Gaining

I went to see my OB for a checkup last Wednesday, and it's taken me until now to write about it. Because I have mixed feelings, but the primary feeling in the mix is crappy. No, no, no - the baby is fine. Everything's dandy there - my OB heard a heartbeat (I didn't hear it, but she heard it, so that's okay) and all else looks good with my little 5 cm. progeny. It's me. Or, as she put it as she clucked her tongue and shook her head at me from her seat in the examining room, it's my weight. She said that she was concerned that I had gained 44 lbs. during my last pregnancy, and that I hadn't lost it all before getting pregnant again. She said that for my height (about 5'2"), I should really be getting down to less than 120 lbs. after this pregnancy, and that she didn't want to see me gain more than 30 lbs. this time around.

I keep going around and around with this in my head. You see, it would be one thing if I was an overweight person to begin with. But I am not. I will be the first to admit that I gained too much weight during my last pregnancy, and that I certainly learned my lesson the hard way (those last 10-12 lbs. never did get off). I was already planning to be more vigilant about what I was eating during this pregnancy (i.e., forego the daily Ben & Jerry's chocolate milkshake and frequent stops at Jack in the Box for cheeseburgers in favor of tuna fish sandwiches or salads and glasses of water or milk). I now know that pregnancy is not a license for me to eat indiscriminately - nothing really is - and that eventually I will have to pay. But so far in this pregnancy - that is to say, in my first twelve weeks or so - in spite of my Lorna Doone frolics, I have gained around 3-4 lbs. (as opposed to 15 lbs. in my first trimester last time around), and I was feeling pretty good about myself. But no - I was shot down by my teensy-weensy, marathon-running doc who is treating me like I am a fatty. I felt like I was in the fifties or something!

It is a very fine line we women walk, I realize, when we begin arguing with our doctors about our weight (or telling our husbands or friends or our blog audience about all the things we wish we could have said to that bitch). Inevitably, we sound hyper-defensive and whiny and like we're about to make a gazillion excuses. But I'm feeling pissed off, and I think rightfully so. You see, I follow the BMI guidelines for weight versus height, because I feel that this is the most objective and simple way to determine a healthy weight for height. The other reason I follow this is because this is what doctors supposedly refer to in order to determine if a person needs to take extra steps to manage their weight. According to the BMI chart, I have managed to stay pretty much within a "healthy" or "normal" weight range for my height. And now I am pregnant, and I was planning to try really hard to gain within the "recommended" 25-35 pounds for a woman of normal weight. The point is, I had studied all of this - I had made a concerted effort to prepare myself for the changes in my body in this pregnancy - and I felt like my doctor treated me like I had no idea what was going on and I was just going into this pregnancy carelessly. She never asked me once what I was doing for exercise, what kinds of foods I was eating, etc. She just got bent out of shape about the number on the scale.

My doctor also didn't ask me, before launching into her speech about my weight and how much I was gaining, if I had ever had an eating disorder before, which I found most alarming. I actually haven't, and I am fortunate to have gained a fairly healthy attitude about eating and weight and food in my life, but I have encountered many, many women who do have a wide range of issues with eating. I also know that pregnancy and the inevitable weight gain that accompanies it can be quite a trial for someone who has gone to extreme measures to control her weight in the past. Add to this a doctor telling you that you are headed toward FAT if you don't exercise more control, and in some women this might trigger an all-out recurrence of their disordered eating behavior, leading to innumerable risks for the growing baby (not to mention the mama). Of course I checked, on the initial questionnaire, that I do not have an eating disorder, and the doctor may have reviewed this before talking to me, but I imagine that many women who do have a problem would also check "no" in order to avoid another confrontation/counseling session with a professional.

The point is, I felt that all of this that happened was very irresponsible on my doctor's part, and I am pissed off at her and wondering if I should go to the trouble of switching doctors at this point. I realize, however, that no matter what I do, what she said is now going to stick with me and needle at me throughout this pregnancy and beyond. Even if I do succeed at gaining 30 lbs. or less, I will be haunted as I try to take the weight off that maybe I won't be able to get it all off again, and then even if I do, that I won't be able to get down to 120 - the magic number that my doctor spewed. I have not weighed 120 since the 7th grade! That number seems unrelated to any BMI chart or anything I have ever seen. It sounds, again, like some ideal that girls learned, in whispers, in the 1950's - "You musn't let your weight get above 120, or your husband will stray, darling." There is the side of me that knows that what she said is at some level irrational and extreme and not exactly for me, and that's what I try to focus on. But there is another side of me that freaks out every once in a while that what she said was actually the gospel truth, and that I must trust her judgment and her comments as she is a highly-educated, experienced medical professional. After all, why would she just want to make me feel bad? She has an interest, doesn't she, in retaining me as a patient?

I think the term "eating disorder" is interesting. It conjures up images of Karen Carpenter or Paula Abdul or, for me, perfectly-tanned, blonde Connecticut girls in pearls and cashmere sweater sets eating their salads with lemon juice and a cup of tea day after day in the dining hall at my prestigious New England college. And I all-too readily said, just above, that I do not have an eating disorder. But I am inordinately concerned with my doctor's comments, made almost a week ago now, about my weight. In fact, my husband might say I am "obsessing," and he would probably be right. Though I do feel that my attitude about food and weight is generally healthy, I know that I can get caught up in other people's determinations about what a "good" or "healthy" body looks like or measures up to (or down to). I think that women in this society are severely patronized about this issue. We are told not to worry about our weight so much, and everyone knows that supermodels are freakishly tall and thin and we should just love ourselves, etc., etc., but isn't it a shame about Judy, who's had three kids and she used to have such a nice figure and now she's really gained a lot of weight. Or Allison, who would probably feel better about herself and get some dates if she could just drop a few pounds. Or back to my last post, where a woman who is beautiful and slender to boot "probably has an eating disorder." It's like this great farce. Do we or don't we feel that women should just be themselves and be healthy? And what does healthy really mean to each one of us?

I will say that my doctor's comments have freaked me out to the extent that I am giving much extra thought to what I put in my body now. And I am surely eating more healthfully as a result, even as I gain. I will try not to worry, I say. I will focus on having the healthiest baby possible and nothing else matters. But I will put out there that it is almost impossible even for the most confident of women to hear a negative comment about their bodies, their weight, and not carry that comment around in their sack of woes, of "can'ts," for a long time after. My sack was really lightening of late, but now I am huffing and puffing from the extra weight.

Showing

I just got off the phone with my educational loans people, asking for a forbearance. Finally. I've been nervous about starting this, because I'm not sure that I want to let go of my 3-year grace period just yet. I'm a big hoarder - you should see my basement. I've got enough canned tomatoes, soup, pasta and tonic water to survive if the big one hits and we somehow manage to live through it. We might be unable to use electricity or plumbing, but if we've got a can opener and maybe some gin, we're in great shape.

Anyway, the payments are getting to be too much for our single-income family, so it's the right thing to do now. I also cancelled our New York Times subscription today, because it's very expensive and generally serves only as extra weight in our recycle bin at the end of the week. I loved the idea of getting the NY Times every weekend - curling up with a cup of coffee and the Magazine or the Book Review, hours and hours of blissful quiet and peace stretched before me, but come on. Are you kidding me? That was in another life, and hopefully in a life somewhere far in the future, when there are no children running around here on a Sunday morning trying to stick their fingers in light sockets and screaming, "Cinderella, on! Cinderella, on!" Good-bye, highbrow intellectual me. Hello, Survival Mama. Stained, tattered Mama who now showers every other OTHER day and uses moisturizer and deodorant as an afterthought.

I realized the other day, fighting the crowds at an outlet mall to buy my daughter some new fall clothes at Carter's, that I am far more concerned with what she is wearing and the state of HER clothes than with my own. Before I had kids, when I would dream about life with kids, I would always picture myself as one of those very together mommies, with nary a wrinkle or a stain on my tailored wool pants and silk blouse, and though it would be a challenge sometimes, I would always wear at least just a little bit of makeup to brighten up my face. Fast-forward to reality: most days I hang around in my bathrobe, mascara smudged under my eyes from last night, until an hour in the day I prefer not to mention, hoping for a window of opportunity in which to bathe myself before putting on a new pair of underwear. My other issue with getting dressed these days is my in-between waistline. My regular pants don't quite fit me anymore, but maternity pants look ridiculous - like I'm trying to "look" pregnant. I almost forgot about this schleppy-sloppy time of pregnancy, where mostly you just look like you haven't been taking care of yourself. It doesn't help that I reach for the same old black yoga pants almost every single day, just as soon as I step out of my bathrobe.

What's been a trip is that my tummy is really sticking out much sooner this time. I had convinced myself that I was really just behind on my situps, and I really needed to start drinking my coffee without two heaping teaspoons of sugar and a hefty pour of half and half each morning, but some good friends plus a random old woman in my workout class at the Y pointed out to me that indeed, I was "showing" (the old lady said it was either that or I was just really putting on the pounds. I told her she was very lucky that I was pregnant, or I would have had to strangle her with a resistance band). Note to reader: Just because you are old and/or have been around the block a time or two, that does not give you the right to approach random people and ask, "Are you pregnant?" What the hell is wrong with you! I swear it seems sometimes like people never had a mother - at least a mother that taught them anything about how to act.

The other thing that people have said to me so far this time that has been annoying is, "Another one? Already?" As if I have not waited the requisite time of _____ (insert random time period here) and have, most irresponsibly, disrupted some code of child-spacing. My daughter is almost 20 months now. That means that when this baby is born, she will be almost 27 months old. It's not like I got pregnant right away, and the second one will be born before the first one can even walk! Good Lord. It's hard not to get freaked out by what people say, though, especially since there are no certainties around the whole child-bearing/child-rearing thing. Surely if I lived in another community, people would be saying, "Well, what took you so long?" I have to remember that what my husband and I are doing is right for us, and stake my confidence on that.

That brings me to something that is constantly on my mind; the whole thing about staying at home and not being out there working, using my law degree to the greatest extent possible. I used to really worry about it, most of all because when our daughter was born, the amount of time I was going to take "off" kept changing the older she got - my husband and I hadn't really hammered it out as much as we should have. And money kept getting tighter and tighter (it still is). But the more I stayed home with her, the more I knew that this was what I should be doing - what made me the happiest. I also knew that going to work and being away from her was going to make me very, very sad. I do not know a single other woman who was an attorney and had a baby and now stays home full-time. That is a bit disconcerting - it makes me feel sometimes as if I am not following the "right" track for a female attorney, and that somehow I will never find my way back on again. But I have faith that this experience, while taking me out of legal practice for a while, will make me an even better attorney - more well-rounded, perhaps - and one who is not bitter for having "missed out" on these formative years. My hope is that I will be more than ready to go back to work when the time comes. Fresh and optimistic. Certainly, I want my children to see me take my education and use it to make a difference out there in the world, and contribute to the household income to boot. I also want them to see that I am committed to them, and that nothing is more important than the time I got to spend with them when they were small.

Life is much less complicated these days for me. It is also much less glamorous, a little softer around the edges, a lot more raw. I talk about poop now with all kinds of people and don't even give it a second thought. I sing "B-I-N-G-O" right out loud with my daughter and show her my bellybutton when she shows me hers - I don't care who's around. It is very rare that I get flustered or embarrassed around other people now, or that I fail to say what I really think, without my voice shaking so much. I don't get bogged down, stressed out by what I think people are thinking of me or what they actually mean by what they say. I live rich in the knowledge that nothing else really matters, when it comes right down to it. Nothing but my family. I will work hard to support and promote that, and the rest is just bullshit. I would want to hire someone like me.

Sushi and Pregnancy; Like Two Edemame in a Pod

This NY Times article basically confirms what I've suspected all along; that sushi is far from a serious danger to pregnant ladies. Interestingly enough, sushi has been one of the things I've been consistently craving through all of this nausea. Perhaps because the flavors are so clean and there is no heavy smell or grease. Azuma, here I come!

Pregnant

Last week Wednesday I found out I was pregnant. Apparently, I'm about six weeks along now, and the embryo (or is it called a "fetus" at this point? I forget) is supposedly about the size of a peppercorn. I'm not exactly sure how far along, as my cycle's been all out of whack for a few months, so they have estimated from a blood test they took last week. Thank you, phlebotomist, for the lovely brown bruise I'm now sporting on my left arm.

I've had few symptoms, except for a monster headache that started about Sunday evening and stayed with me until Wednesday. Oh yes. I used to really be the Headache Queen - like get these horrible hormonal/migraine headaches that took over my entire body and would cause me so much pain I would vomit - until I had a child. Then they pretty much went away. Now they're back, apparently. With my last pregnancy, I managed to avoid coffee, alcohol, litter boxes, artificial sweeteners and most of that other "bad" stuff like the plague. I did still indulge in sushi at Azuma and stinky European cheeses. And I will again, dammit! And this time, I'm having a cup of coffee every morning. I've decided it's okay, and it's a hell of a lot better than getting a headache from lack of caffeine that turns into a migraine that lasts for three days. I did have to come to this on my own, though. I hate it when people shove their children in your face and say things like, "I had a glass of wine every day throughout my pregnancy with Beauregard, and look! There's nothing wrong with him!" Shut up - you're gross. As if your baby was this grand experiment about the REAL effects of alcohol on fetuses (all that stuff the doctors say is just a bunch of bunk, right?), and you've got living proof now that we all can have a cocktail with dinner every night. Blech.

I'm going to be talking (actually whining) about unsolicited advice from people when you're pregnant. Unsolicited comments in general. With my last pregnancy, I liked to play this trick on inappropriate people in supermarkets, etc., who would ask me when I was due. I liked to act really shocked and say, "I'm not sure I understand what you mean!" so they would have to stand there and flounder and try to think of how to now mask their idiotic comment. Some woman came up to me at Costco near the pillow section and she grabbed a body pillow and shoved it at me and she said, "You're going to need this." Shut up. Call me a grump (and I am kind of a grump today, and I will be frequently throughout the next nine months), but people need to censor themselves somewhat. A pregnant belly is not a cry for help, in and of itself. If I must cry for help, I'll just cry. Oh and I will just cry, too. Don't tell me anything about babies dying or conjoined twins having an operation to get separated or some child's plight with multiple sclerosis or diabetes or homelessness. I'll be a mess. I already am a mess, but you know, it will all just come out in your lap.

Anyway, right now this baby's just a peppercorn, so no one's talking to me at the grocery store usually. Except the elderly men who see my daughter and come up to me and say, "What aisle did you pick her up in?" Ha ha ha. I swear this has happened each of the last five times I've been at the Safeway. Maybe it's the same guy! And I always say, "I had a coupon," or "She was on special." Ha ha ha. What the hell is wrong with me?

And I am excited to house this new life. In general, my last was an excellent pregnancy. I cruised around (then waddled) for the entire blissful time. I was a little bit cranky and I got pretty tired of getting up to go to the bathroom all the time, but I loved having a big belly and I thought I looked pretty awesome. I also got really into the whole mother-one-with-earth thing. Not like Birkenstocks and all that - no way (see my last post) - I definitely still got my grub on at Jack in the Box and the taco wagon in Burien and wore heels that were too high for my pudgy legs. I just mean that I was continually amazed that my body could grow this other person, and I could be her first life source. That's pretty incredible to me.

Last time I knew it was going to be a girl. I bought her an outfit at the Nordstrom Anniversary Sale (starts tomorrow!) before we even found out, and my husband yelled at me, but I just smiled because I knew. This time nothing strikes me right away. Perhaps I'm just being more reserved because now the chances are good again that it will be a boy. A boy would be good. I'm not such a boy kind of gal (one of two sisters), but I could learn how to do it for sure. I would try not to pressure him too much or dress him too effeminately, but I think I would secretly hope the whole time that he was gay. I'd be waiting at every turn to have "that conversation" about the gay neighbors or the man who wears foundation at the M.A.C. counter or the cheese guy at the market - you know. I mostly would just want him to learn to respect women, and to respect himself, and to not be afraid to do things like use lotion.

It's going to be different this time with a toddler in tow, I keep thinking. It already is different. What happened to that rule from last time about how you're not supposed to lift more than 20 pounds? Or you're probably not supposed to change poopy diapers or eat pieces of food that someone else has already slobbered on. I guess you don't have the same rules when you already have one. I keep trying to tell my daughter that mommy has a baby in her tummy, but she just smiles at me and says, "Owie. Tummy." Okay - I guess that's good enough for now. Another great journey begins. I'll see you tomorrow at the sale in the baby section. I'll be the one with the cup of coffee.