and real drugs - when it comes to allergies.

Gas-X: I've seen commercials for Gas-X, Beano and the like for years, and each time I just never understood why anyone would need or want such a product. If beans or peppers bring on the farts, well then, don't eat them, non? Being prego, I've realized it's not a particular food nor a specific food group - it's anything and everything, and it can happen at anytime. Finally a drug - really a magic pill - that brings the relief I need when I need it!

Baby Powder: There are many uses of baby powder and to be honest when I got preggers I figured it'd be something I'd purchase frequently to keep my babe fresh and dry. Never would I have thought I'd be purchasing the white stuff by the truckload for me! I'm the proud owner of my very own set of thunderthighs. By just taking a short walk, I conjure enough heat and electricity between my thighs to light Times Square for a day. Other than wearing pants - which is difficult since few pants still can actually be pulled over my massive thighs - I'm left applying powder religiously to my thighs to lessen the friction, swelling and pain.

Preparation-H: There I was enjoying my morning shower, when, OMG, what the F is that??!!My first chance I got, I quickly consulted Dr. Google only to learn that hemorroids were another lovely gift of pregnancy - yippee! Too embarassed to purchase the product myself, I finally confessed my sad state to Mr. Oh. Without needing to plead he purchased the product I needed to "shrink the swelling". Oy vey.

Boobies!!!

I have a new hobby. A hobby that lifts my spirits, brings a smile to my face and can consume many hours out of my day.

I call it boobie watching or cleavage gazing. And, the most amazing part of my new hobby? The boobies and cleavage I'm ogling are mine! I can't get enough of them. I now make wardrobe selections based on what will display my newly enhanced breasts best. And, I unabashadly encourage Mr. Oh to stare, touch and do whatever else he wants with them.

I'm so proud of my boobies that I wasn't bothered in the least by the several strangers I've caught staring at my cleavage. Hey, I'm fully aware my new mounds are temporary. So, why shouldn't everyone enjoy them while they last?

Why the fascination? Well, I never had much to look at before. So much so, that when I was about 17, I was at the mall with a mixed group of friends and decided to stop into the lingerie shop to buy a bra for a bridesmaid dress I was forced to wear. To save time, I approached the saleswoman to help me find a strapless bra. I was never one for modesty, so performing this task with teenage boys in tow was not a big deal. That was until I noticed the saleswoman assessing my real estate, after which she very loudly announced to everyone within earshot, "Honey, don't waste your money. You don't have very much for a bra to hold."

Well, there's a whole lot to hold now!

I tinkled!

I have this vivid memory that stretches back to the first grade. There I was, sitting in my child-sized desk listening to the teacher when I hear this faint sound of water dripping. I remember turning my head and watching a yellow puddle grow beneath my neighbours desk.

As the rest of the class turned to stare, tears welled up in her eyes and her lips began to tremble. Without being asked she whispered, "I tinkled." I remember laughter being sounded in the background, but for me I was mortified for Jenny - the urine girl - and wondered if there was a more humiliating that could happen to a person.

This feeling of humiliation I supposed Jenny must have felt has engrained this event in my memory. Every since I have hoped and prayed that I'd never have to experience such public humiliation.

Well, today I tinkled.

I was on the elevator on my way up to my office I sneezed my regular three sneezes, each one progressively stronger than the last. I felt a tiny leak spring after the first sneeze and quickly clenched my legs closed. By the third sneeze, no matter how tight I squeezed, there was no stopping the flow. I didn't produce a puddle beneath my feet, but I did feel a moisture - and not the good kind - where one shouldn't when not in the vicinity of a toilet.

Although I didn't have a ring of six-year olds laughing in the background, I finally felt the humiliation and utter disgust that Jenny must have felt oh so many years ago.

Of course, I did a quick Google search and it seems that leaky bladders are common among pregnancy. Really?! Again, I must ask, why is this news to me? Why haven't other pregos spoken about this - at least as a warning to others? Do pregos actually forget that these things have happened to them or are they conspiratorially trying to hide such embarrassing side effects, so as not to turn off other women from supporting the birth rate?

Whatever the answer, I'm going to have to pack an extra pair of panties to take to work with me should this ever happen again! (Oh please don't ever happen again!)

Prego Mr. Oh!!

Mr. Oh is prego. At least that's what his mind is telling his body.

Don't believe me, do you? Here's a list of some of the "symptoms" he's experiencing. Judge for yourself!

• His intake of ice cream has increased at least 10-fold
• His urination patterns have risen in frequency
• There are days he eats as if he won't see food again
• He's gained weight around his mid-section (shhh don't tell him I said so)
• He experiences severe indigestion
• In our first trimester he was exhausted and slept constantly, but he seems to have regained some of his energy

What is most humorous of all these complaints, they usually occur shortly after I've begun to experience (nay complain) them. For example, on my recent trip home to Toronto, my grandmother and I indulged in a bowl of fresh ricotta. Although a favourite of ours, dairy is no longer my friend. Since I don't get such quality time with Nonna, I threw caution to the wind. Within a couple of hours, Mr. Oh stood by me as I winced and moaned about the incredible pain I was experiencing.

After lunch the next day - yes the VERY next day - Mr. Oh complained he wasn't feeling well. He followed this with a serenade of bodily noises. I asked what was wrong, his response accompanied with a pained expression that begged for pity, "Indigestion."

While I try to find the comical underlining of his "symptoms", there have been more times than not when I've wanted to choke him Looney Tunes style. He's not a center-of-attention kinda guy, so it's not that he's after the attention. I think the issue comes down to mind over matter.

See, Mr. Oh is a hypochondriac, a true germaphobe. In the time I have known him he's suspected he has had at least 50 different cancers. At times, he goes to extreme lengths to prove his health, and doctors - in search of a reprieve from his incessant inquiries - have provided him with placebo diagnoses. After experiencing a slight pain in the tummy, he went to the gastroenterologist. Initially, the doctor said it wasn't Irritable Bowl Syndrome (IBS) and so he underwent a series of increasingly invasive tests. With nothing showing up as irregular and with no further tests to perform, the doctor diagnosed Mr. Oh with a mild version of IBS.

I have used this fear of illness as a way to stave me from doing him harm. Since becoming pregnant I've become more intimate with the toilette, visiting it at least once an hour to relieve my bladder. It's truly one of the most annoying side effects I've had to deal with and I complain about it constantly. After yet another visit to the porclain throne, Mr. Oh confesses that he, too, has a greater need for pee. After privately rolling my eyes and heaving a heavy sigh, I welcomed him to my world. Then, with an expression of sheer concern, I told him he just might have an urinary tract infection. The panic showed immediately on his face and he asked what he needed to do. Holding back my giggles, I prescribed cranberry juice and a visit to the doctor. According to Mr. Oh, he consumed several litres of juice while at work and felt better. There was no need for a doctor, I guess.

For years I've explained to Mr. Oh and those who pity him that his illnesses, or rather suspected illnesses, are caused by his mind and not his body reacting to any real invasion. I guess, I've finally proved my case!

Now, I wonder if I invent aches and pains, will he experience them too? Hmmm... now that'll be entertaining!

Maternity fashion gone awry

I have a big bone to pick with the fashion industry. Why is it that as a pregger you're reserved to peasant tops with big, bold flowers; khaki-type slacks that make your butt look like it's about 4 times its actual size or matching outfit sets that compare to the clothes I used to crave from Smart Set when I was 9 years old?

And, why - and I really want an answer - are these maternity clothes made not only with enough room in the front for your growing belly, but with enough room in the rear to safely store a stroller? Let me remind you I'm not a petite pea by any stretch of the imagination. I've got a healthy layering of flesh on my bones, but obviously when you're prego you're immediately expected to quadruple the size of your ass.

I have visited just about every decently priced maternity shop in Manhattan (which aren't many) and have scoured the web, trying to find clothes that are reasonably-priced and stylish enough that won't have me regretting my new shape. I haven't had any luck.

So, I decided to get creative. Since loosey-goosey seems to be the trend this summer, I decided to head back to the regular shops and try to find trendy clothes that would also fit my body. I've actually had a few hits - H&M offers cute summer dresses and tops with empire waists that have ample room for my growing belly. The only issue is that the front of the garment will slowly rise up as my girth increases. I can totally live with that!

So, to continue with my hunt, I stepped into Banana Republic, who has a great selection of loosey-goosey. As the men's wear department was near the entrance, the greeter was poised to direct me to the women's department. But, as she began her guide routine, her eyes fell onto my belly. With her hand in mid-air pointing to the back of the store, she was at a loss for words. A little more than 4 months along it no longer looks like I've eaten too many Hostess cupcakes. But, I'm not huge - not by any stretch of the imagination!

With a quizzical look, she tried to form words in her mouth. Embarrassed at her ogling, I finished off her sentence with the words she was so desperately seeking: "Women's?" She nodded her head without taking her eyes off my belly.

I got several other looks in the store, but alas no one was willing to help me. Even the three women standing by the counter talking about how the recession is affecting their sales, didn't bother to try to scoop a sale with me.

So, not only am I forced to ignore my fashion sense, but when I try to recoup at least some style into my wardrobe I'm then left to be ogled and ignored. Lovely!

Forgetfulness

They say that preggers become forgetful during their term. Perhaps this is what is affecting me.

Earlier today, I was talking with a woman at work about a project we were working on and out of no where, she says. "Listen, li. I'm going to give you some advice that I give every pregnant woman who has come up after me."

A successful professional and mother of now teenage girls, my ears should have perked open to her sage advice. Instead, I said "What?" And, my face, which has an unpokerlike quality and expresses every thought that crosses my mind, looked confused and concerned.

For what felt like a few moments, but was more like a split second or two, I couldn't understand why she was ready to tell me something that she tells preggers. What did I have to do with that?

And, then it dawned on me: Oh yeah, I'm prego! Duh! Of course, this awareness also displayed on my face, which caused for quite the awkward moment.

This definitely wasn't the first time I've forgotten this itty bitty fact. Perhaps I'm just a horrible mommy-to-be. Or, maybe, I'm the same gal I've always been and I haven't let the nugget take over my life?

Should you...?

I must preceed this entry with the statement - I love my hubby more than life itself, but the dude can drive me crazy.

Mr. Oh knows me very well and as a result knows not to use certain phrases in my presence. For example, any phrase that starts off, "You can't..." results in me doing the absolute opposite of his statement as a way of waving the one-finger flag at the world and shouting "Oh, yes I can!".

As a work around, he's plagued me with the incredibly passive aggressive question that starts off with "Should you..."

Should you still be exercising? Should you be drinking wine? Should you be eating that? Should you be working late? Should you be playing Wii? And the list goes on and on.

For the most part, I've let his questions roll off my back. As annoying as they're becoming, I know they're coming from a good place. But, I've found, others don't have the virtue of patience I was granted (I say this sarcastically as I have an incredibly short patience fuse).

The other night we went out to celebrate with some friends - I'm a Grad graduate (yea). And, to honour the momentous occasion I wanted a Prosecco Bellini. After confirming with the bartender that the only alcohol content was the wine-based Prosecco, I placed my order. As she prepped my drink, I stepped away.

When I returned Mr. Oh shared with me that he tried to tame the bartender, asking her to go easy on the Prosecco. As an explanation, he then "whispered" to her that I was pregnant (you know, because pregnancy is something like crabs or other socially-crippling disease that it should be whispered!)

Her snarky response: "Yea, I know" and continued to let the Prosecco flow. My hero!

Big ol' butt

Why is it that the moment you break the news that you're "expecting" do all the women in the office feel they have the right to comment on your physique???

I broke the news at work this past week. In truth, I should have done this 2 weeks ago, but I've been so busy that I didn't get a chance. So, as a result many had strong suspicions. Kindly, no one said anything; however, I was given enough knowing looks in the halls.

So, as I started with my telling. I got a nod, then a knowing smile, following by me asking the question "You suspected?" And it was at this point that they'd share "how" they knew. Here's a smattering of the comments I received:

"You just weren't yourself. Your skin was so sallow and dull." (so I'm damn ugly)

"You weren't dressing the same. You used to always come in tailored outfits." (so I guess I'm just a big, ol' slob now)

"You have this svelt, fit physique. And, well, lately you just weren't." (wow, backhanded comment or what?)

"The tell was all in your face. Honey, it just got so big." (the very previous day, after a long consultation with my mirror, Mr. Oh and I agreed that I had yet to gain weight in my face! I guess I can't trust him anymore!)

And, my favourite that literally broke my spirits and had me wondering if I was just another disillusioned woman who claims "I just gained it in my belly" when in truth you'd think they were carrying a second child in their backside.

"Oh, honey, do you think this is news to me. I've been watching your big ol' butt walking past my desk for weeks. It just gets bigger every day!" (This, after weeks of speed walking on the highest incline on the treadmill, doing squats daily, and sitting in Utkatasana (chair pose) whenever I get a chance!)

For the record I have gained a whopping 4lbs, which leads me to wonder, what will they say - to my face - when I'm up 35lbs??

It's an alien

We had our first trimester screening this week and I had my first proud moment. The little bugger wouldn't sit still for the camera. He was bouncing up and down - at times it looked like he was doing a jig - moving his arms and legs spastically. Let's hope s/he gets a little more rhythm when it joins this world.

The technician was pretty annoyed and continued to jiggle my stomach to try to calm it down. It eventually did and we wrapped up the test pretty quickly.

During the test - which consisted of an ultrasound where the technician takes various measurements - she used a different x-ray wand on my belly and was able to magnify inside the baby's cave. She took close up shots of its face and showed me where the umbilical cord fed into it. She was going to show me more, but I pleaded with her to turn away the screen. It looked like an alien and I tell you those images have haunted my waking hours as well as my sleeping ones.

I'm all for doing whatever tests they need to do to get as much info as they possibly need. But, no one should see such scary ugliness. Mr. Oh, with his stronger stomach and luck of being spared the curse of nightmares, was also a little wigged out by the images and continued to ask "Is that normal?"

She gave us print outs of all the alien-like pictures. At first, I was going to toss them out, but I decided to keep them hidden for now. Who knows, one day I may get nostalgic and wish my child looked again like a freaky sideshow fit for a Star Trek convention!?

It's gas

In the last couple of weeks, I've come to see the conspiracy that is pregnancy. And, what's worse, everyone's in on it - the magazines, TV, and worse, women. They all claim how beautiful pregnancy is. To that, I say BS! Well, I'd say more, but not on such a public forum.

There is no beauty in constipation, bloating and gas. It's embarassing and for the first time in my life it is the most painful thing I've experienced EVER! And, this is coming from someone who been crippled by IBS her whole life! And, from what I've read, it's completely normal and completely common among pregnant women. Well, that's news to me!

I've known many pregnant women, and while I must admit, I've paid little attention to their aches and pains, I've never heard any reference to gas. Yes, it's embarrasing and utterly unladylike to experience, let along discuss. But, when something is so painful it warrants a discussion, non? At least as a warning.

Since I was never warned, let me be the first to warn you. The gas situation is horrible. My stomach has bloated to the point where the buttons on my shirt have popped - while at work - I kid not! And, on two separate occassions, the pressure was so great it literally brought me down to my knees. I tell you, if labour is anything like this, you can count me out!

What's worse, in my pursuit to overcome this problem, I've been told to up my fiber intake even more (my current high fiber diet would be a point of envy of most geriatrics). And as a result, this has only extenuated my circumstances, causing even greater discomfort for me and those within sniffing distance.

I can't wait for what's next!

Take your judgements and...

We're all different. We have different experiences, different likes, different dislikes, different tolerances and different ways of thinking. And, put those all together, we each end up making different decisions.

What may be good for me, may not be the right decision for you. The same goes for the other way around. I don't judge you for your decisions, so please don't judge me. Cause if you do, I'll likely tell you where to go and the quickest way to get there.

So, we've begun telling folks about, as Mr. Oh calls it, "my situation" (I try to remind him I didn't get here by myself, but whatever). The reactions have been wonderful, and the love and support we've received from our family has been unbelievable. But, as I'm coming to learn, as you open up this particular Pandora's box, everyone has a question or an opinion. And, it seems they don't have any fear in sharing.

I'll answer your questions - as long as they aren't the same ones (I'm a rather impatient gal) - and I'll listen to your opinions. But, in no way does this mean you can judge my answers or decisions.

Let me give you an example, we decided to start our family in the US. A decision that has shocked and dismayed many Canadians. Now, before you judge my decision and inform me of the 1 year mat leave policy granted to women working in Canada, let me remind you that I live in the US and more significant to this point, I work in the US.

Do you think I can just jump back over the border, get a job, find a place to live, etc with the snap of my finger. And, once I do all that, remind my new employer that, oh yeah, I'm not just a little chubby and within 6 months I'll need a year off? It don't work like that!

And, really while the 1 year mat leave sounds wonderful and I'll likely complain when I'm back at work pumping milk in the mommy room, not having 1 year off is not the end of the world (for me or the child; especially considering that the 1 year mat leave was only granted in the last decade). And, maybe, just maybe, we've considered our options and came to the responsible decision that the privilege of schlepping a year off work (yes, I know you're nurturing your babe) was an easy sacrifice to make for the possible privileges the child may enjoy down the road?

Maybe, eh?

Fear of fat

At the moment, my singular fear is getting fat.

I know, this is a selfish, vain concern. And you don't need to tell me that there are a million and one other things that I should be more worried about. Yet, here I am, obessing about the weight I'm going to gain and the few extra pounds that are already calling my body home.

Supposedly, I'm to gain 25-35 pounds! But what really terrifies me is the 10, 20, 30 or more extra pounds I'll pack on! To be honest, I don't know where this fear of fat comes from. I've always been a rather "healthy" gal and I've never concerned myself too much with my weight - as long as I was eating the right foods, exercising and fitting into my clothes it didn't matter what the scale said.

Not so anymore. The weight scale has become my most used appliance in my household and I pay it homage at least once a day.

The other night while speaking to my mother, I shared with her my fear of fat. She got very serious and provided the following sage advice: "Eat. Eat everything and anything. Don't think about it; just eat it. It's all good. Now's the time! Later, you can diet and lose it."

Of course, coming from my mother - who in her last pregnancy nearly doubled her weight (she gained more than 80 lbs), and like those models or movie stars you'd like to pierce with a bow and arrow, reverted back to her thin figure within 3 months - gaining and loosing an incredible amount of weight seems possible. But, with my metabolism and sheer love of food, I'll likely become yet another woman who reminisces about their youth when they were thin and beautiful!

As much as I want to listen to my mother and just enjoy as many plates of pasta as my stomach can hold without imploding, I just can't do it. I wish I could, but I just can't!

Men are from mars...

What would be the first thing you'd do if you found out you and your significant other were pregnant? Maybe you'd make a doctor's appointment or perhaps you'd read up on what you should do (or stop doing) to stay healthy.

Well, for Mr. Oh, his instant reaction was to begin his search for (cue game show voice) a brand new car!! But not just any car, no he's looking at the massive, gas-guzzling, very environmentally unfriendly SUVs!

Within a week of learning the news, he visited several dealerships to test drive his favourites. And, lately, his nights are dedicated to trolling websites to research which car would be the best!

I just can't wrap my head around it. How could he think that an itty, bitty thing that will be (hopefully) small enough to squeeze out of my va-j-j would need a luxury, 6-seater with leather interior, moon roof, TVs and god knows what else???

Supposedly, it'll be more comfortable for the little one. Yes, like it would know the difference between an SUV or a K-car!

A flutter of excitment - finally!

I met with my OB on Friday, and this afternoon she confirmed that, yep, a seed was planted and a bud was growing. I'll be 8 weeks tomorrow.

The results didn't surprise me, but my reaction did! I finally felt a flutter of excitment as she recited the blood test results over the phone. I shared this with her and it finally made my lady doc feel a little better as I didn't leave a very good first impression last week.

When I got to the doc's office last week, I was, without a doubt, nervous and anxious. But, if you know me, I'm a pretty down-to-business kinda gal. When dealing with emotional issues, I can literally put emotions on the back burner and pretend they don't exist.

Anyhow, my doc was so enthusiastic when I shared my suspicions with her. Her eyes widened with excitement and it looked like she was going to get up off her stool to give me a hug. I'm sure she noticed the scared deer-in-the-headlights look in my eye, and so decided to stay put.

When she calmed down some, she looked at me skeptically and said, "Was this planned?" I replied in the affirmative. This only puzzled her further and said "This is your first?" Again, yes. This only excited her more, "This is cool, isn't it??" To which I said, "I'm not sure about that yet."

Trying to rally me, she then asked, "So what questions can I answer for you." My response: "Your the doc, what should you tell me?" At this point she gave up on me and recited her laundry list of dos and don'ts.

Before leaving she congratulated me and then shared that my reaction was a little unusual, especially since I planned this pregnancy. I chuckled at the comment and simply replied that I was just as surprised.

It was only a flutter today, but a flutter is something!

Hiding game

I have yet to go public with my news. There are several reasons for this. First off, I have yet to visit my doctor for full, scientific evaluation and confirmation (it takes weeks, sometimes months to get an OBGYN appointment in this city). Second, and more significantly, I'm still coming to terms with my new state and taking the time to sharpen my reactionary skills so I won't appear to be such an ungrateful curmudgeon (see Congratulations?).

Since I haven't shared the news with anyone beyond Mr. Oh, the receptionist at my OBGYN and my yoga instructor, I've been playing the hiding game from friends and family, avoiding any interaction. The problem is I'm a horrible liar - I wear my emotions on my sleeve and if I'm dealing with something I need to air it out, otherwise it'll fester and ferment, and make me a rather unpleasant person to deal with.

Last weekend, two days after peeing on those sticks, we had a housewarming party where just about all the people we knew joined us in our home. It was lovely; but I hardly got to enjoy myself. I was on pins and needles all night, floating quickly around the room, staying with no one person or group too long for them to notice that I wasn't toting my perpetually full glass of wine or that I didn't even taste the tuna tartar I made (which I heard was pretty great). I particularly stayed away from the gals - especially the mammas - as I was afraid they'd sense something was afoot.

So, today, without thinking I agreed to join a friend at an event later this week - I always seem to leap before thinking. And, now I sit here worried, how do I avoid joining her for the celebratory drink (when that's one of the things we do so well together) without spilling the beans?

I guess, I'll have to be creative!

Why is fat so wrong?

How sensitive have men gotten?

We were out for a stroll last night and I stopped in front of a shop window to ogle the spring fashion. I was about to step in, when I decided that it would be a pointless venture that would tease me and leave me disappointed.

Trying to find that silver lining, I reported to Mr. Oh that there were a lot of flowing dresses in the shop windows this season, which will give me the room I'll need in the coming months. To which he said, "I guess they'll be good when you get fat!"

Just as he stressed this last word, another guy walked by us, his face striken, he gave a fast double take and continued walking quickly. I guess he figured I'd blow up at such a horrid thing to say!

Instead, I bowled over with laughter and tried to scold Mr. Oh for being so insensitive! At which point, we got one last, worried look back at us. Obviously, someone has trained (or scared) him well that saying the word, "fat" to a woman is a big no-no!

Hunger like no other

Luckily, I've never had to experience the true desperation of hunger. That state of starvation where you're so hungry that your animal instincts will have you do things you wouldn't imagine. Well, that is, up until now.

For those who know me, you may be rolling your eyes and likely group me in with the "boys who cried wolf" gang. Yes, I've claimed the dramatic "I'm starving" mantra numerous times in the past. For me, going without food for 2 to 3 hours was enough to get my stomach talking and me grumbling for my next meal.

However, the hunger pangs - yes, pangs, people - I've experienced in the past week or so, I now realize how I've over-dramatized my hunger in the past. Now, there have been days where I've been so hungry and so desperate for food I didn't trust what I'd say or do to get food into my system.

I've become really good at bringing very healthful snacks with me to work that will provide me the nutrients I need and stave me from visiting the vending machines. Many times, I bring too much food that I end up saving it for the next day.

This wasn't the case the other day - my first hunger pang. I was truly ravishing. No matter what I ate (and it was a lot), I couldn't seem to ease the sensation of hunger. Finally, when I had run out of healthy snacks this feeling of true desperation bubbled up. I began to panic. So, I grabbed my things and literally ran all the way home and when I got there (in record time), I ran to the fridge and jammed a piece of whole wheat flax bread down my throat without a second thought.

I woke this morning with the same feeling - famished, a little light headed and very antsy. Unfortunately, I didn't get a chance to do a grocery shop yesterday (I really need to get this in check!), and so there is very little food in my fridge. So, in need of food, I awaited until Mr. Oh rose out of bed - almost an hour after I - and asked him to take a trip to the grocery store to pick up a few things.

His response: "Come on. You always say you're hungry. I'm sure you can wait." In part he's right - I do always say that. But, there's no way I can wait. Not this time.

What's up with all the limitations?

What's with all the rules? I knew there were a few things that you shouldn't do - like smoke, drink strong alcohol, take drugs. But, I have to say the list of things you "can't" has left me absolutely unimpressed.

So the no drug thing doesn't simply mean avoid illegals like cocaine and heroine, but supposedly simple conveniences like Advil and allergy pills are out of the question. Let me tell you how I'm looking forward to the pollen season this year!

Then, there's the alcohol thing. I get I shouldn't crack open the new Patron silver tequila I was given as a gift (although I really want to), but really, you're telling me I can't have wine? It's made from grapes and is full of antioxidants. Heart patients are encouraged to drink it, yet healthy pregnant women can't?

Then there's the list of "no-no" foods. Sushi (give me the torture chamber instead), unripened cheese like brie (crucify me), deli meats (just kill me), undercooked fish like tuna or oysters (how cruel), and the list goes on and on and on.

Fine, there are some logical, medical reasons for some of these - like the mercury in tuna is dangerous and will penetrate the placenta and cause brain damage. But, others just seem cruel and truly defy common sense. For example, do pregnant women in Japan not eat sushi for 9 months? With more than 127 million people living in Japan, I can't imagine thousands go without eating sushi every year! Do the French really stay away from their cheeses? Do the Italians really stay away from their wine and cured salumi? I just don't buy it.

Some have even tried to scare me off from exercising. Really? Isn't now the time when I should be my most fit? I ran a half marathon last year and I trained every day for more than four months. And, now, when my body is going to expand and change and do things I still have yet to process, I'm going to sit back and take it easy? The response I got was that I could pick it up in the second trimester. So, let me understand, after spending 3 months on the sofa letting myself get uncomfortably fat and unfit, I should then shock my lazy heart and other unfit organs by starting to exercise. And this would be better than continuing with a healthy exercise regime now? Again, I just don't buy it!

For now, I'm watching what I'm drinking, eating and doing. I'm still enjoying my wine, but in moderation and I'm still running and doing yoga - although I'm listening more closely to my body and stopped pushing myself. I do plan on becoming more educated on these things, so I can determine for myself which limitations are based on research and fact, and which are based on mere conservative North American Puritanical fears and ignorance.

Congratulations?

So, I received my third, genuinely enthusiastic congratulations the other day. And, for days I've been wondering why the celebratory chorus, "congratulations", and the kindness it was wrapped up in turned my stomach so.

Why am I not overjoyed, enthusiastic, excited by this event? Aren't I supposed to be all these things and more? And, why am I experiencing an almost visceral reaction to the simple celebratory word? I have yet to experience morning sickness (which is a deceiving term as it can happen any time of day - and sometimes all day!), but "congratulations" almost brought on a serious bout of it!

Although I always imagined kids in my future, I'm just not the type that has yearned to be a mommy. I know, this sounds very contradictory, but a truth nonetheless.

My only answer for you - I ran out of excuses.

Last fall, I had the near traumatic realization that I was officially in my "early 30s" and as Mr. Oh has kindly reminded me, I was now closer to 40 than I was to 20 (what a prince, non?). I then took a good look at my life - was I where I wanted to be at this age? I had no regrets and was very happy with my life. Professionally, I was do well and had just achieved the promotion I had been working towards for 4 years. I was also on the last leg of my master's degree program.

Personally, I was as happy as a fat kid eating cake: I had an awesome husband who I've known and loved for 15 years, was financial stable, living in a city I loved, and - key to living in the New York area - we lived in a spacious two bedroom apartment.

This trip down and out of the rabbit hole of my life took mere minutes and when I emerged, I realized I had no excuses left to bar us from having a family. And any excuse I came up with - like enjoying a cool, refreshing margarita on the rocks with salt on a hot summer day - were too pithy and too short-term to consider seriously.

Looking at the facts of my life - it appeared I was ready and if I didn't move forward I'd simply be bidding time and postponing the inevitable. What I didn't do at the time was consider how I felt about being pregnant and the impact it would have on my life today, for the next 9 months and the rest of my life!

Don't mistaken it, I'm not unhappy with my new situation, but I do need some time to process it all. And as I do so, I'll continue to puke in my mouth as others embrace and congratulate me!

The Nose Knows

I've always had a good nose and could sniff out just about any scent. But the other day, my smelling prowress had escalated to new heights - I actually tracked down the assualting odor of rotting banana to a peel placed in a trash bin three workstations away!

It was then that I realized I needed to make my way to the pharamcy. As I walked home from work, I gave myself a pep talk to muster up the courage to make the purchase that would explain my sniffing powers.

After several litres of water and four trips to the toilets, my suspicions were confirmed - I was pregnant. Or, at least 3 of the 4 pee sticks said so. It was then that I felt the walls crashing in on me. Could it be?

For the rest of the evening, I sat stunned, wringing my fingers and awaiting the daddy-to-be's return so I could share the news.

Before the door closed behind him, I blurted out the news, which left the two of us stunned into silence for the rest of the evening.