Raindrops on Water

Once upon a time, the Husband took the Wife for a quick swim. It was two days before Baby’s due date. Within steps of the pool, it started to rain. It was late at night, but the dark sky retained a bit of an orange glow. The concrete turned a darker shade of grey, as the round spots melted together.

Since there was no lightning in sight, they jumped in the pool. Romance was in the air and the Husband was looking mighty handsome. They swam laps and when they had trouble catching their breath, they laughed about how out-of-shape they were.

The water felt warm, but the raindrops were surprisingly cool. When the Wife swam underwater, she could hear their quick pitter-patter, as they hit the top of the water, making a splash or creating a bubble.

The Wife felt like the rain was there especially for her, like it was a message from someone or something, telling her that this was the night that her baby would be born. (It would be a nice introduction to a birth story, after all.) She went to bed that night, dwelling on positive thoughts and silently urging her baby to make the journey.

When she awoke the next morning, she was only slightly disappointed that the Baby hadn’t joined them in the night. Figuring that the Baby needed a little more time to cook, she went about her day.

Surely she wouldn’t make it until her due date. The routine of the day dragged on. That night she headed to the pool once again, after removing her makeup and examining the brown spots on her cheeks and forehead; these would certainly be gone soon.

Alone, in the water, she meditated on her baby and her body, how they would have to work together to accomplish something so difficult and miraculous. Maybe, she thought, Baby would come in the night.

I know, pink shirt and pink purse = not fashionable

She awoke on the morning of her due date. She thought she might have felt a small cramp, in addition to the tightening in her stomach, but now thinks that she may have imagined it.

The day goes on, just like the day before. Too many pieces of salt water taffy and baked goods, sitting on a purple ball in front a large computer screen, wondering when Baby will make an appearance.

The human part of her feels little pangs of fear and anxiety, but the greater part of her feels confident, powerful, and ready. As she repeats positives affirmations in her head during each Braxton Hicks contraction, she trusts that her baby will arrive shortly, in his or her own time. 40 weeks feels right and she’s truly in no hurry, but she can’t help fearing a date two weeks in the future.

Please, baby, come before then.

The Culture of Childbirth

“There is a sacred power in the innately feminine capacity of giving birth. It is one of the elemental, continuing processes of nature that women have the chance to experience, and it is the one act of human creation that is not shared by men.” – Ina May Gaskin

I have been reading Ina May Gaskin’s newest book, Birth Matters. It is an empowering and insightful book, written by America’s most famous midwife. Though I am often struck by the chapters that discuss obstetric medicine that lacks any scientific backing or the fact that the USA is one of only four countries with an increasing maternal death rate, I realized today that there is another topic that stands out to me.

The culture surrounding childbirth in the USA is missing so much. Why is it that the only birth stories that we hear are horror stories? This person hemorrhaged, this person would have died, thank goodness this person was in the hospital. Why are those the stories that we share with one another? Where are the beautiful stories? Where is the encouragement?

Why don’t we, as women, rally around one another? Why don’t we lift each other up with optimism and shared experiences?

Why is a birth a terrible, frightening, dangerous experience? Why isn’t it wonderful, life-changing, transformative, and spiritual?

I didn’t realize how much this lack of support bothered me until today.

In my line of work, I have the opportunity to mingle with powerful business women, many of them important lobbyists. I was shocked to have an email exchange with one of these corporate women (whom I don’t know very well) that went a little something like this:

Enjoy. Seriously, children are the most awesome thing ever. I hope I’m not overstepping here, but let me also tell you that childbirth itself is one of the coolest experiences in life EVER.

As someone who is seeing a midwife, delivering at a birth center, and reading way too many birthing books… I really appreciate your comment about how cool childbirth is!! I know it will be difficult and I’m a little bit nervous, but I am honestly looking forward to it.

Extra happy to hear you’re using of a midwife at a birthing center. You go, girl. Women are so cool. Our bodies are amazing. With my first pregnancy, I was nervous and felt some trepidation. A very dear friend sat me down and told me this: “Change your attitude. Childbirth is the most awesome thing on Earth. You need to anticipate with delight this experience and you need to recognize and acknowledge how awesome it is while it’s happening. And you won’t believe how incredible the outcome is.” Best words of advice I’ve ever received. You and your baby can and will do it well, and you’ll love it.

...

Why haven’t I been hearing things like this throughout my whole pregnancy, or my whole life, for that matter? Has the childbirth experience been downgraded so much in our society that this “awesome experience” doesn’t exist anymore or is there some reason that women are reluctant to share?

Maybe it’s the pregnancy hormones, but the email exchange brought tears to my eyes. I suddenly realized that it sucks to gather all of my support for one of the most important events in my life from books and my midwife. A woman, basically a stranger, shared a small piece of her empowerment with me and it means more than I can express.

I only wish that this type of sharing was more common in our society. I am probably the farthest thing from a feminist, but childbirth seriously makes me want to shout from the rooftops about how awesome women are and about how cool and capable our bodies are.

I need to push all of the horror stories out of my mind and remember things like this:

My mom’s friend on Facebook: Go all natural. I had one of each and preferred natural.

The old lady working the reception desk: You can do this. Your body was made to do this.

My mom (without much confidence, not realizing that she is a rockstar): I thought I was a huge wimp and that I was going to die if it lasted much longer. Then I realized that I was 9 cm!

And then I need to encourage other mothers-to-be. I need to be the change that I wish to see.

Disclaimer:  Though I am planning a natural birth, I don't want to knock anyone that has had different experiences or makes different choices.  The point is, we are all women and we should support one another.  Let's focus more on the good and less on the bad.

iPhone Vomit

A cute little niece with the best poker face you've ever seen.  She doesn't fall for funny faces or silly voices, unless you're mommy or daddy.  I do wonder, though, will my kids look like this little one?  Her parents are definitely the closest "combination" to Husband and I.

Not creepy.

The twins at Cracker Barrel.  Husband was a first-timer and he was not impressed by the fried livers.  He definitely lost some brownie points with the dudes.

Evidence of the rollie pollie invasion.  Around this time of year, the rollie pollies (Husband calls them pill bugs) make the long trek to our garden oasis.  Upon their arrival, they are greeted by the waft of air conditioning underneath the front door.  Well, they don't knock, they just barge right in and head straight for the bathroom.  Why the bathroom, you ask?  This I don't know, but it is apparent that they have chosen it as their rollie pollie cemetery.

My sweet weight-gain-chart.  Really, this needs to be tracked for the posterity.

I wasn't planning on sharing this, but really, how could I not? 

Self-explanatory.

Musings of a Beached Whale

Over the past 24 hours, I have experienced many of the joys of pregnancy.

1. Wicked calf cramp at approximately 6:00 am.

2. Wanting to drink a gallon of water while peeing a gallon of water.

3. Doing housework for one hour = sore back and feet, profuse sweating, extreme thirst, an attempt to wash dishes while sitting on a birth ball, and too many mini Twix bars.

4. Praying every night that I will be more grateful for the blessings in my life and nicer to my husband. In other words, praying that I will be less of a grouch.

5. The inability to use my ab muscles to lift myself out of bed and resorting to a strange flip/flop/bounce, while Husband stands at the side of the bed and laughs.

6. Did I mention peeing A LOT?

On top of the above madness, I ate five cheeseburgers in one week and I don’t even like cheeseburgers! Okay, well I like Lenny’s cheeseburgers. I think it’s all in the bun; the cheaper, the better.

So, here’s some Lenny’s.

The Lenny’s in Phoenix is more expensive than the one in Mesa, so that stinks, because $1.49 suddenly becomes way too much for an ice cream cone.

And here I am at 31 weeks and 33 weeks.

I can't believe there's a baby in there!

Wanna Know Why? Cause I'm Little

It takes a lot to offend or anger me. I think it’s because I am a lazy bum. I would rather eat some ice cream or something. The only exception is when an authority figure yells at me. Like the time a Wal-Mart employee asked me (age 12) to stop causing a ruckus - instant tears. Or that time that an old grandpa yelled at me (age 16) for cutting in line while my high school boyfriend (jerk) pretended like he didn’t know me – instant tears.

This is a story about an offensive pregnancy comment. I didn’t cry, so I guess Rudeness McGee is on or below my level of awesomeness – nowhere near as intimidating as a Wal-Mart employee.

As I am starved for attention, I love when people comment on my pregnancy, because I love being pregnant and I love my baby friend! Whether they say my belly is big or little, I look beautiful or have a lot of acne, I feel proud to be a fertile woman.

I have gotten a few comments on my small stature throughout pregnancy, but one woman had to take it to a whole other level.

“You’re so tiny!”

“Yep.” (Instinctive touch of the belly and a big smile)

“I was going to ask if your doctor was worried about you!”

UMMM.

WHAT!?

Do I look like I am starving my baby? Am I subjecting my child to an eating disorder? Is Blue Bell ice cream not fattening enough?! I already knew it wasn’t nutritious enough! This is too much!

Seriously, what can you say to that, besides the nervous laugh?

This is for you, mean lady. I hope Dunkin’ Donuts can make me fat enough to deliver a healthy baby.

If my dang husband doesn't eat all of the dang donuts first.

All in the Name of a Fetus

I have a photo collage to show you, dearest friends.

There’s a high probability that you do not want to see these pictures. There’s an even higher probability that I want you to feel sorry for me.

This is NOT what a heroin-addict's arm looks like. 

Or is it?

That is the aftermath of having your blood drawn four times from the same arm, after chugging a sick nasty sugar drink. Please notice the blood underneath the skin, which Dr. Google told me is a hematoma (which is also a bruise, but I prefer “hematoma,” as it sounds more fatal). I would tell you more about how you get a hematoma from venipuncture (poking through a vein, hitting an arterial something, etc.), but the last time I tried to look it up, I almost passed out on the floor of my cubicle.

I am happy to report, that I did not vomit or pass out this time!

Almost doesn’t count, am I right?

I attribute my success to my dearest husband, who held my hand during each blood draw, asked me “What Would Jack Bauer Do?” as the blood flowed, and watched three hours of granola birth videos while we waited.

All in all, those Brazilian women know how to push out a baby.

Bodily (Fun)ctions

I’m all about the sugar, friends, which is why yesterday was such a mystery unto my brain.

The 1 hour glucose test is no amusement park. The sugar drink is only slightly better than downing half a bottle of pancake syrup. It tastes like warm, liquid sugar. Yum.

Come to think of it, the sugar drink would be a feast for hummingbirds. However, I am not a hummingbird, not even close.

I drank my whole mug of diabetes and was fine until a few minutes before the blood draw, when I started to feel a tad woozy. I am still wondering whether I should blame my small stomach, the fetus, the sugar concoction, or my needle phobia for what was about to transpire.

Heck, let’s blame them all.

I had my blood drawn (AND DIDN’T CRY! High-five!). But, somewhere near the end of the draw, I started feeling nauseous. Upon saying that I might (translation: definitely would) vomit, Husband and Nichelle started running around looking for a bucket of some sort. Lucky me, I got to throw up in a clear, plastic bag – perfect for the spectators.

Also, I threw up all over the exam table and myself.

(Boy, did it feel good to throw up! What a relief!)

So, all was well last night, except that I had to attend my birth class in my vomit attire. No one would have noticed, but I told them, anyway. Husband even let me cuddle with him for the full three hours, all while sporting a sexy pair of suit pants and a button-up shirt.

Come to find out, he didn’t realize how much puke I had caked on my clothes, until he put his hand on my leg in the car, on the way home.

That Husband is a good man.

Cue the Dueling Fiddles

Once upon a time, in the Land of Kieren, there lived a small belly that, yes, shook like a bowl full of jelly, whenever its small inhabitant made any sudden movements. (See above.) This magical place was safe and warm, if not slightly cramped. Many times a day, it was lovingly stroked, massaged with shea butter, and even masked in fine fabrics with striped and polka-dotted patterns.

Oh, the life of a fetus is rather exquisite.

This tale, however, includes graphic content – scenes of fear and horror, even!

As Mother Kieren awoke her settled brains from a long Sunday nap, her eye caught a small movement, a movement and shape that was all too familiar (and sinister). Lo and behold, a full-grown-spawn-of-Satan was there, prancing around on the navy blue belly, threatening to attack with its poisonous tail.

People, I woke up with a freaking scorpion walking around on my stomach!!!!

So, I screamed and shrieked as I jumped out of bed, flipping the scorpion off my dress. (Husband eventually killed it with the National Geographic on polygamy that I had been dying to read. Some things must be sacrificed to defeat evil, I suppose.)

!!!

The terror of this story is apparent. Therefore, I leave you with these thoughts:

1. I slept with a scorpion and there’s no way of knowing how long that scorpion had been using me as a hiking trail. Heck, it could have been cruising around on my face, for all I know.

2. Maybe I should have attended the last two hours of church, instead of napping.

3. Why are scorpions attracted to me? Does pregnancy increase this attractiveness? (Please no!)

Also, lest I forget... This was my Facebook status:

Kieren just woke up and there was a scorpion walking on my stomach!!!!

Many responded with the appropriate "OMG" or "that's scary!"

(Thank you for your concern, fellow humans with feelings.)

However, I had one person "like" my status, without leaving a comment. 

Tell me, what is likeable about a near death experience? 

Please friends, help me out with this, as it is hurting my PTSD brain.

(Also, I blame the "like" button, not the friend who "liked" my brush with death.  A "thumbs up" is just so darn ambiguous, for a person such as myself.)

This Baby Will Kick Yo Butt

Ze bebe was kicking ze hubzee yesterday morning.

“Kick, kick,” said ze leetle bebe.

“Oh no, I am le tired,” said ze dade.

“Kick, kick. You must wake up and turn on ze showa for ze mama.”

“No, no, dearest muffin bebe. Ze mama must turn on ze showa, to ze perfect temperature, like zo.”

“Ze mama is so very exhausted, dearest fada,” retorted ze fetus child.

The father, with whom the mother was cuddling and said baby was kicking in the back, began to snore.

“Fine. Kick, kick. We are out of ze bed and turning on our own showa, no help to you, commoner!”

…

I was spooning Husband yesterday morning and he could feel the baby kicking for a good ten minutes, while we dozed. He told me this, when he joined me in the shower, the shower that he did not turn on for his good wife.

It’s cute, though, isn’t it?

The baby-kicking part, I mean.

Yesterday in My Belly

Yesterday was Mother’s Day and, I have to admit, I felt a little bit like a mother.

Just a little baby-fetus-in-my-belly bit.

The talks at church were wonderful and it was the first Sunday in awhile that I have actually paid attention the whole time. (I am so grown up!) If only old ladies told stories about their childhood during every Sacrament meeting...

(Being old is going to be so cool.)

So, there you have it. I am a mother-in-the-making.

25 weeks from the front is different...

than 25 weeks from the side.

...

Highlights of Pre-Mother’s Day include: A slave husband, strawberry pancakes, back rubs, washed dishes, and tasty mashed potatoes.

Elephants on Parade

I mentioned it awhile back, but never got around to posting photos from my mini baby shower!

Unfortunately, I only documented the adorable decorations and not my favorite people.  I am still waiting for my girlfriends to upload their pictures onto Facebook (so that I can shamelessly steal and use them).  

For now, here is a quick peek at the cutest baby shower I've ever seen.

I was so touched by the thoughtful effort that my best friends put into this baby celebration.  From the bright colors, to the baby elephants, to the fun games, homemade red velvet cake (my favorite!), and personal gifts...

I couldn't have asked for better.

Truly, I am so blessed to have such amazing sisters. 

Thank you for your love, your patience, and your caring.  I know that I'm not always the best friend, but I am so lucky to have all of you teaching me how to be better.  My baby is going to have the best aunts!

I love you all!

(I am so excited to post more pictures in the future!!)

My Next Post Will be Chipper

I have always subscribed to the Peter Pan Philosophy of Life. I never quite got the flying part down, but I was totally there in theory. When I thought about growing up, none of it sounded good. Not one thing.

That’s because I have the best mommy in the world, who cooks the yummiest food, takes you on shopping sprees, tickles your back 24/7, gives you presents, can always keep a secret, and who is always on your side. Really, who would ever want to grow up when they had a childhood like that?

There was only one (potential) redeeming benefit to growing up: No more acne. (And I didn’t even have any! Dang you, young Kieren!)

Well, then. It seems that my good luck has run out, because my face is a pizza face!!! Supreme pizza, even! Let me just tell you, I have white heads, black heads, third eyes, meteor craters, horns, red spots, and a crazy spider vein blotchy thing on my nose.

NOT OKAY. I understand that I am pretty good at growing things (hello, babies and peach fuzz), but acne is bad news bears. I’m already getting fat, performing nightly rituals to ward off stretch marks, and have contracted too-lazy-to-do-my-own-hair-itis (okay, that one was pre-pregnancy).

We do not need to add to this list.

Fetus, help me out here! I’m pretty sure you have guys on the inside (I mean, heck, you are a guy on the inside), so pull some strings (the figurative ones, not any that may be connected to major organs) and get rid of this acne for me!

We need a pregnancy glow and we need it now.

Yours truly, sans pizza face.  Also, I will be wearing this maxi dress all summer. 

(Get down with your big self!)

I Am a Small Clown

This weekend, I was the bearer of bad moods.

(I hope that I used the right bear/bare.)

(If not, I don't care.)

It all started on Friday morning, when Husband and I got into a dumb fight on the way to work. Sometimes an argument can really ruin the whole day, you know? I topped that by descending 27 flights of stairs, for which my calves have still not forgiven me. I, in turn, have not forgiven whoever reported a false fire in my skyscraper.

At least I have now exercised enough for the rest of my pregnancy.

(Success feels great, doesn’t it?)

Basically, the rest of the day was terrible, except for when I died and went to Chicken Madeira Heaven. (Thanks, mom!) She is a girl after my own heart, that one. (In actuality, I am a girl after her heart, since she is the one who birthed and raised me.)

But, forget about that short, curly headed ray of sunshine.

This is a pity party.

On Saturday, I woke up early and it was beautiful outside! However, my insides were FOUL. I was a mean, little lady. Husband tried to help and he did, a little bit. (I am a sucker for massages.)

Then, Husband made me late for a baby shower, then I forgot to buy a gift bag, then I forgot to buy a card, my high heels were squeaking, my calves were screaming obscenities, I lost the gift receipt, I accidentally squeezed the new loaf of bread, I started crying in the car, I screamed bloody murder because it felt good, I worried that I may have caused psychological trauma to my unborn child, then I got lost on the way to the shower, then I had to interrupt the baby shower recipient for directions, then I cried some more, my make-up got messed up, then I realized that I was parked outside of the correct house all along, then I cried a bit more, then I felt like a fat hormonal pregnant woman, then I accidentally matched the baby shower theme (Sailor party), and then I ate two servings (of each) of strawberry spinach salad, cake pops, handfuls of Swedish Fish, and strawberries with dip.

In all honesty, though, I felt a lot better after pigging out.

The crazed lunatic phase naturally followed.

My SIL asked me to pick up some balloons for a birthday/baptism party. I arrived at Party City, grabbed the balloons, and headed out into a (surprise!) windstorm. As I made my way across the parking lot, I wondered which was more likely: Me flying away while holding the balloons or the balloons slipping out of my hands, while I stood there like an idiot.

Thank goodness I was a pregnant midget and not just a normal midget!

Well I stuffed thsoe 30+ balloons into the back of my Mazda 3 during a windstorm, with only my abnormally short legs and arms. 

Only two people laughed at me, only one balloon popped, it only took ten minutes to accomplish, and I didn’t get into a wreck while driving my clown car.

All the while, I laughed hysterically, like the crazed, pregnant lunatic that I was.

Then, I ate a lot more food and sweets, and collapsed into a sugar coma.

(I feel a lot better now.)

Examen Para Mis Estudiantes

What would you think if you took all four of these pictures in one day?

 

A. If I don’t stop eating office cupcakes, when will I be unable to fit through the small space leading to the next cubicle?

B. If my fetus is to grow healthy and strong, should I be eating numerous cupcakes and ice cream treats?

C. Do I look fat or pregnant?

D. If I have gained one pound a week (which is the average, dang it) in the last five weeks, will cupcakes keep me on track or bump me up to two pounds/week category?

E. Is this cupcake the reason that I had to take a break during my 10-minute video workout, where the instructor is a 36-week pregnant woman?

F. Would taking wheatgrass (per midwife’s instructions) help offset my cupcake compulsion?

G. Should I spend more time looking at my feet?

H.  Is there a correlation between cupcake consumption and cankles?

What do you think?

Magic Happens at 3:30

"We get to see baby friend today.  :)"

"But not its sex.  :("

"You will love the surprise, party pooper! Don’t worry! It’s like the biggest Christmas ever!"

"Does that mean that I don’t need to get you a Christmas present? Okay, I’m cool with it then."

18 weeks with a $0.99 Icee, in other words, "Pregnant get what pregnant want!"

What's it gonna be?

Handsome fatty with blue eyes or petite muffin with a dented forehead, closed tear duct, cone head, rash, and belly button hernia?

Only August will tell!

All I Care About is Meatballs

My posts have been very strange lately, haven’t they? Welcome to the ramblings of the fat-belly-brain!

For all of January and half of February, I was so sick after 5:00 and had no energy at any other time during the day, that I had zero desire to blog. Zero. I would much rather have laid in my bed, nibbling graham crackers, drinking heinous amounts of water, and trying not to think about the toilet.

Now that I feel like blogging about my happy little life again, it turns out that the happiest and most exciting thing in my life is Swedish meatballs!!

You may view this meatball obsession with pity or disdain, but trust me, you should be cheering for me!

I think I’m hung up on the meatballs for three reasons. First of all, they were literally the only meal that I have enjoyed in the past two months. Up until the meatball moment, I was just happy to keep something down, let alone enjoy it. Second, I wanted my best-friend-meatballs last night, but Husband said NO! He said NO to his beautiful, fetus-carrying wife!! (That's me.)  (I am still mad about this. Even worse, I have projected my anger onto the church event that I have to attend tonight, instead of eating Swedish gold! My life is falling apart as we speak!) Third, the meatballs are in freaking Ikea. It is like the Disneyland of home décor, much as Forever 21 is the Disneyland of clothing, and like Disneyland is the Disneyland of life.

(I just realized that Husband hates all three of my Disneylands! Where did I find this handsomely Grinchy mate and how did he trick me into loving him and mothering his child?!)

I will leave you with a picture of the coolest soda machine on the planet. It made me more excited than the iPhone! (I was going to list other impressive technological gadgets, but I couldn’t think of anymore).

Husband and I seriously stared at the machine and giggled together.  That's how great it was.

Then, I got water, which was very anticlimactic.

Husband recommends the Peach Fanta.

Tale of Two Kierens

Nothing has satisfied me in the past two months like these delicious Swedish morsels.

Something oh-so-tragic happened over the weekend. Quintessential aspects of the Kieren that you all know and love have disappeared into thin air. It’s true, my friends. Along with my once tiny waistline, my love of shopping has also gone missing. Perhaps the two are connected?

Upon trying to return an article of clothing to the mall, I was offered 25% of my money back. Travesty! I was not about to be ripped off like that, especially after pulling the pregnancy card! I stuffed my clothes back into my yellow F21 bag and stomped out.

Speaking of Forever 21, the store of dreams and magic, I walked inside and felt dead. What happened to the days when I could drop $100 in scholarship money on short skirts, funny rings, and pink satchels? Those were the days before modesty and fat bellies, you see. Now, what was I to do in a store filled with so many cute and superfluous things, all being so inexpensive and tempting? With an air of defiance, I bought a pair of $1 earrings (with my debit card) and walked out with a huff.

Then I sat on a bench in the middle of the mall, like a grandpa waiting for his old lady. Only, I appeared to be both the old lady and the grandpa all at once.

This is what led me to the McDonald’s French fries, which also made a mockery out of me. They tasted terrible and reaffirmed my belief in Wendy's.  I ate that whole bag of French fries, though, just to show them who was boss. Meanwhile, the lemon and I mourned the caramel apple that I could have eaten instead.

It was a rather sad day at the mall.

In retrospect, I believe that the former Kieren is perhaps being held hostage by the villain that is food. He has invaded the fat Kieren’s every thought and action. It is true, nothing can stop her from eating, except for the undeniable urge to pee.

This is what happened on the Ikea date that the Kierens had together on Saturday. One Kieren ate 10 of 15 Swedish meatballs and all of her mashed potatoes; the other Kieren bought a door mat.

The battle continues. The lemon watches.