Going to Museums as a Pregnant Person

Today's entry brings together the already-described benefits of being pregnant while in public and the use of bathrooms while out and about.  Now is a good time for me to get out of the apartment as much as possible while I still have some freedom. My daughter is in school full days and I have relative mobility and a museum pass. By relative, we all know that I waddle. Well, if a bus were about to run me over, which I envisioned today, I could certainly break into a run. Getting on public buses means I get to sit in the handicap seats in the front of the bus. Someone immediately shoots up to offer a seat.  So transportation is the best it's ever going to be and I am going to use it as much as possible while pregnant.  Today's museum was the Brooklyn Historical Society. My culture card gets me in free to just about every museum, zoo, and botanical garden in NYC.  But once at the museum, I need to pace myself because within 15 minutes, the feet start to ache. Luckily, this museum was small. I got to every section, utilized the sitting spots and bathrooms strategically. The museum staff let me use the cargo elevator to get to the upper floors. I feel like cargo! A group of students let me go in front of them to view the Vietnam War exhibit. I got a special tour of the reading room. The museum visits seem to go very well with the pregnant belly as my best friend.  But sooner rather than later, hunger and the need to sit for half an hour strike, so my museum stay comes to an end.  I waddle back to the bus, where my front row seat awaits me, all the while people clearing the path to let me enter and exit. I get home only to think about what museum I'll go to next. Once I had a problem at the American Folk Arts Museum because they wouldn't let me hold my water bottle. I can't go a few feet without a sip, so it goes with me everywhere. Did these people honestly think I was going to pour water on a painting? I thought I would get some latitude with my belly and all. But policy is policy, it was explained to me. I left, foregoing the art in favor of water. Oh, one more thing I've learned to do is to empty that bladder before getting on the bus. NYC buses are notoriously slow. If the urge comes and your destination is still far, you must hold it or get off at the next stop and hope there's a bathroom nearby. I have a nice black bag that holds my reading materials for the long bus rides, my freshly-filled water bottle, and snacks and fruit. I plan to get in as many museums as possible, because I know once December comes, the cultural outings will come to a halt. Unless by then they install baby-changing tables in every building!  

Listening to Doctor's Advice

Now I am to go to the doctor's every two weeks. Today marked 30 weeks. I can almost breath my sigh of relief. The big sigh comes when I'm rocking healthy baby in my arms.  Well, he said for me to get to 34 weeks and I can do the first sigh. In four more weeks and two more appointments, I'll be writing about The Sigh. Baby kicks a lot, such a great sign. Doctor listened to the heart beat today and checked my blood pressure. Both strong. Next up was to get on the scale.  Should I take my shoes off, I wondered, hoping to save a pound, maybe? Oh, what did it matter. I knew I had topped up pretty high with that stomach and all. The scale read 168. Geez la peets! I rushed back to doctor's desk. What did I start at on my first visit? 137. I have gained 31 pounds in seven months. I'm averaging nearly five pounds a month. Oh my gosh. I still have two more months to go and my eating (as you may have read in yesterday's blog) is getting out of control I could easily pack on 20 more pounds before this pregnancy is over. "Why don't Hollywood actresses gain more than 20 pounds in their pregnancies?", was the first question out of my mouth. Brooke Shields only gained 18 pounds with her second child. "Because," the doctor responded, "they don't eat."  Well, I do. "Should I stop?" I both wondered and asked out loud. I then proceeded to explain to my doctor that my weight gain was probably due to my consumption of chocolate and daily summer ice cream indulgences. I also told him I do take another small meal at bedtime. He gave me the, "Give me a break, I don't have time to listen to such absurdity" look.  And simply said...."Eat, eat."  Okay, if that's what my doctor has advised, I will follow his orders! I'm good to go.  But then I think about my Girlfriends Guide to Pregnancy chapter in which the author states that it will take just as long to lose your pregnancy weight as it does to be pregnant...9 months. I think about every pound I gain is one I have to lose (less, of course, the weight of the baby, some amniotic fluid, and the placenta). I guarantee that 90% of this weight gain is food-related. But I must listen to my doctor who tells me to eat.  Can't I enjoy myself two more months and cross the weight loss bridge when it comes?

The Midnite Cravings - Avoid or Indulge?

My pregnancy books state that it is a perfectly good idea to have some snacks at the bedside to eat before getting out of bed in the morning or while in bed before going to sleep. But then I realized the advice was for those suffering from nausea, which usually just occurs in the first trimester. What's my excuse? I am now in my third trimester and don't (thankfully) have even a stitch of morning sickness. But I want to eat something, especially in the late hours of the night.  I want just one last food item before I sleep. It's not that I am particularly hungry, rather I feel it's my right to load up on one more thing before the long hours of the sleeping night stretch upon me. I am talking about 11 o'clock at night.  Never would I consume food at such an hour in my non-pregnant state. The pounds would pack up quickly as a result. But now that I am hugely pregnant, I feel late night snacking just goes with the territory.  Am I taking advantage of my pregnancy to overeat?  Last night it was a mug (ok, it was a bowl) of cereal topped with flaxseed and a peach. Even though that sounds healthy, it carries a lot calories. No wonder my stomach is huge...my stomach muscles have been atrophied from the fourth meal I consume!  The night before, it was the rest of my Hershey with Almonds bar left over from our Hersheyland outing.  The night before that it was a whole wheat pancake spread with crunchy peanut butter.  I eat breakfast, lunch, dinner, and two snacks. Everything is healthy and nutritious, for the most part. Lunch, for example, has been a sardine sandwich on whole wheat bread, lettuce, hummus, and cheddar cheese. And now this 11PM feast.  I don't need all this food!  And once the baby pops out, I will have this stomach to deal with. By the way, the sardine sandwich and flaxseed, is my attempt to get my Omega 3's in. Unfortunately, sardines leave a very unpleasant taste in the mouth. I address that problem with chocolate. Yes, chocolate does the trick. Yet, I just defeated the purpose of having the sardines in the first place. And flaxseed is like eating finely ground cardboard.  I need the milk and sweet cereal and fruit to overwrite it. Ice cream and chocolate have been my nemeses this pregnancy. At least the heat of summer is over and I am no longer reaching for the ice cream container. But Hersheyland got me back on my chocolate fixation, and I am craving it everyday. Dipped in peanut butter is even better. Stop it! I have to give it up or I will still look pregnant even after I'm not!

Finding Bathrooms Out and About During Third Trimester

Now that I had had my not-so-short short haircut on Friday, I felt like celebrating a little. So that afternoon, just before leaving the Aveda Institute, I did the very prudent thing: Because I was in Manhattan and because I knew that I was going to be doing some walking, I first emptied my bladder in an available bathroom facility for which I'd been a paying customer.  There aren't a plethora of bathrooms in NYC. You can't just walk into a restaurant or bar and use a bathroom. In fact, several establishments got smart and have posted in their windows announcements which read, "Bathrooms for paying customers only." Even Starbucks, my longtime bathroom saviour with its no-questions-asked free bathrooms, recently decided to join the bandwagon of not having facilities at the public's disposal (too many people caught on and were using Starbucks as a pee spot without purchasing anything. However, being the frequent bathroom user than I am, even during non-pregnancy, would compel me to purchase something out of guilt 50% of the time). Starbucks simply sealed up their bathrooms or turned them into storage closets. So, when going out for the day in Manhattan, be prepared to go to restaurants for your meals or to several sit-down coffee houses, so that you can use their bathroom, otherwise, you will be in a precarious situation wondering where you will empty yourself.  Even in Central Park, there are very few bathrooms. You might have a twenty minute walk inside the park before you reach a bathroom. And it might be locked up for the season. Or it might be very unclean. Or there might be a huge line. Madison Park has port-a-potties that are clean. You pay $.25. But when you are in your third trimester, this is not the place to go. So after leaving the Aveda Institute, fully relieved, I started on my TriBeCa journey, meandering through some neat streets, making my way up to Washington Square Park, through the Village and ending up at Union Square (where there are absolutely no bathrooms). During that adventure, I went to the bathroom four more times. I stopped at a cafe and ordered a decaf skim latte, making sure I used their bathroom before I left. The coffee hit me hard about 15 minutes later. By that time I was near NYU.  You have to be a student with a swipeable i.d. card to get into any of the buildings. But I was getting desperate. Desperation and pregnancy are a good fit because as soon as the security guards saw me, I was practically whisked away to the nearest bathroom with white glove treatment.  Next stop was Washington Park. Sure enough, the urge resurfaced. I was just about to go back to the NYU library when I spotted a bathroom facility in the park. It was quite dirty but at least there was toilet paper and no line. I squatted, which is a very good exercise to do anyway.  Now, I had the 8 block walk to Union Square ahead of me. Would I make it? There is little chance to go to the bathroom around Union Square unless you're prepared to part money with an expensive lunch at Blue Water Grill, which I wasn't about to do.  Halfway up Fifth Avenue, I spotted an art gallery I wanted to check out. It was a very interesting place filled with art on the walls set in an 18th century city mansion. I perused the fantastic paintings and headed downstairs to the colonial-style restaurant where I knew I'd struck gold upon discovering a beautiful, probably little known, pink-tiled bathroom parlour.  I pampered myself a little and lingered on.  No one questioned a pregnant woman descending the stairs and re-appearing half an hour later.  I left contentedly relieved of a full bladder, reached Union Square, got on the subway, and returned home...just in time to go to the bathroom. :) :)

Getting a Haircut in the Third Trimester

A friend gave me Girlfriend's Guide to Pregnancy, a funny book written for women who don't get the truth about the ins and outs of pregnancy from their doctors or families.  I read it when I was pregnant with my daughter and thought it was hysterical and, in retrospect, so true. ,For example, pregnancy is really longer than nine months. You don't get your body back the way it was, ever. And you don't always glow.  Well, today I committed a no-no by going for a radically different haircut, which is ill-advised in the Girlfriends book. The book advises against getting all impulsive and doing a style that nowhere near suits you.  Something you may regret and not be able to maintain. Since June - no, since 2006 - I have wanted a short haircut so badly but have always chickened out.  My hair has been the same length since 1995. I let it grow long, then I merely trim it. That has been the extent of my hairstyling for 15 years. Secretly, I have envied women who are brave enough to sport a short haircut. How free they must feel and be, not to be defined by that mass of hair cascading around and below their shoulders. Well, I am half way there. This morning I went to the Aveda Institute in Manhattan, where you can get a cut by a student for really cheap.  My intent was to chop it all off. I love Sharon Stone's short hair, which she has kept short for years. But when I mentioned her style to my stylist today, the 19-year old student said he'd never heard of her. Wow, did I feel old! It was no use. I couldn't expect a drastic and modern short do at a training school. My impulse for freedom would have to wait. Instead I went for what the student could handle and was a perfectly acceptable compromise for me, considering I was only paying $20 and getting silky smooth Aveda products applied to my fly-away dry, clumpy locks.  I stepped away with hair as soft as butter, nicely thinned out, layered and hitting the nape of my neck.  I hadn't completely committed a Girlfriend's faux pas after all, even though I had desperately wanted to.  My haircut, though much shorter, was still not met with gaped looks from my family and friends. In fact, my daughter didn't even notice the change until I had to get it out of her. For now, I will stick with this haircut and view it as the stepping stone to what I really want. Once the baby is born and I have a free two hours, I am going to the nearest salon where the stylists have heard of Sharon Stone and give me what I want: short hair...even if it does cost me an arm and a leg.

Attention Received with a Pregnant Belly

Did I mention that at my most recent pre-natal exam, my ob/gyn exclaimed I am like a 20-year old?! I think he meant the comment in regards to my pregnancy and results of my tests. But I am taking it all the way to mean that I look like a pregnant 20-year old. Is that why, as I walk around Brooklyn, I get stares and comments? I must just look so young. Simmer down, M.A...it’s wishful thinking. Imagine if I had the maturity of a 46-year old on the body of a 20-year old?  Now that would be something.  I must get back to the reality that I really do look my age. Maybe I can get away with five years, but that’s it. I sometimes say I am 40. It’s sort of true. I do have a “40” in my age. Back to the stares and comments.  I think I stick out like a sore thumb whenever I am walking around. I ambled ever so slowly to a nearby park to read today in the 85 degree weather marking the last official day of summer. I got seven “Are you having a boy or a girl?”  questions. One woman, as I crossed the street, said she knew the sex of my baby but wasn’t going to tell me.  A group of men congratulated me. I got five “God Bless You”’s. And the mailman imitated my belly-protruding walk as he approached me, asking, of course, after the gender of the baby.  Several children asked me if I had a “baby in there”.  These types of interactions with perfect strangers transpire on a daily basis, the minute I step outside my apartment.  The stares, at least in my opinion (I can feel their eyes on me), are omnipresent.  Doesn’t anyone see a walking pregnant person anymore? You’d think with our population there’d be pregnant women all over the place. Either the birthrate isn’t as high as I think or pregnant women just don’t go out as much.  So, am I an anomaly? I do see the occasional pregnant woman. We sort of greet each other without speaking, like a sisterhood. So why the stares? Maybe it's just an uplifting sight to see a pregnant belly. I admit, even when I see a pregnant woman, I more than glance.  Maybe we are all trying to envision that there is a human life growing in there, and it is hard for us all to believe.

Public Pregnancy Perks

There are definitely some perks to being obviously pregnant if you live in a big city.  On the subway, people give up their seat for you, not only on the train but on the platform benches while waiting for the train to come.  In fact, they shoot up out of their seat at the very site of you. This is usually done by men. It’s as if they feel guilty you are pregnant and want you not to suffer what they deem as the unpleasantries of pregnancy for one second longer.  Their eyes are averted, but they seem to have special peripheral vision to spot you in the first place.  Another example of getting foot relief is the line at the post office or any public institution where lines occur, such as the Department of Motor Vehicles, where I found myself today. My driver’s license expires in January, so I thought I’d get ahead of the game by renewing it now. It didn’t really happen the way I wanted to, but at least the good citizens of Manhattan scooted me up to the front of the line, whereupon, being short of the adequate amount of identification, I was sent home. You need umpteen documents to prove that you are who you are if you want a New York State driver’s license. I still haven’t converted my Illinois one for a New York one. Oh, I’ve tried, but the lines have been horrendously long and my lunch hour didn’t suffice; or in the case today, I was one document short.  But I am going to use this pregnancy to the fullest degree to my advantage (even though it didn’t work with Delta Airlines when we were marooned on hurricane-stricken St. Thomas island).  I will get that license while I am still pregnant and I will send out my Christmas presents early while I am still pregnant to avoid the long lines. And I will ride the subway more gleefully knowing I will get the coveted seat. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.   Then there is the chivalry that has seemed to go out the window this generation. The opening of the door, the pushing of the revolving door (although my friend swears the only reason men give the revolving door a push before a woman enters through is in order to get a glimpse of their derrieres, but I doubt that's the case of me, as I've seen my backside view in the dressing room mirrors at Macy's!), the letting of women out of the elevator first, the offering of the umbrella in a rainstorm, all seem to be happening to me quite more frequently now that I have the hugeness in my belly. Hey, you need a little attention like that when you feel like a cumbersome member of society. And if these mostly men do feel guilty or uncomfortable at the sight of a pregnant woman, so be it, but I am going to chalk it up to society being on its best behavior. One final note : I do get quite a bit of help from woman, too. I don't mean to exclude them.  It's just more funny to me to get this response from the male species, because it's honestly nice to have them put out the extra care.

Amusement Parks in the Third Trimester

Going to a large amusement park seven months pregnant isn’t the best idea in the world but it isn’t the worst idea either. Earlier this summer my daughter and I were at a minor league baseball game and got on local TV. where we were presented tickets to Hersheyland Park.  This amusement park is three hours away from NYC, so not the most convenient of things to win. We ended up turning it into an overnite vacation. But packing for one night is just as difficult as packing for four weeks. You still need all the essentials and toiletries and swimming gear and car games.  Once we were at the amusement park, there was no turning back. A 200-acre labyrinth of rides and restaurants and shows and a zoo and theatres and stores confronted us. The day was turning hot. I had comfortable shoes and my daughter was in a stroller and I had a big bottle of water and we had already eaten lunch outside.  Thank goodness for those things. Now what? I pushed forward with the crowd.  I saw toddler rides. For the next hour my daughter went on those and I sat on benches. They had the decency to put in hundreds of benches throughout the park.  I got several questions about my due date from other mothers. A lot of babies were there, but not one other pregnant woman did I see throughout our eight hours at that amusement park.  Why was I the only one? Was that just a coincidence or was I committing a pregnant faux-pas? We pushed onward and came across another level of rides.  Time to re-fill the water bottle with the much-coveted water fountain. I wanted to avoid buying the $4.50 bottles for sale.  I had wanted to bring fruit in but there was a sign that read, “No outside food.” I snuck a bag of nuts in anyway.   The food for sale at the various food courts was all tasty looking but way up there on the “I really shouldn’t” list. The healthiest item I ever saw was a Greek salad for $14.  We weren’t hungry, just drank water and ate nuts and popcorn all day.  I paced my day between getting my daughter on rides and sitting on benches.  There were too many hills.  I couldn’t go on any rides except the Lady Bug and the Classis Cars. Even they were hard to get into and out of.  On the Lady Bug I met a new mother who had flown to Disney World at 7 1/2 months pregnant in 100 degrees heat and delivered back at home three weeks later.  That made me feel better about being at an amusement park waddling around. I should have rented one of those battery-charged three-wheelers. Oh well, at least I was exercising, even at a very slow pace. After leaving, we did hit the nearest Wendy’s and tried to order as healthy as possible. We ended up with a baked potato, chili, and Southwestern salads.  I hoped my daughter had a good time, even towing a hugely visible pregnant mother around.  Whatever it takes, I want to spend every quality moment I can with her up until I go to the hospital.  No more amusement parks or snorkeling for now.  Been there, done that.  But let’s see what this big belly mass can do in its third trimester. 

28 Weeks of Pregnancy Completed!

I am starting to breath some much needed sighs of relief. Holding my breath for the last six months has not been easy. Patting myself on the back, just a little bit, as I enter the third trimester, is a nice feeling. I even ate a whole Cadbury fruit and nut chocolate bar to celebrate. Let's face it, being pregnant at age 46 is considered high risk. And I didn't take that label lightly.  Getting through to this stage was done by living each day as conscientiously carefully as I could (except the hurricane, illegal boat, bike riding episodes). I really didn't allow myself to jump with glee over being pregnant at such an advanced age because, yes, things could have gone wrong. But now - although I am still not out of the woods until I am holding the swaddling babe in my arms - I can rejoice about the impending birth. Last night, I brought my bin up from the basement labeled "infant clothes". I have kept all my daughter's clothes and most of her baby toys...just in case. Because I wanted a second child. And most mothers keep everything when they want a second child. I just didn't think it was going to happen to me. And it has and I am beyond belief! We didn't know our daughter's gender, so the infant clothes are gender neutral. The two grandmothers are anxious to know what we need. I had refused to even think about it. But now that 28 weeks are completed, I have a lot to think about. What is the sex of the baby inside me? No clue. And that will be a blog for next week! To find out or not to find out....that is the question.  What is my birth plan? What furniture do I need? What do I take to the hospital? Which relatives do I ask to come and help me (I'll need as much help as possible!)? How do I prepare my daughter for when I am in the hospital? Where should I set up the crib in my one-bedroom apartment? Oh my gosh, I need a stroller! Okay, I am starting to freak out. There are too many things to consider. I want to go back to the second trimester when I didn't have to think about any of these things at all. I just hung out with my expanding belly and was in a blissful, care-free world.  Now I have a million things to do. I have to house clean. The stove top needs scrubbing. What will my mom have for breakfast at my apartment when I am at the hospital? She doesn't know the subway system. She doesn't know where I keep the Fantastic spray. What if she can't find the coffee mugs? Stop it! Stop it! I have got to take one day at a time and breath normally. Should I even let my mind travel three months ahead and acknowledge that my life is going to drastically be altered? Or should I continue to rub my belly every day and night and thank my lucky stars. The latter seems more easy and fun. I'm sticking with that.

Cats and Pregnancy

My 16-year old calico cat has been my constant companion since I adopted her in 1995.  She provides purring comfort and a good attitude.  Recently I was asked by a friend what I was doing about the cat situation. I immediately knew I was being asked about toxoplasmosis. I am not concerned about it. In fact, I clean my cat' litter box myself.  You'd have to touch the feces and transmit them to your mouth, which I'm not about to do, to be infected. And that is only if your cat is carrying the infection and you are not immune to it. Since I have been living with my cat for 15 years, I am surely immune by now. Also, my cat gets a thorough check up, with blood and fecal analysis every year. It was in March of this year, also when I got pregnant, that she had her most recent exam.  I handled my cat in the same manner when I had my daughter four years ago.  We weathered the pregnancy superbly. You simply wear gloves when you scoop the litter box.  Besides, you can get it by gardening without gloves or drinking unpasteurized milk or undercooked meat. I don't do those activities. About half the American population has developed an immunity to toxoplasmosis, and about 90% in France are immune.  There's nothing to worry about. Believe me, I rank myself in the upper percentile of worry warts.  If I worried for even a minute about the disease, I would have taken my cat to the nearest adoption agency faster than you can say, "twiddle-dee-dum." I am not about to give up my feline daughter. She is as soothing as butter.  Most importantly, my four-year old adores her. They indulge each other in playtime. Even the occasional warning bite when my daughter is petting the cat too roughly doesn't dissuade my daughter for going back for more. The cat lets her do almost anything to her. Yesterday she was placed in my daughter's playschool grocery cart and whirled around the apartment. She obliged, albeit with a "oh, brother," look on her face and paws on the edge. This is not to say that my cat pleases me all the time. She vomits the occasional hairball, which I have to bend down and scoop up. She occasionally gets some pee that misses the box a little. And her coat sheds enough that I have to vacuum pretty much daily.  Black clothes? Forget about it. The lint remover is on hand at all times. It has, I admit, entered my mind, to give her up when the baby comes because I will not have enough time to give her the attention she deserves and needs. But who would adopt a 16-year cat?  At the end of the day, though, when she is nestled up against my thigh on the couch, purring and lifting her happy head up for pets, all thoughts of adoption disappear into thin air.

Down Time at Night When the Other Child Sleeps

Packing in some evening time of peace and tranquility is now crucial because in less than three short months I will join new motherhood again where evening time and peace are mutually exclusive. It's either one or the other,  Evening time will be filled with the pitter patter of my four-year old's footsteps as she finds yet another reason to get out of bed, coupled with the sure-to-be frequent wakings and feedings of the newborn. I have to savor the peaceful time in the evening I get now, after which point my daughter is finally asleep. Once those consecutive fully-occupied nights of making sure both kids sleep come, I can kiss the alone time away. Even now here's the routine with my daughter:
Go to her room at 8PM to read books.
Lights out at 8:30PM.
A story is told.
Then she tells a story.
Then a kiss and her request to come and check on her frequently until she falls asleep.
During those promised check-ups, she gets up at least two times to go to the bathroom and to remind me that I haven't checked up on her in the last five minutes. Tonight I told her that the deal was off for the frequent checkings. I told her I would only check up on her once she was asleep. I would kiss her while she slept. Already tonight she has gotten out of bed twice to go to the bathroom. The first time was legitimate. The second time wasn't. I have to get her to do all of her bathrooming before we even go to the bed at 8PM. Yet she drinks water before bedtime, so I know that it's only a matter of time before she needs to pee. It'll be either at 9PM or at some indistinguishable hour in the middle of the night. Either way, my peace and tranquility are interrupted. I love that she's potty trained, but she adores visiting the toilet. Once she's really out, sleeping with that heavy breathing, then I truly relax. My cat joins me on the couch, purring loudly. And I read, use the computer, or watch a DVD. I crave this time and it lasts for two hours...if I'm lucky. In December, this will all change. My goal is to move my daughter's bed-time up one half hour, so that she is asleep by 8:30PM. Then I will prepare myself for whatever baby will bring me in the evenings.  My mother had six kids, and I recall we were all in bed at her command. And if too much noise was coming from the bedroom I shared with my two older sisters, the sound of the banging of the end of a broomstick could be aptly heard from our floor. We would immediately silence ourselves. My mother surely needed that evening time alone. Now I get it. Boy, do I get it!

Eating and Pregnancy

I had thought the barbecue season was over once Labor Day passed. But my friend hosted her husband's 50th birthday party a la BBQ. I had severe trepidation about attending because I knew that I would probably overeat once again. She tends to marinate and have available for grilling about 20 servings of meat per person. This summer was wrought with heat and bbq events. I needed to slow down. I was getting full fast. No wonder, my burgeoning belly was bursting at the seams as it was. Put food into the equation and I was downright uncomfortable. It happened again on Saturday. Thank goodness I had the will power to say no to the perfectly grilled hamburger.  I tried to eat light on Sunday and Monday. Even a bowl of cereal puts me into a feeling of bloated misery.  There is simply no more room in my stomach area. Now, after each meal, I founder. Being foundered means you have to walk around continuously for several hours until the feeling dissipates. I learned how to fend off founder when my childhood pony used to frequently overeat from the oat barrel. He immediately foundered and I would walk him on his lead rope around the yard all afternoon until his stomach went back to its normal size. If you don't walk out a foundering horse, they can keel over and never get up. Well, that's what I feel like. i want to lie down forever. But I have to give myself a walk by myself. And it's the hardest thing to do because the gravity on the stomach area is so intense that walking becomes nearly impossible. The growing baby has taken over so that any food that goes down, even a handful of peanuts, gets squished against the gigantic uterus and my upper organs.  To top it off, breathing becomes a problem. Should I stop eating and breathing? Maybe that will solve the bloated, foundering feeling. Someone suggested I eat eight small meals. That seems like more work than it's worth. All I know is that I am not attending any more BBQ's. I dread the next meal as much as I crave it. Eating now has become both my friend and my foe. My goal this week is to strike a deal where my appetite gets satiated and my stomach doesn't balloon out to beached whale proportions. 

Vacation Photos

These photos were taken after the Hurricane Earl debacle in St. John in which we made the most of the extra days when we were "stuck" there.  Being in the water relaxed my lower back pain and made me feel weightless! The huge pregnant belly disappears when I am in the water. I intend to put myself in credit card debt to spend the rest of the pregnancy submerged in the Caribbean!!

Pregnant or Not, Here I Go

There is nothing a pregnant person can't do, as long as the burgeoning belly doesn't get in the way. Today I got back on a bicycle. I didn't have a choice. I needed to get somewhere two miles away. Not worth driving to give up a coveted parking space only to arrive at my destination and not find a space. Subways and buses don't run directly to where I was going. Walking would have been a bit of a hike. So that left me with the sole choice: ride the bike. I promised myself and on my previous blog about a particular bike ride, that I was never going to get back on a bicycle during the rest of this pregnancy. And here I was breaking my own promise. I was getting strange looks from people on the sidewalks as I peddled past them, my pregnant belly obvious. Where they judging me for doing something as irresponsible as riding a bike while hugely pregnant or just shocked to see a pregnant woman on a bike? Why weren't there more pregnant people on bikes? Was I endangering my baby with my actions? I needed to go on this errand. Why did a little thing as pregnancy have to stand in my way? I explained to my friend that a pregnant woman shouldn't stop doing what she needs to do just because she's pregnant, particularly she should not stop exercising. At least in my case I shouldn't because I'd gain one hundred pounds if I didn't move around somehow. I eat so much that I have to burn off those calories. So now I am going to unpromise all my promises in regards to exercising or movement. Otherwise I will literally turn into the Goodyear blimp. My hugeness shouldn't impede me from doing anything at all, right? Ok, I have no plans to jump out of an airplane or bungy jump. You can cross extreme sports off the list. I have no desire to do those things. But at least I should be able to ride a bike a few miles, lift weights, dance, run, and go to the gym. Baby's just going to have to agree to this. I can also bend down and barbeque, which I did tonight, and pull out dead tomato plants, which I will do tomorrow. The stomach is not going to have its say anymore. I am going to do things while pregnant. Life goes on. I've got meals to cook, food shopping to do, dying gardens to tend, trees to water, miles to exercise, floor cleaning to get done, boxes to store, recycling to drop off, and a four-year old to chase after. No free rides or special treatment for me.

Forgetfulness and Pregnancy

It's a somehow known fact that pregnant women get a little more forgetful than usual from time to time. We all are forgetful. It's part of our brain makeup. But add pregnancy to the equation and things can get jumbled. For example, we enter a room with a mission and wonder why we went there. This morning I was in the kitchen and turned sharply into the dining room area, but stopped and froze. My mind completely forgot what I was off to do. But the forgetfulnness that I displayed this summer cannot be justified. In May I excitedly planted tomatoes. Frequent waterings took place in June. By July, the watering was replaced by sheer forgetfulness, an inability to get climb out of the window, and mosquitoes. To get to the garden, you have to climb out a window. It was getting harder for me but not impossible. The summer heat wave and mosquito infestation caught me in a battle between to water or not to water. I guess I chose the latter one too many times because the plants took on a wallowed look and produced only four tomatoes total. I had killed the plants. Weeds took over where soil was supposed to be. I forgot to water on the non-rainy days, which was everyday from July 1st to August 19th! When I did remember, I came back in the house with welts all over my limbs even through clothes and a squished stomach from the window climbing.  And I kept forgetting to water the tree on the front sidewalk. I passed it every morning and afternoon taking and picking up my daughter from school. But it didn't dawn on me. I forgot. So this morning I gave the poor tree a bucket of water. A summer of forgetfulness turned me into a plant killer. Oh my gosh. I've committed murder. Can my defense be lack of memory?  No, I have to get those memory cells to bounce better in my brain or else my poor cat will be next.

Going to Sporting Events While Pregnant

Yesterday morning at 9AM I made a spontaneous decision to go to the US Open. After dropping off my daughter to pre-school, I flashed back home (well, not really), and loaded up a bag of sunscreen, hat, and snacks. I dressed in an outfit that would be both semi-sporty, semi-attractive, and comfortable. That was not easy to accomplish. It ended up not being the look I wanted as I saw myself on the big screen t.v. while watching a match at Arthur Ashe Stadium. The purple shirt was too purple and tight. My maternity pants were drenched in sweat. The only thing that worked were my Teva sandals. They were so comfortable that my feet didn't ache one bit the whole 12 hours I was there. Yes...you heard me correctly. I was at the US Open for 12 hours. Yesterday was a scorching day at 86 degrees. Sitting watching tennis in the stands attracts sun like bees to honey. My pants stuck to my legs and to my bottom and to whatever stadium or bleacher seat I was sitting on. Two of the matches went over four hours. To get your money's worth, you really need to see as much tennis as you possibly can. And so I did, for twelve hours. I felt that eyes were on me because I didn't see one other pregnant person there. I walked around a lot, slowly, because the heat was intense and I needed to pace myself. I drank bottles of water and visited the bathroom several times. Around 10PM as a match was just entering its fifth set, I realized that I was low on cash but getting hungry and it was getting late. This is why responsible pregnant women plan ahead by packing more than plenty of snacks and by avoiding situations like this in the first place. I am determined to cross as many obstacles as I possibly can. Again, here I was, a 46-year old pregnant woman with a protruding belly, fighting through sports crowds and trying to get on a NYC subway at 11PM while inching through thousands of others trying to do the same. I didn't get to my apartment until 12:30AM. My daughter scolded me this morning because only two days ago I had told her that ladies ususally don't walk around at night.  Well, that was my once-a-year US Open treat. I love tennis and decided not to let this pregnancy, albeit high risk as I'm told it is, get in the way of enjoying my fix. I think my baby likes tennis too because he/she was kicking away all through the Venus Williams match. 

Pregnancy and Sizzling Summers Don't Mix

It is the close of Labor Day Weekend, which always comes too fast and marks the near end of summer. Yet, I am rejoicing because fall couldn't come any quicker. It was a scorching, breezeless, West Nile mosquito-infested, humid three month season of sleeplessness, scratchiness, discomfort, sweating, and poundage.  The only thrills were the guiltless prospects of eating ice cream every day, which was the only thing, aside from relentlessly sucking on boring ice cubes, that would beat the heat. I dragged myself around, getting slower with each passing, increasingly hotter summer day. Thankfully, this Labor Day weekend the temperature sunk to a gorgeous 80 degrees and the breezes came back to bless us. Yet, by now my 26th week pregnant belly is feeling the full force of the growing babe inside and the weight gain from the ice-cream fueled summer season. My appetite is in its highest gear. Every meal I eat until I feel full, and afterward I suffer the gravitational expansion of my very full belly.  But the sizzling heat is gone for now, so the effect of the fullness, though quite uncomfortable, is not as draining as it was in the 95 degrees of suffering. The rest of this month should be somewhat relaxing. The daughter birthday parties and traveling and summer heat are all over (at least I pray the heat is over!), and I can look forward to my September ob/gyn appointment. In fact, that is all that is on my September calendar, aside from three birthday parties we've been invited to...and possibly a day trip to HersheyLand before it closes for the season. I am now breathing a sigh of relief that August is actually over. And I am now about to watch a college football game and the Roger Federer 4th round match of the US Open while snacking on pretzels. Daughter is asleep.  The building is quite as kids go back to school tomorrow. I am in heaven.

Weathering a Hurricane While Pregnant

The trip to St. John island started out great for the first three days. I wore the maternity bathing suits, exposing the belly all around the pool. It got tanned. Of course I used sunscreen. My daughter wore her floaties non-stop so I didn't have to do any sudden movements into the pool or ocean to save her. She bobbed around quite securely. That little head of hers going up and down with the waves. I could relax somewhat. I had been getting lower back cramps, which was disconcerting. My ob/gynie told me to swim. What great advice because I didn't get out of water for three days. Then the hurricane hit and we were holed up in the hotel room for an entire day with nothing more than raspberry ginger cereal (not tasty), milk, peanuts and potato chips. Out of the water, my back started to hurt a little. I frantically felt my round stomach for signs of the baby. Actually baby was most active at night. I had to wait. The wind was howling and the rain was pouring. Trees were bending sideways, big branches hurling off onto the ground. It was a category 4 storm and our part of the island got hit badly. The next day we saw beached boats and downed awnings. Tree branches, coconuts were strewn everywhere across the lawn. The Westin had a big cleaning job ahead. Oops, the pool deck we had just enjoyed the day before was split in two. All I could think of, as I walked my way to the provisional breakfast, was, "What am I, an almost 6-month pregnant 46 year-old, doing here?" If this were the Tudors, I'd had been ordered to bed rest long before. Yet, here I was putting my baby's life in danger!  We couldn't get off the island as the Coast Guard prohibited all boat travel. But our plane was waiting for us on St. Thomas island. Then a man came by and offered a group of us a speedy crossing. I got on that boat. The waves seemed rough around me. I already envisioned myself platooned in the water with nothing but a life preserver helping me float through choppy, shark-infested water where no one would spot me. At least I would float well. That bulging belly coupled with salt water was the best flotation device. But I was about to capsize on an illegal vessel crossing. What kind of mother am I?  Well, needless to say, we got to land and hopped in a truck to go to the airport where our waiting aircraft had now departed. No flights until Saturday, four days away. But wait, I'm pregnant and have a four-year old, can't you see? I need to get to the mainland before I have this baby in the airport with no neo-natal facility around. Can't you get me on the next plane? No. You're too late. The flights are fully booked. You're on your own.

Two more days would pass. I decided to go snorkeling and float for awhile. Oh, that did the trick for those back aches. Now, I am back safely in my apartment. This was supposed to be the babymoon, but what if I had been swept away from hurricane winds? Was that a smart move to go to the Caribbean during hurricane season while just about being six months pregnant and not being a spring chicken? Why didn't I just go to Mount Rushmore or the Wisconsin Dells? Besides, it took nine types of vehicles to get from Brooklyn to our room at the Westin in St. John. I could have just driven to Montauk to go swimming. Begging gate workers to get on planes is not my idea of a relaxing babymoon. But baby is right now kicking me blue. I survived. The babymoon is over. I am nesting until this baby pops out!