Oh my hell, I am 19 weeks pregnant.
And a half!
Pregnancy-wise, I am feeling...oddly great. A little tired, a little prone to lightheadedness or wooziness if I jump up off the couch too quickly (solution: don't ever bother getting off the couch), though probably a little MORE prone to snappishness and short-temperedness at my husband and children.
I have enough of that last thing sometimes that I have to occasionally ask myself "What the fuck is your problem, man?" And that's when I remember that oh my hell, I am 19 and a half weeks pregnant. That is my problem. LAY OFF ME, ASSHOLES, THIS IS ACTUALLY A LOT HARDER THAN I AM LETTING ON.
I was *thisclose* to five whole pounds gained after Christmas -- a job well done, and one that I was quite proud of, those pastry-wrapped sausages didn't just eat themselves, you know -- but then lost seven during the Extended Flu Remix of the past week, and am once again looking at the exact same number on the scale as the day I handed a positive pee stick in an envelope to my groggy, recently anesthetized husband and yelled SURPRISE! REAL GLAD TO HEAR YOU DON'T HAVE CANCER!
I have exactly one week before my next OB appointment to try to gain some weight back, and something tells me my current diet isn't going to cut it: Dry toast, orange juice and...honestly, everything still tastes like cardboard-y toast to me at this point anyway.
It's alarming, looking in the mirror, and seeing 75% of your body looking borderline gross-level skinny, while your midsection is all distended, and not in a convincing knocked-up sort of way, thanks to how I'm carrying this pregnancy. (Much further back, it seems. I'm all satisfyingly round while sitting, but then everything sort of...settles somewhere deep in my torso once I stand up.)
Speaking of all this unbearable sexiness: My elbows -- I SHIT YOU NOT -- started developing the early beginnings of bed sores over the weekend, from all the hundreds of times I had to prop myself up in bed to cough while attempting to splint my poor belly and aching ab muscles.
My boobs, at least, are totally fabulous. My best pregnancy showing yet, in that department. (Thus furthering the hypothesis that a lot of my supply problems with Noah were due to damaged tissue from cyst aspirations, and the theory that the tissue will repair and regenerate itself more and more with each pregnancy and lactation, and I just killed whatever nice visual y'all had going of me there, didn't I?)
My next OB appointment is -- IN CASE I HAVEN'T MENTIONED IT THREE DOZEN TIMES ALREADY -- the big 20-week ultrasound, and I've hit that fevered, frenzied point in the pregnancy where I MUST KNOW I MUST KNOW I MUST KNOOOOOOOW. Each day is becoming more and more of a blue-and-pink tinged form of torture, because if I just know we'd be able to tell if it's a boy or girl NOW, too, if I could just figure out a way to get my hands on an ultrasound machine already.
Whenever I mention the boy/girl thing on Twitter (SPOILER: I MAY DO THIS A LOT), I invariably get a handful of confused replies, because didn't we already confirm that it's a boy? And you wrote that whole entire semi-pissy thing about it?
And then I have to try to clarify that yeah, but...not really, because while it sure was convincingly-dangly looking at the 12-week ultrasound and the doctor even voted boy, there's absolutely no way we could take an early scan like that as for-sure confirmation, because you see, technically we could have very well have been looking at a clitoris at that stage and not a penis, but...you know, this isn't really good TWITTER TALK, if you know what I mean. I think my mentions column just exploded in a sea of spambots and pervs.
Jason remains convinced that we are having a boy. I...am really not sure. I have vaguely girl-like hunches from time to time, but then I think it might just be my brain enjoying one last chance to indulge in the possibility of it being something "different" this time before the full reality of just how outnumbered I am going to be for the rest of my life is revealed.
Noah changes his vote practically daily (boy! girl! dromaeosaurus!), the Old Wive's tales are divided straight down the middle (heart rate = girl, Chinese lunar calendar = boy, hair and skin changes = girl, food cravings = boy), and Ezra's only input to the discussion is to tap on my belly with his fist while saying KNOCK KNOCK BABY!
Not the world's foremost experts in the art of fetal gender prediction, then. Maybe there's hope for the next one.