Pass the water to the moron over here

Sometimes I forget that I’m pregnant.

That’s not always a bad thing.  You can’t obsess for 10 months about something…anything…without driving yourself batshitcrazy.  Not to mention the fact that I have a job and a home and a toddler and a marriage to watch over. 

 

But this weekend I forgot long enough to get myself into a pickle.  Literally.  Super high temps added to Memorial Day festivities and parades with a side of getting the big girl room ready.  I did not drink enough, I did not rest enough.  I overdid it, big time. 

At least now I know what pregnancy dehydration feels like.  In case you’re wondering: CRAP.

I’ve spent this morning trying to replace these fluids and not bite anyone’s head off because I feel miserable.  I barely slept at all last night because the headache was so painful that it would wake me every hour or so.  Even after 75+ oz fluid in the last six hours and two Tylenol my head STILL feels like it’s in a vice.  Thankfully, however, the nausea, shakiness, and exhaustion have passed.  

You'd think I would have a handle on this whole "knocked up" thing already.

A beginning

I don’t know how to start this.   

I know one day, if I can keep writing without fizzling out, I’ll come back to read my first post in an effort to be all nostalgic and dreamy about remembering then.  There’s something about first posts.  They’re a little like first times.  Best intentions, but always something on which to improve.

I also have no idea what “this” will be.  My last blogging effort was about triathlon.  It was back when I had a waistline and free time and money, all of which are gone now.  It was witty and fun and engaging.  It was generally harmless until pretty much all of the content showed up in bits and pieces in my father-in-law’s rehearsal dinner speech.  I think this time I’m leaving the url to myself.

Here’s where I am right now.

I’m pregnant.  As of tomorrow, 15 weeks pregnant with a little boy.  Our second child, conceived thanks to the vast expertise of a team of medical professionals and the advancement of infertility treatment.  And insurance coverage.  Let’s not forget that.  

Olivia is our first.  She’s a feisty 17 month old who wants to live outdoors.  Sleep, eat, play, and live outdoors.  She is coy, fearless, playful and bounces off walls dozens of times a day.  Dainty is not a word I would use to describe her.  (Nor is it a word I would use to describe me, so there’s that.)

M and I couldn’t have kids without help.  Sure, we tried, but it wasn’t in the cards.  Conceiving Olivia took 4 IUIs and finally worked with an IVF.  In retrospect, it was comparatively easy.  We had no idea it could get harder.  The pregnancy kept me on my toes with monitoring gestational diabetes, but in the end Olivia turned out just fine.

Early motherhood was rocky.  I’ll be honest about it.  I was lost (LOST) and developed a pretty case of post-partum.  But I tried hard…I really did…and that made a difference.  I finally figured it out, leaving only a couple battle-wounds on my marriage.

Fast forward a year later.  I'm back at work at a new full time job and have no intentions of having another child any time soon.  Scares the crap out of me.  But I dutifully go into the fertility doc and ask where we stand.  Short answer: IVF now.  Do not pass go, do not collect any sleep.  

Mmmm.  Okay.  I guess.

He started treatment that day.  Woosh.  A ton of needles later, and I’m growing a major batch of eggs – 32 in fact.  IVF…bam…3 eggs ready to go into the baby machine, 3 frosties on reserve.  For the record, the process blew in comparison to last time, but it’s far enough behind me that I shall not dwell.  But suckage happened. 

For about one week, we were pregnant and good.  Then weird test results started coming back.  Low hcg levels, not doubling very fast.  Then the ultrasounds, with an odd yolk sac that was too big, and then it was way too big, and then it was WAY too big.

Words like “grave” and “guarded” kept coming out of my doctors’ mouths.  They kept telling me to expect a miscarriage or a chromosomal abnormality.  “Not conducive to life.”  "Trisomy." "Down Syndrom" Three months of this.  It was long and frightening and we lived in packets of seven days at a time, holding on tight until the next ultrasound to see if there was a heartbeat.   

The toll was huge.  It reminded me how much I need and love my husband.  

And then, the phone rang.  We didn’t recognize the number, so let it roll into voice mail.  Olivia was all over the place and we had just gotten home from work/daycare.  It was a Tuesday.  We sat in the living room – me on the coffee table and M on the couch, facing each other – and listened to the message.

“Good news.” “No signs of any abnormality.” “Forty-six perfect chromosomes.” 

And we cried and stared at each other for another split second.

“Oh, and it’s a little boy.”

I don’t even think I hung up the phone.  Just dropped it and bounced up and down celebrating with M.  Olivia joined the fun, hollering and bouncing around.  (She has not yet learned to jump and actually get off the ground, so it was a moonboot dance.)  We called our families.  We cried.  Even M cried.  The sap.

And, so here we are.  Knocked up, toddler in tow, and life spinning fast.  I’m thinking that perhaps I should write about it so I don’t forget the details.  You know, in all my free time.