Whenever I start getting a little uppity regarding our division of household labor (why am I the only one who remembers that the child needs to go potty before we go somewhere? why do CERTAIN PEOPLE seem to think our diaper bag is a magical fount of ever-regenerating sippy cups and snacks?), Jason manages to schedule an extended business trip. Possibly for the sole purpose of watching my lose my shit from afar.
I have to take the garbage and recycling out? All the way to the curb? I have to...make dinner? Every night? Why aren't these dishes put away yet? Why hasn't someone done something about that weird smell in the bathroom? Noah, did I feed the cat already? Why is he meowing? I swear I fed him already. Noah, come on! YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO PAY ATTENTION TO THESE THINGS.
And it turns out that it's NOT a magic cell phone fairy who remembers to charge my phone for me every night. At least I'm pretty sure, unless she also had a conference to attend in Milwaukee this week. Maybe that's where the magic fairy who also remembers to buy milk went too.
Part of my flying solo this week involved taking Noah to my prenatal check-up this morning, and OH GOLLY GEE LET'S DO THAT AGAIN.
I shoved him on the little chair where you usually stash your pants and underwear, gave him a granola bar and a healthy dose of fear that if he DARED MOVE FROM THAT CHAIR TO TOUCH THE ELEVENTY BILLION DOLLAR ULTRASOUND MACHNE, God Himself would descend from heaven and take away his entire collection of spare buttons. He did not move from that chair, but then pitched such a fit in the waiting room over having to leave behind a basket of random beat-up Happy Meal prizes I could see the pupils of all the other waiting pregnant ladies dilate in terror.
I made sure to screech something about not going potty in the grocery store cart again as we left. Just because I am Mean.
I was shocked to learn that I'm at the point in this pregnancy where I go to the doctor every two weeks instead of four. This is alarming, since it seems to suggest that I will be having a baby soon. Somebody is not doing their math. I'll get Jason to look into it when he gets home.
My blood pressure is low -- really low -- and I'm constantly close to fainting. If I am not close to fainting, I am close to vomiting. I don't necessarily DO much fainting or vomiting (I find loosening the stays of my corset just a tad helps -- 17 inches IS a bit unrealistic at point, I suppose), but still. I feel rather delicate and Victorian, except for the hemorrhoids.
I always feel strange reporting my weight online, but with senility setting in fast (SERIOUSLY. DID I FEED THE CAT ALREADY OR NOT, PEOPLE? THIS IS NOT A DIFFICULT QUESTION.), I have to write this crap down somewhere, and my fingers are already ever-so-nicely positioned on the keyboard.
I'm not gaining weight. It's freaking me out. I gained one whopping pound since my last visit, which was the very first visit where I'd gained any weight at all (four pounds). So...I've gained...five pounds? Maybe six? At 24/25ish weeks? Doesn't that sound kind of freak-out-able worthy? My doctor is not concerned -- I guess my belly measurements are okay and the baby certainly looked fine at the ultrasound, but...I'm concerned. I keep telling myself that I must have put on a little weight in the early first trimester -- before the puking started and before my doctor started weighing me -- and kept it on, but my scale at home is not exactly wracking up the high scores either.
It's not for lack of trying -- we like to take Noah out for ice cream cones a couple nights a week, and it is understood that Mama Does Not Share Her Ice Cream. If I want a sausage McGriddle with hash browns, then goddammit, get in the car. Right now. Don't make me faint all over you or something.
I have no reason to question my doctor, except that he seems to be awfully old-school about pregnancy weight gain in the first place, and is almost congratulatory when he notes my chart. Uh. Yeah. I'm just gunning to get this fine ass into a maternity thong bikini over the holiday weekend. Sorry, fetus, Mama done got her priorities.
I started this pregnancy at a healthy weight (just woefully saggy and out of shape, as my Wii now informs me), and considered it to be a major accomplishment that I didn't lose weight in the first trimester again. I indulge my cravings with gusto but mostly eat pretty healthy -- we're very into unprocessed local foods direct from the farmer, which oh man, I never realized how delicious fruits and vegetables can be when they actually TASTE LIKE WHAT THEY ARE. Part of me is ready to embark on a non-doctor-prescribed regime of protein shakes and Ensure, while another part of me wants to just chill out and let my body do whatever it's doing, which I guess is rerouting all that ice cream directly to the kicking, squirming little parasite.
I just...really want the little parasite to be okay. I kind of like him, you know.
PS: Okay, look. I just checked the trash can and there IS an empty can of cat food, but do you think it's from last night or this morning? He seems hungry, but I also think he might be fucking with me.