Thursday, January 27, 2005

I am inspired by other bloggers, like Mimi Smartypants and Dooce. Am I trying to hard to be like them? How's this:

File this under: "How to be a Bad Wife"
My husband has switched jobs this week. Did you know that? I didn't. Oh, I knew he was changing jobs, but just not when. And I knew he went in over the weekend to get some things. And that he went out for drinks after work last Friday. But I didn't put it all together! I even know the names of some of the people he'll be working with and (roughly) where the new office is. But does that make up for the fact that I didn't know he'd switched?

Sunday, January 23, 2005

The third trimester begins. I've been feeling great, but the tiredness begins. And I think my sleep schedule is preparing for a new child--I want to go to bed early, say at 6pm. Then I'm awake in the middle of the night, at 2am or 3am. Then I want to sleep until 9. This time around, however, I am thrilled whenever I *do* get to sleep, because I know it is going to get much worse before it gets better.

I need to change jobs to None/Unemployed/Stay At Home Mom. Soon. Why? Well, the tiredness is catching up to me. After picking Conor up (in the car, because it's too much to walk him home that late in the evening--5pm, an hour before my desired bedtime!), I'm too tired to do much with him that doesn't involve laying on the floor and half-heartedly playing a game that I make him get out, set up, and clean up. Let's put it this way--some nights I'm too tired to eat, which is how I justify eating junk. The current plan is that I stop working on February 3rd. And I've made that much more real by scheduling a vacation right after that. I announced to both my client and company that I was unavailable after the 3rd. I got pressure to work the following week, at least, but hey! I'm out of town! What about the week after? Hmmm, not good for me. What about the following week? Can't, Conor's school is closed. I think it's starting to sink in that I AM NOT WORKING AFTER FEBRUARY 3RD. Not that I'd yell this at them, I find the toddler approach works better--constant repitition of the obvious fact.

I've had some nice feedback from folks that have figured it out, and a couple have asked why. When I said I was pregnant, there was surprise and one comment that they thought I was, but weren't sure and didn't want to ask if I'm pregnant. Granted, it is a horrible thing to get wrong, socially-speaking, but I think it's pretty evident. I mean, my belly extends beyond my bust, I groan when I stand up, waddle when I walk, and am absent-minded and cranky.

Even if stripes aren't slimming.

I've started to adopt the international sign of pregnancy--both hands clasped under the belly. One hand resting on top works too. I wonder if they still sell those baby-on-board T-shirts?

Wednesday, January 12, 2005

Conor and I are headed off on a playdate to Washington, DC. We're going with another family from Conor's school to see a family from Conor's school who moved to DC. (If you were ever wondering how adults make friends, it's through their kids.)

Back in the day, you could get special treatment at airport security because you were pregnant. (This was also way back when you could go through security and meet someone at their gate.) You could go off to the side and get wanded instead of going through the metal detector. My friend Cindy taught me this when we were both pregnant and getting together for a girl's weekend trip in Atlanta--six women, five flights, four airlines. Of course, the special treatment may have occurred because we were the first to arrive, and must have gone through security a dozen times in an attempt to meet everyone at the gate, despite delays and general confusion.

Now, you get nothing. At this point, I'm surprised that they don't ask to pat down my belly, given the stories they have about patting down breasts. But no one asks. And we're traveling with another family, whose daughter was strip-searched at 18 months. 18 months! Strip-searched!

Wednesday, January 05, 2005

It has struck me recently that I am severly limited in the kinds of drugs I can take while pregnant. Let's limit this to legal, shall we, since I was a teen during the Reagan years and know that all *illegal* drugs are bad for me, Pfizer and Merck's recent troubles notwithstanding. During chemo, I was given a pharmocopia that required a pill organizer.

In addition to the fistfuls of chemo and prophylactic drugs, I could have whatever I wanted--although I did not ask for Oxycontin or morphine, I was given the Vicodin and Darvocet that worked to keep the bone pain at bay. (Bone pain from the Neupogen shots, which have since proven ineffective for chemo patients. Oh, the irony.) Oh, and the Ativan to sleep. Lovely, lovely, Ativan. But no such choices now!

A friend told me of another friend who's pregnant and has bronchitis--but no antibiotics for her, yet. Then there was the warning about what pain relievers I can take--no acetominophen, no ibuprophen, only aspirin. So my brain has been stringing these drug anecdotes together in order to give me something new to worry about. What if I forget and take something I shouldn't?

When I was pregnant with Conor, by OB told me a story of a woman who had decided to terminate her pregnancy because she'd taken some not-for-pregnant medication. She may have jumped from that story to crack-addicted mothers to give me the spectrum of options after asking me about my legal and illegal drug use. This was while they are still trying to ascertain whether my pregnancy was good news or bad news--are we headed for prenatal care or not? When I called the doctor's office to make my first appointment when I was pregnant with Conor, they asked the reason for the appointment and I said I thought I was pregnant, and then I was literally asked if this was good news or bad news. Now, I was making this call from work, and I had to run to a stairwell to whisper "pregnant" and then someone came along and I know I gave some equivocal response to the good news question--I probably said something like, HUH?, and then, "Uh, good". This time around I managed to work in the goodness of the news in my appointment request.

Where was I heading with this? Oh, my latest fear--forgetting I'm pregnant and taking something I shouldn't with disastrous consequences. Luckily I'm popping out enough to make it impossible to forget--besides, the medicine cabinet is on the second floor, and those stairs are starting to look like Everest.

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