It comes as a surprise to many people that this pregnancy wasn't planned. Yes, we are nearing our 30's. Yes, we both have good jobs. Yes, we own a home. Yes, we've been married for a few years. However, we had plans. And they didn't include a baby anytime soon. Don't get me wrong. I wanted a baby...or two. But not yet! And I wasn't really committed to having my own baby. The thought of being pregnant freaked me out (and still does) and labor and delivery? OMG, no thanks. As for Colt... well, let's just say he really wasn't ready for a baby.
It all started back in February. I was in the middle of a looooong trial in Pierce County. A stomach bug had been going around and I cursed my pathetic immune system as I began to feel like I was "coming down with something." I was tired and queasy, and as usual, too busy to be sick. Ha. If only I knew what I was really in for...
So it was Super Bowl weekend and we were having some friends over to watch the game on Sunday. But first, I had to dutifully report to my Weight Watchers meeting on Saturday. I went, I weighed in, I lost 3 pounds(!), I sat through the support meeting and I left. I was about half way home when my mouth filled with really sour saliva. WTH, I thought? Not quite sure what was happening, I quickly swerved into the nearest parking lot, threw my car into park, flung the door open, and vomited all over the nicely manicured median in the JoAnn's parking lot. Embarrassed, disgusted, and baffled (prior to pregnancy, I had an average vomit score of once every ten years - it's just not something I handle well), I got back in my car and quickly drove home. I went straight to bed and barely moved the rest of the day.
On Sunday, I was feeling marginally better. I considered canceling on our friends, but didn't want to ruin it for everybody else so I made some snacks and a pitcher of beer-ritas. I should have known something was up when I didn't self-medicate with the free flowing tequila, but it just sounded....GROSS. So I didn't drink anything, I barely ate anything and I disappeared more than once to be sick in the upstairs bathroom.
Come Monday morning, I was back in trial, sitting in the back of the courtroom trying to make it to the next break before running to the nearest bathroom. Much to the judge's dismay (picture Judge Judy - if only she knew my dilemma!), I was never able to make it to the next break. I jumped and ran from the courtroom as if somebody had just pulled the fire alarm...numerous times, each time running past witnesses who wanted to know, "how's it going in there?" "how much longer till I testify?" "what kind of questions is the defense attorney asking?" "can I talk to the prosecutor one more time before I testify?" etc. If I paused and opened my mouth to answer their questions... well that just wouldn't have been very professional. So instead, I ran past them as if on an urgent mission to find a missing witness. Then, I'd return a few minutes later, walking at a normal pace, without the missing witness, my hand no longer covering my mouth...and I'd calmly address each of their concerns. They must have thought I was CRAZY!
After another day of this bizarre behavior, I decided to just pee on a damn stick. I KNEW I wasn't pregnant, but Colt kept telling me to "just do it." So I did. To get him to shut up. I went upstairs and I peed on the stick. I swear those two pink lines started glowing before I was even done. Wait 3-5 minutes, my ass. Like one of the lines was going to disappear? So with the little stick that would FOREVER change our lives in my hand, I walked back down stairs. I thought he would be anxiously awaiting the results, but he was on the phone. It was our friend Gina's birthday, and he had called to wish her a happy one. If you know Colt, you know he can talk for days. So I waited patiently; a near impossible task for me. I thought about putting the stick down on the counter in front of him...standing in his line of vision and awkwardly rubbing my belly...or finding a rerun of "A Baby Story" on TLC to blare in the background. Unfortunately, I was in too much shock myself. So I just sat down on the couch and watched him talk. And talk. And talk. Geez Pete, can he talk. When he FINALLY hung up, he turned to me and said, "hey babe - why don't you go pee on the stick?" Um, hello?!?! It then went like this:
Me: "Um, I did."
Him: "And?"
Me: "And I'm pregnant."
Him: "Huh uh."
Me: "Uh huh."
Him: "Huh uh."
Me: [with a little bit of irritation in my voice] "Uh huh."
Him: "Are you serious?"
Me: "Yes."
Him: "Seriously?"
Me: "YES! SERIOUSLY, I'M SERIOUSLY PREGNANT."
Then the shock set in. We both sat there wondering... how? when? what now? how? While he was probably wondering how our lives were going to change with a baby, I was wondering how I was going to have a baby during my last semester of law school, while working full time and still graduate, take the bar, get a job, etc. (I'm actually still trying to figure that part out.) To say we were in over our heads is an over statement. Fortunately, he snapped out of it pretty quickly and adopted the motto: "It is what it is. We'll make it work." For me, it took a lot longer. Maybe it was the nausea, or the fatigue, or the incredibly sore milk makers, but I just couldn't wrap my head around how we were going to be responsible for a little person in 9 short months.
The first trimester passed pretty quickly, thank goodness! Those sea-bands were miracle workers, but they certainly weren't fashionable. Ginger gum is awful and I sucked on so much hard candy, it's amazing I have any teeth left. We couldn't go to restaurants for fear of me barfing the minute I walked in and got a smell of whatever was cooking in the kitchen. Always smelled like some kind of roadkill to me. I wanted to harm anybody at work who cooked oatmeal in the morning or popcorn for an afternoon snack. Worst of all, I wanted to harm the jackass who invented the brassiere, thereby forcing me to squish my tender ladies into a torture contraption each and every morning.
The second trimester was bliss. I often forgot I was pregnant and just thought everyone was so nice, always asking how I was doing. I didn't pick up any weird cravings, have uncontrollable crying spells, or gain a ton of weight. I just went about my daily schedule - commute to Seattle, work, school, commute home, repeat - and started to plan for the little person. I received three copies of the book "What to Expect When You're Expecting." Always big on reading and learning, I cracked open a copy and dove in. In less than 7 seconds, I was horrified. I slammed the book shut and tossed it on to the coffee table. I'm a firm believer in knowledge is power; HOWEVER, there are some things you just don't need to know. Especially when it comes to things that might [or might not!] happen to your body.
Since it was too overwhelming for me to think or talk about the logistics of getting the baby out of my body, I turned to more important things. What should we name him/her? How should we decorate the nursery? Picking out a name was actually pretty easy. We each vetoed one name the other person picked out and then settled on the winners pretty quickly. I wanted Paisley Jade for a girl; he hated it. He wanted Elijah for a boy; I didn't hate it (and actually like Eli) but thought it would be a bit too biblical paired with the middle name that we had long-ago agreed upon - Paul, after his grandfather. Plus, he so viciously vetoed my first choice that I couldn't just succumb to him! So Addison Grace for a girl; Ethan Paul for a boy. Done. Picking out the nursery was pretty easy too. We both love Charlie Brown, so we thought it would be fun to follow that theme for a boy. A girl nursery was a little bit more difficult to imagine, but I knew I wanted the focus to be a tree of some sort. Fast forward: we found out in early June (after an unsuccessful attempt in late May) that we'd be having a little girl. Still only half-baked, Addison Grace became the center of our world. And she has a pretty cool nursery to come home to. :)
The euphoric second trimester was gone as quickly as it came. In it's place was heartburn, cankles, unsightly waddling, and sheer exhaustion coupled with inexplicable insomnia. I puffed up like Eddie Murphy in the Nutty Professor, and eating anything more solidified than a smoothie left me feeling like I had run a marathon. Addison was sending her message loud and clear: "I am in charge now, Mom." I am 3 weeks and 3 days from my due date, and I'm beginning to think I might not make it. Addy has dropped, making my gait mimic that of a hippo-penguin. And every time I stand up - a major feat these days - I'm tempted to reach down and check to make sure she didn't fall out. (I know you been-there-done-that-moms are thinking "if only it were that easy!") Let me dream, please. I'm still coping with the concept of labor and delivery. Despite my mom's persistent affirmation that birth is "a beautiful thing," I'm just not buying it. It truly seems archaic. It's 2011 and this is the best the medical community has come up with? Yikes.
To be continued...
