Emily Kaye Lazzaro

Amusing anecdotes almost entirely about myself.

36 Weeks

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On Wednesday night I finished the first draft of my novel about a woman who has a lot of miscarriages. I wrote a novel loosely based on my experience instead of a memoir because I’m a nobody and have no following on the internet (except you, dear reader) and because remembering real life events is hard and because a family friend literary agent encouraged me to write a novel after seeing one of my plays a year and a half ago. And I was like “okay, I can do that.”

I’m really excited about the work I’ve done since Evan was born. It has not been much, frankly, but it’s been the amount I was capable of producing. And the book is not done, it’s just a first draft. It will need revisions. And I’m excited to get to work on them. But it feels like a huge accomplishment for me to have written it. I’m proud. It’s 274 pages! Over 70,000 words! Who would have thought I could produce that much content? Not me.

On Tuesday, I was on a real roll with writing, wrapping up the last chapter of the book, and Evan was napping. He had been kind of a shit that morning, peed places he wasn’t supposed to pee, etc, but he was sleeping peacefully in that moment. My friend asked me how my day was going, on Gchat, as I was writing, and I replied, without thinking about it, that my day was going great. And then I was about to qualify it by saying “except that Evan isn’t doing that well with the potty today” but then I realized that I was actually having a great day. I was being really productive. The goodness of my day had nothing to do with the emotional life or developmental level of my toddler. And that was a bit of a breakthrough for me. I’ve read things before that suggest you not hang your mood on your toddler’s behavior, which is good advice, and I was like, “oh yeah I don’t do that,” but that’s a lie. I super do that. It’s hard as a parent not to pin all your happiness on your child(ren). But it’s healthier for all involved. I, personally, was having a great day. And I was able, in that moment, to realize that. This was probably the first time I was able to do that SINCE THAT DUDE WAS BORN.

So, you know, it’s a good place to get to, 2-3 weeks before having baby #2.

Speaking of baby #2, things are looking pretty good on that front. I have less horrible symptoms with this pregnancy than I did with the first, which is fantastic, though parts of me feel like they are turning inside out and I would prefer them not to. But that’s all part of the deal. I only have a few more weeks to go, I can handle it. I don’t love the feeling of my belly sitting on my lap, but whatever. I have 2-3 more weeks of being pregnant FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE, FULL STOP. Unless something horrible happens. And it would be horrible. Like, it would be fine, but I do not like thinking about that possibility. Let us never speak of it again.

I don’t know, guys, it’s hard to talk about the specifics of pregnancy right now for me without thinking about women in general and feminism and misogyny and super fun stuff like that. I’m going to a conference this afternoon about women and public policy and I might be seeing Elizabeth Warren speak and I’m more excited than when I saw 98 Degrees when I was 13. And they came on stage FROM THE AUDIENCE. And Nick Lachey basically walked right by me! So, you know, I’m pretty excited to talk about creating a sustainable early childhood care and education workforce. Ooh and there’s a talk about legislative campaigns for paid family and medical leave insurance! I’m pumped!!

In conclusion, I wrote a book, kids are great but they shouldn’t dictate your mood, my body is a mess but slightly less of a mess than last time, and the future is female. <3

35 Weeks

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You guys. This week. Woof.

I think I became pretty complacent during 8 years of President Obama. During the last 8 years, things have gone pretty well for me and my family, overall. And even though I don’t necessarily think that great change was necessary (except in Congress) I was very excited for the next president to be Hillary Clinton. I really wanted there to be a female president when I gave birth to my daughter. I wanted someone who cares about women and families, who has worked her whole career to improve policies for women and families, to hold the highest office in the country. I thought that would be a really gratifying moment. And it actually would be a pretty big fucking change, by the way. Anyway, I made phone calls for Hillary but I didn’t go canvass in New Hampshire, like I might have liked, because of being pregnant and having a 2-year-old. Maybe that was a mistake, I don’t know. I guess it wouldn’t actually have made a difference, in the end. For my own mental health, I tried not to engage too deeply with too many people who disagreed with me, because I am bad at separating my emotions from political arguments and I didn’t want to get too angry. Maybe I didn’t do enough.

But this election was nothing if not emotional. The country elected a man who bragged that he is so famous he can grab women by their genitals and not get in trouble. I know everybody knows this, and that boggles my mind. I know people have already written about this, but it honestly doesn’t hurt to say it again. Many people in this country voted to elect a president who said he is so famous he can grab women by the genitals and not get in trouble. This makes me fucking furious.

I feel left behind. Now maybe I get how poor people in the middle of the country feel. It feels very bad. I wish poor people in the middle of the country (and rich sexists on the coasts who I will probably never understand) didn’t try to solve their problem by kicking other marginalized people. But I digress. I feel bad now, good job everybody. You made lots of people feel threatened, if that’s what you wanted, you did it. Lest we forget, you still hate women. Deeply.

Over the last 8 years, when I believed that Obama was handling things, that he was holding us all in his warm, safe hands, I spent my time getting married, writing plays and novels and blog posts, working various jobs to (help) pay (some) bills, thinking that I was subtly and subversively making women’s stories universal and that might influence something about how the country sees women. Now I am disillusioned. Writing plays and novels and blog posts in which I subtly and subversively present women’s stories as universal isn’t doing shit. Not fast enough, it isn’t.

So I’m not sure about you guys, but I’m going to spend more of my time working toward enacting policies that help women and families. I’m not sure what that means, yet, but I do know I’m not going to sit around doing nothing. That is a luxury I no longer have. We are in nobody’s warm, safe hands.

Let me connect this more directly to the fact that I’m 35 weeks pregnant. Here’s the thing about women: we make the babies. We are the only ones who can make the babies. If America wants babies, we need women to make them. It’s unfair, but that’s biology, we can’t get angry at biology. What we can get angry at is that America doesn’t support women enough when they are making (and feeding) the babies. Men get to be in power because they have the time, because they don’t make the babies. And men make the decisions and enact the policies, so they leave behind the women, who are at home, making the babies. With less support for women and babies from the government, too many women leave their jobs so they can take care of the babies, which they need to do IN ORDER FOR OUR SPECIES TO CONTINUE, WHICH IS A BIOLOGICAL IMPERATIVE.

I am frustrated by this, obviously.

So I’m going to dedicate the rest of my life to raising my babies and also making it possible for women all over the country to raise their babies and also obtain powerful positions of authority so that they can support other women, so that they can rise to power and support other women, and on and on and on, and the women and babies will be in somebody’s safe, warm hands. I believe in America and in humanity and in women and babies and there is no time to be dicking around anymore, letting people tell us that they own our genitals because they are famous. It’s about self-respect and agency and love and acceptance, that’s what America is about. And humanity is about women and babies.

34 Weeks

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I might not even have anything to say this week. Things are fine. That’s what I’ve been saying every week of this pregnancy. I think it’s because something funny happens when you’ve lived a life for a while, which is that you see how bad things can be and you realize the shit you want to complain about is not a big deal and also nobody cares? That sounds negative and it isn’t really. It’s just… being a person.

Halloween happened. It made me tired but it was cute. It threw off Evan’s bedtime and made him a basket case, just screaming his way through the routine and hating both of us (his parents) very much indeed, until he finally fell asleep. These sorts of situations make me ask the following serious question: “Will there ever be a time in my life when doing something is as simple and easy as doing nothing?” And then I remember that even doing nothing is not simple or easy so might as well do things? And then I think about when we went to Florida for a week with a 16-month-old and how after we got home I was like “we are never fucking doing that again” but I’m already fantasizing about going on vacation to Mexico with Evan and New Baby next year, so I’m a lying liar and you shouldn’t believe anything I say.

Got a fun new pregnancy symptom, want to hear about it? Sure you do.

The night before last I woke up at 1am barfing. Like opened my eyes, sat up, yelled at Billy to get me a trash can and barfed the tiniest barf. For reference, I hate barfing so much that I will generally do almost anything I can to avoid it. Like I will sit with whatever discomfort and pain I need to, if it means I don’t barf. But this was unavoidable. And then afterward I had the stomach acid feeling in my throat and nose that made me feel like I was about to barf any second for the rest of the night. That was shitty. Then in the morning, I had a milder version of my usual breakfast: dry toast, an apple, a coffee, and a water with a splash of grapefruit juice (because apparently Vitamin C helps with iron absorption and I take iron in the mornings), and a million pills. And then shit went south. Billy decided to work from home in case I needed to go to the doctor or just lie down, because he is a nice boy and a generous person. I called my doctor to be like “is there a special pill I can take that I don’t already take?” Instead of instantly telling me about Prilosec, my doctor said that preeclampsia can manifest as acid reflux and vomiting so I should come in to get checked that day. Cool, I thought, so I’ll have a seizure and die later today, sounds great.

I did not have a seizure and die. I do not have preeclampsia, though I get the concern of my doctors, as I’m already at high risk for it and because that’s what Lady Sybil died of on Downton Abbey. Nobody wants me to die like Lady Sybil, least of all me, because when major characters on TV shows I watch die I get mad and often I stop watching the show. Nobody wants that. Also I would be dead. Which, frankly, when I think about dying in general, when I’m old and have accomplished many things, surrounded by my loved ones and my awards and print-outs of nice things people have said about me on the internet, I imagine it being sort of pleasant to sink into the deepest of slumbers and never wake up. But I am merely 31 years old, Billy would have a very hard time raising two children without me and I wouldn’t want to put that on him, and also I’ve accomplished almost nothing so far. I guess they could publish my novel posthumously but it’s not quite done yet and I’d really like to tweak it. Novels published posthumously are never as good as the antehumously (? Latin.) published ones.

In conclusion, I didn’t die and I’m glad.

And now I take Prilosec every day.

The end.

32 Weeks

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I have crazy eyes in this picture. This is me trying to look neutral.

Also I figured out how to make it so this shows up facing the right direction. I’m pretty much ready for my BS in Computer Science now, thanks.

I didn’t post last week because I couldn’t get it up after riding the elevator with someone who talked to me AT LENGTH about how much weight I’ve gained. She asked me how much I’ve gained so far and then went on to say that it looks like I’ve gained a lot and I will have to lose a lot. Or she might have been saying I should lose some now? Hard to say. She asked me how much I gained with my first pregnancy. She said “wow” a lot. This was the most on-the-nose of all the horrible conversations I’ve had this pregnancy about how different I look, and she’s not originally from this country, but all the same, she can rot in hell. After she’s lived a long, full life. I don’t want her to die right now. But I want her to be stuck in eternal hellfire after she does die. I think that’s fair.

I’ve already talked about this. You guys know how I feel about it. It’s uncool? It makes me feel bad? It is perpetuating the notion of the patriarchy that women are valued only for their bodies? I’m not trying to even be like “tell me I look good” because I think I look fine, or I look how I look when I’m pregnant. It’s fine, I’m not worried. Let me reiterate that I gained and lost 75 pounds over the course of about 18 months when I was pregnant and postpartum with Evan. It’s fine! Scientifically, doctors are like “don’t do that” but also I can’t really control it. I even tried this time to eat more healthfully than I did last time, and it makes no difference. This is what my body does. I AM NOT MAD ABOUT IT. I AM MAD AT YOU FOR THINKING THOUGHTS AND SAYING WORDS ABOUT IT, PEOPLE OF THE WORLD.

Anyway. I’m doing great. Haha. No, I am.

Last pregnancy, around this time, I had terrible sciatica and carpal tunnel syndrome. Which meant I couldn’t empty the dishwasher because it required bending over. I couldn’t use my phone properly because my thumb didn’t reach all the way across the screen. I was a fucking mess. I couldn’t walk places, I couldn’t cook, I spent a lot of time lying on the couch, being miserable. This time, I’m still up and about, in limited pain. Last night I even slept pretty well! I mean, I have a cold, which is bullshit, but considering what I was dealing with last time, I’m pretty happy with how things are going.

Here’s a thing I read that was really interesting. It’s a little bit about how being captured and forced to eat a deer fetus in the woods while your child dies is a little bit like having a hard time breastfeeding. I am not summarizing it well. I liked it, take a read if you’re interested! It’s basically saying take it fucking easy on yourself, mothers of 2016. Don’t let people tell you things.

You are the fatness you are right now and nobody can take that away from you or assign a value to it. Everyone should be a little fat for awhile, just for the life experience. I think Tina Fey said this in Bossypants. I can’t find the quote. Just trust me. It’s actually kind of fun if you can ignore the looks you get. Fuck looks. Pass the Oreos.

30 Weeks

I’m going to do something horrible.

I took a picture of myself when I had just found out I was pregnant, just to have a reference point. I’m going to go find it in my phone and post it here and try not to get upset. But also there’s a reason for me to post this. People do not get what pregnancy looks like! This is what it looks like, people! LOOK AT IT.

This is me at almost 4 weeks pregnant:

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That’s from April 6, 2016. This is me today, at 30 weeks pregnant:

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This is what 30 weeks pregnant looks like. Get accustomed.

Now excuse me while I cry into my probiotic yogurt.

Just kidding, I’m not crying, it’s fine, this is what happens. It’s just that on TV, fake pregnant people look like they are about 25 weeks pregnant and then their water breaks dramatically. I look very pregnant and I still have 10 weeks until my due date. This is the kind of shit that makes people say inappropriate things. And not just to me, and whatever, I can survive dummies saying I’m about to pop, but there was a thread on my mom Facebook group the other day about strangers saying ridiculous things to pregnant women about how big they are and about how they are definitely having twins. And then there was another one about not at all pregnant women being routinely asked if they’re pregnant! That is way worse. Get it together, world. Stop looking at women’s bodies and judging and commenting. We don’t look at a man and ask him if he has diabetes. It’s not fucking appropriate.

Anyway.

Remember how I kept saying that I will be induced at 38 weeks? Well that might be 39 weeks now. Because of medical advancements or research or whatever bullshit. No, it’s good. But I have to get my head on straight, and this is an extra week and I don’t like it one bit.

Do you guys want to know what I had for breakfast today? Sure, I’ll tell you. Yogurt, granola, walnuts, prunes cut up on top, Metamucil, and a stool softener (among many other pills, per last week’s post). It’s like that part in Lord of the Rings when the army of orcs comes over a hill and it’s like wow that’s so many orcs! The orcs are my efforts to get poop out of my body. I have so many orcs. THE POOP DOESN’T STAND A CHANCE.

Just a normal, not-confusing orc metaphor.

This week in Evan updates, I can’t pick him up anymore. Which is fine, he can walk perfectly well. The first three days of this week he was a real jerk, so many tantrums, such a Terrible Two-year-old. Then yesterday he was great. I don’t know why, I feel like there isn’t really an explanation for anything he does anymore except that he is a human being with a rich tapestry of emotions guiding him through his life. Sometimes I’m a jerk and nobody starts frantically googling developmental stages. This is just what the world is like now.

He turns 2 on Sunday. We are having a party that involves what will surely be a terrible-looking Finding Nemo cake (made by me) and some fruit and vegetable platters and probably meatballs because I’m pregnant and hungry.

Two years ago today, I was going into the hospital to start my induction. I was like THIS IS HAPPENING!!!!! and then it took two more days so not really. But it makes me nostalgic.

He’s a good kid. He laughs a lot, and loudly, which makes sense because Billy and I are both big on laughing too loud for an inappropriate length of time. There are worse things to have run in your family.

 

29 Weeks

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Pay no attention to the unmade bed, I slept 38 minutes longer than I was planning to and the bed didn’t get made, I’m only human for GOD’S SAKE.

So hi guys! I don’t know, things are fine.

29 weeks pregnant means I have nine weeks to go, because of my aforementioned blood pressure situation. What’s nine weeks? Three weeks, three times. What’s three weeks? Basically nothing. So I have basically no time left. Which is great and also terrible. Haha I literally just remembered, just in this moment right now, that I am planning to finish my novel by the time this baby is born. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Let’s talk about pills. Here are the pills I take every day:

Labetalol (twice a day) – because my blood doesn’t work
Zantac (twice a day) – to keep my stomach acid in my stomach where it belongs, instead of coming out of my mouth or sitting painfully in my ribs/back
Iron – because my last blood test showed that I am slightly anemic
Stool softener (we’re really getting into it now) – because iron makes your poop even harder than pregnancy already makes it, which means your poop is basically a diamond, every time, a huge poop diamond that is not pretty or sparkly at all
Baby Aspirin – because of something about blood pressure, there was a study I guess, I don’t know, my doctor told me to take it so I take it
Prenatal vitamin – obvious
Prenatal vitamin DHA supplement – because apparently DHA helps your baby have a brain, I am a little bit on the fence about this one because I think vitamins are a racket, but I was taking a gummy vitamin before, which is delicious and less nausea-inducing, but doesn’t have iron, and then I was anemic so maybe vitamins are real, I mean,  I guess they are, fine. Well, at least iron is, and at this point, who the fuck am I to be like “DHA is bullshit”? I’m not a scientist, I’ll just do what my doctor says. I GUESS. (It’s this kind of thinking that makes people not vaccinate their children, trust your doctor/science and calm down, me.)

A few times this week I got weirdly dizzy and exhausted and the second time it happened I called my doctor, thinking I was maybe more severely anemic than I thought and she asked me what I ate that day and I told her (cereal with banana, apple, goldfish crackers) and she made me feel bad for both not eating enough and simultaneously eating too many carbs. My blood sugar wasn’t right, I guess, was her thought. But I have a lot to think about. I have to take a million pills a day, I have to try to eat with them or they make me nauseous, I have to try to eat foods with iron (spinach and beef, pretty much, as far as I can tell, which are hard to eat on the go and require cooking or, like, a plate, at least, and I’m busy!) and now I have to also make sure I’m eating foods with lots of protein, distributed evenly throughout the day so I don’t get too hungry and it makes me dizzy and fatigued. It’s just a lot to think about, is all I’m saying.

I remember after giving birth to Evan, once a few weeks passed, I didn’t have to worry as much about eating and it was such a relief. To be responsible for only myself felt like a gift. Of course, that’s not accurate. I’m responsible for a lot of people, still. I’m not, like, the only doctor in a tiny village in a developing country or anything, my problems are not huge, I’m only responsible for myself and a toddler and what will eventually be another baby, but all I’m saying is it will be nice to have the things I put in my mouth only affect me, just my one body.

I have never liked being two people. I just want to be one person.

But you know, things are good still, I’m just complaining because I’m lucky enough to be able to.

What kinds of pills do you take? Tell me in the comments! And we can have a competition for how many pills we take per day and I think I will be the winner unless you have some kind of intense and chronic disease, which I hope you don’t have. Let’s all not get intense, chronic diseases. Because taking pills is annoying. Oh god, this is going off the rails. TELL ME ABOUT YOUR PILLS.

28 Weeks

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Who got a full-length mirror and doesn’t know how to style her new haircut? Me. It’s me.

Also I think this picture is funny because I put my hip hand in a fist so that I wouldn’t pull on my dress, making the stripes go weird, and it made me look like a superhero a little bit, which I don’t hate. Super Pregnant! She flies through the air with the greatest of effort and panting.

I’m 28 weeks pregnant today which is good and fine. Some places say it’s the third trimester, officially, and some places say the third trimester isn’t until next week. And some places said the third trimester started last week. I don’t know and it doesn’t matter. I will be induced at 38 weeks and I love knowing that. Again, thank you, life-threatening high blood pressure. Just kidding, I wish I didn’t have high blood pressure like a 60-year-old man who eats bacon all day for the rest of my life and that I didn’t have to take pills forever, but this is my lot in life and at the very least it satisfies my need to control things because I know I will be induced at 38 weeks, at the latest. So 10 weeks to go. What’s 10 weeks? Barely anything. A little more than 2 months. Evan can kind of count to 10. I mean, he is a baby genius, but it’s not that high a number, is what I’m saying. An almost-2-year-old can count up to it. Maybe he repeats five a few times in the wrong places, but you get what I’m saying. I’m basically already done.

I’ve been feeling huge surges of energy at, like, 8:30pm the past few days, which means I stay up late hanging (i.e. making Billy hang while I supervise) pictures on the walls and setting up our home office (desk in bedroom) and writing one time! And then I get in bed at 10:45pm and can’t fall asleep because my legs feel weird and I have too many thoughts in my brain. I’m pretty sure this is called nesting. I also want to make a thing to hang on the wall in the new baby’s room from that Kurt Vonnegut quote about babies. Wait, let me find it…

hello babies

There you go. But not like that. I want it to look cool.

Do you guys like how this blog post is, like, in real time? Like we’re just having a conversation? It’s a little one-sided, this conversation. Feel free to chime in anytime, guys! JK you can’t. You are my captive audience and this is my blog and I DO THE TALKING HERE.

Anyway, I want to put that quote on the wall in a cool and stylish way and I think that means I have to get crafty. Nesting! My friend just recently had a baby and her husband has spent a bunch of time painstakingly crafting little plush Fantastic Mr. Fox characters, because nesting. Last time, because nesting, I got up on a very precarious stool and hung a mobile over Evan’s crib, while home alone. Which was not safe at all. But nesting waits for no man.

House update: it’s good. We have pictures on the walls. Not all the pictures on all the walls, but some. There is a dumpster in our driveway, which I don’t love, and the outside still needs to be painted and the yard is a friggin mess, but everything else is kind of close to done! It’s a nice little house and I like it.

Organs update: my placenta is still considered “low-lying” which means it is one centimeter from my cervix, and it should really be two centimeters from my cervix. This is a big improvement because it previously was completely covering my cervix, which is dangerous and bad. If it doesn’t move to two centimeters away by the time I’m 36 weeks, they will schedule me for a C-section at 37 weeks, which I find utterly terrifying! I am very, very afraid of having a C-section, not because of anything, I know a lot of people have had successful C-sections, so many people, so many of my friends, but I’m scareddddddddd. I don’t want to get cut. I have this thing about getting cut open. I don’t like it. It’s a weird thing I have. I like my parts to not be cut open. Call me crazy!

But yeah you can find lots of pictures of C-sections on the internet if you look for them, but DO NOT LOOK FOR THEM, THEY ARE SO SO SO SCARY. Eeeeee I do not want. I know it will be fine if I have to get one, but yikes. Yikes yikes yikes. I’m a little surprised that I feel this way, honestly, because a C-section is the ultimate in control. And I love control, as I’ve mentioned here many times. And a small part of me would be happy if I had to get a C-section because it would mean one less week of being pregnant. But no, I maintain that I’m scared of them and I do not want one. If there was a wishbone here and I was wishing on it I would wish to not have to have a C-section. Ooh wishbone reminds me of Thanksgiving. Yum. I can’t wait for Thanksgiving.

Let’s think Thanksgiving thoughts to drown out the C-section thoughts. Also, I welcome stories from women who have had C-sections about how great and easy they were! Please feel free to set me straight. I would love to not be scared of this anymore.

Turkey. Mashed potatoes. Green bean casserole. Okay, I feel better already.

27 Weeks

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Hello there!

Here is my requisite late-pregnancy drastic haircut. I chopped off enough to donate, even. That was fun!

Last time the requisite late-pregnancy drastic haircut was bangs. Bangs were not the smartest as they require lots of maintenance. When Evan was 6 weeks old I took him in the stroller to my hairdresser’s to have my bangs trimmed and I had to stop halfway there, on the sidewalk, to breastfeed him, because he was screaming so much. It was November and it was dark and cold and I stood on a city sidewalk, breastfeeding my newborn son. And then he screamed the whole time I was at the hairdressers. I had to frantically text Billy to hurry there to help me, which required him riding his bike as fast as he could over Winter Hill in Somerville, which is a big hill, if you’re not familiar. Anyway, long story medium, bangs were probably the wrong choice, but they did make me feel like a badass.

This haircut doesn’t make me feel like a badass, but I do think it’s going to make my life significantly easier.

It might be a mom haircut. I don’t know yet. Jury’s still out. I am a mom, after all. Just gotta be careful with the jeans. JK I love mom jeans, I’m already on board for that. Not elastic waist or anything, but I like a high rise.

So what is going on with you this week? Things are going pretty well for me. I think 27 weeks is kind of a magical time for my pregnancies. I kept having these moments of bliss this week, of thinking, and genuinely believing, that I am very lucky and things are going really well. And then Evan would scream-cry through dinner because his spaghetti noodles were too long and the bliss would fly right out the window. But there are moments!

Also, pro tip: if you are pregnant and your stomach sucks at digesting things, you’re allowed to take Zantac, the high dosage, twice a day, which I now do, every single day, whether I have heartburn or not. It’s been a game changer. Feel free to pay me to talk you up, Zantac. I don’t do that normally, because I have a readership of somewhere around 37 people, and Zantac doesn’t care about me, but it can’t hurt to float the idea. I will accept your money, Zantac. Also I will do it for free, that’s how much I love Zantac. ZANTAC!

Also Metamucil. Same. Hit me up, Metamucil people!

Haha, I don’t know, this has been a pretty good week. Evan pees and poops on the potty at home and when visiting his grandparents and he uses a fucking diaper at daycare but whatever, that won’t last forever, it’s fine, I’m fine with it. I can only control what I can control. Zen. I’m gonna write a book called Zen and the Art of Potty Training and it’s going to be all the mean thoughts I have about Evan’s daycare followed by me feeling guilty about using so much profanity and then being like “no, they take good care of him and he’s safe, I should calm down” and then getting riled up again because of the grave injustice of it all. It will be a number one bestseller!

So by some estimations I’m in the third trimester now. Or I will be next week, I don’t know and I don’t really care. I’m 6 months and 5 days in, I will probably deliver in early December because I’ll be induced (thanks chronic high blood pressure!) so I only have 11 weeks to go, pretty much. I can’t wait to go to the hospital. It’s crazy how nostalgic I am for labor. I obviously hated being in pain, like I was in more pain than I ever even imagined, but once I got the epidural it was straight-up fun. It was fun! It was a little bit like going to the space museum with school and doing the pretend mission control thing, did you guys do that? There are all these beeping machines around you and you’re like WHAT’S GONNA HAPPEN NEXT?! And then you get a baby! And somebody helps you take care of it for two whole days and lets you lie down! And there’s unlimited juice!

The scary part for me will likely be going home from the hospital and being like “oh fuck, now there are two of these.”

So the only thing I have to focus on for the rest of this pregnancy is not adopting any more animals. If you see me with any animals that don’t already live in my house, please stage an intervention.

POTTY TRAININGGGGG

pottyHere we go, folks. I am going to write a long thing about potty training.
I’ve been writing about pregnancy lately, for obvious reasons, but I took a break from being pregnant this week to teach Evan how to put his pee and poop in a tiny plastic bowl instead of in a diaper.

Also, haha, just kidding, I did not take a break from being pregnant. I was still pregnant and potty training made my body hurt a lot. There was much urgent hurling of my body from place to place and abrupt lifting of a 35 pound person. It’s fine. I cried a bunch after he went to bed a few times from utter exhaustion, but whatever.

The thing is, during this week, I was thinking about the week before we started potty training. The week before we started potty training was not an especially easy week! There were arguments and tantrums like any normal week. I certainly didn’t mourn the loss of changing his diapers. Every week with a toddler is fucking hard so what’s the difference, really? At least if we’re potty training, we are making progress toward a brighter future.

Another reason I wanted to do this now is because Evan is very large (he currently wears size 6 diapers, the largest they make, and he will not fit in them forever) and he is really verbal, so he is likely going to be able to tell us when he has to go pretty soon. ALSO, I was thinking about when Evan was a newborn. When I was pregnant with him I was like “ugh get this baby out of me, I hate being pregnant,” and then when he came out of me I was like “put him back in, I need to sleep.” Being sleep deprived with a newborn is not going to be a good time to potty train. By the time the new baby is sleeping through the night, Evan will probably be around 30 months, which is generally considered to be the end of the magical window of best time to potty train. So decisions were made. By me.

The day before we started potty training, Billy finished reading the chapter in the book I got (Oh Crap Potty Training) and decided to tentatively suggest that maybe we shouldn’t do this. But I said, “shhh, we are doing it,” and then we did it and Billy faked his way through it, acting like it was something he wanted, because he is a saint.

My attitude about this probably has a lot to do with how much I love to control things. I’ve never had an eating disorder, but I’m kind of a prime candidate for one. I love controlling the things I can control, especially when certain areas of my life are utterly outside of my control (what? Pregnancy?). One of the things I can control is when my son puts his pee and poop in a plastic bowl instead of in a diaper.

So let’s talk about this. Let’s really get in the weeds, shall we?

Evan has been doing great! The first day, he peed on the floor 8 billion times and like twice in the potty. The second day he peed on the floor significantly less. The third day he wore clothes and peed on the floor only like one time, and peed in the potty lots of times. The fourth day he pooped in the potty! I was like, nice, we are done, hooray. The fifth day he went to daycare, peed in his pants once and pooped on the floor at home. Oh, I see we are not done, haha, obviously we are not done. The sixth day he peed in the potty many times and he pooped on some playground equipment because he was in a location that was impossible for me to reach when he made the poop gesture/face. Then he had some gastrointestinal distress that I just couldn’t with and I put him in a diaper at like 4:00. I wasn’t giving up, I was making a decision based on the situation we found ourselves in, but I felt like a failure and cried about it. This morning he had a major pee situation at the breakfast table because he had kept his night diaper mostly dry, which is a plus and a minus at the same time.

Much of potty training is training of parents to recognize cues and alter our behavior based on those cues. Just like sleep training. And probably common core math.

So there’s some cool stuff about potty training. The main thing is seeing how well they can do in a very short period of time. Their tiny brains go from knowing literally nothing about peeing and pooping, like it is a bodily function as natural as breathing, to knowing the feeling of having to go. That’s a huge leap!

You’re like “good morning, tiny person, today we are not going to wear diapers!” And they’re like “what is a diaper, even? Oh you mean that extension of my butt that has been attached to me since I was born?” And they let their pee out of their bodies like they normally do and you put them on a plastic seat and you’re like “put your pee in here” and they’re like “what is pee?” And then in a couple of days they get it. It’s amazing!

Anyway, yes, it’s amazing, and it’s very stressful, and I’m OBSESSED WITH IT. It’s all I can think/talk about. Sorry husband and coworkers and all other people I’ve interacted with in the past week. I’m boring, I can only talk about potty training.

But maybe potty training is a METAPHOR. For… Let’s see… What is potty training a metaphor for?

Life? Just when you think you know where to put your pee and poop, life comes along and? …no.

Relationships? Communication is very important so that you don’t poop on playground equipment? …no.

It’s not a metaphor. It’s just a hard thing we all did when we were very small. Life is a series of hard things we do, and this is one of the first ones. Other hard things Evan will have to do include playing a sport he is bad at because his dad likes it, reading a book that is boring because it’s his homework, playing with a kid who is annoying because the kid’s parents are friends with his parents, try to get good grades even though he gets a boner every 15 seconds, etc etc etc.

Life is hard, kiddo. You’re doing great.

Kiddo=me.

25 Weeks

IMG_6793My uterus is the size of a soccer ball this week. Just the uterus. Not even counting my other organs. And my extra blood. Pounds and pounds of extra blood! (Cue Billy barfing and fainting into his own barf.)

This baby seems more active than Evan was. She kicks me and I can feel it in the top of my stomach and in the base of my pelvis at the same time, like she’s stretching to her fullest extent and then punching. Or doing the butterfly stroke through her amniotic fluid. She’s already testing her limits. Great.

Evan is testing his limits here on the outside of my uterus. Yesterday we were stuck in the house for a long time because it was rainy and we had to stick around for a building inspector and chimney sweep to come by. (To answer the question you are definitely asking: No, the chimney sweep did not sing and he barely danced.) And by the end of the day he was standing on top of the coffee table, jumping. (Evan, not the chimney sweep.) He was not jumping off the coffee table, just jumping on the coffee table, like jumping in place, so it didn’t even seem especially fun. It was just to piss me off, I’m pretty sure.

My belly is stretching in a very disconcerting way and I had what I think was intense gas yesterday that resulted in me waking up at 1:30am and googling “pre-term labor.” I feel like my lungs can’t work properly if I sit with my torso-to-leg angle at anything less than 90 degrees. There’s just no room. And I have three more months to go.

I’m not in the third trimester yet but I know (because they’ve told me repeatedly and because they did it when I was pregnant with Evan) that I will be induced around 38 weeks. So though my official due date is December 16, I will probably deliver between December 2 and December 6. Which means three calendar months from today is when I hit the 38 week mark and can schedule the induction. Which means I have all of September, all of October, and all of November to be pregnant. Coming to this realization this week made me feel an equal mix of excitement and despair. Three months is a long fucking time and is also a short fucking time and both of those things are upsetting in their own way.

Evan weighs at least 35 pounds. I frequently have to pick him up as he fights me/runs away, and carry him under one arm up stairs, while also calling the dog who has gone down the driveway, while also making sure the cat doesn’t run out the door. These are not things that a pregnant woman should be doing, much less a pregnant woman who maybe has placenta previa and is discouraged from doing anything too strenuous.

I got so tired last night I couldn’t even complain about how tired I was. I’m bored by how tired I am. Are you guys bored, too? I would be!

Let’s talk about something fun. I got this top from Stitch Fix, which does maternity and it was fun. Say fun again. Fun.

Billy and I are going on a date tonight and finally going to see [Lady] Ghostbusters. I’m super psyched, I hope I don’t fall asleep.

Also, here’s a link to a lovely and interesting article. Helpful to remember that everybody doesn’t just get to put it in and then carry a baby like the world expects.

Anyway. Pregnant and grumpy, signing off.