So this is pregnancy.

Here's what happens in the life of a neurotic post-infertile pregnant lady when she's not over-analyzing her life.

I have indigestion today for the first time as a pregnant lady. I am thrilled to have indigestion. Really.

I was warned not to get "What to Expect When You're Expecting." But a friend loaned me a copy, and god I was too curious to pass it up. To be honest, I thought there might be some really juicy pregnancy secrets in there. There's not. Just a lot of talk about gas and discharge and whether or not I'll have insecurities about my changing figure. And while the book is more histrionic than anything else, "What to Expect" has me expecting (and oddly enough, wanting) indigestion.

So now that I have it, I feel normal. And sort of burny in the chest area.


I have been battling a weevil infestation. In my house, not my body. Let's be clear on that. Either way, I am disgusted and hateful towards weevils. I swear my house is clean. Yet I have these crawly little brownish-black things all over my counter tops and in my cereal boxes. This weekend I emptied out all of my food cabinets in a passionate anti-weevil campaign. I threw away half my pantry supplies which has resulted in me becoming a hungry-grumpy pregnant lady for much of the week. If you haven't cleaned out your food cabinets lately, well. Let's just say you might be surprised at what you find festering in there. On my part, I found many gems, the best of which was a gallon bag of steel cut oats that had majestically transformed into a gloppy mess of green mold and weevil larvae. Oatmeal, anyone?



I am patiently waiting for random acts of kindness from strangers. I've heard that being pregnant brings on hoards of people just falling over themselves waiting to be kind and loving toward you. Not so much for this girl. Not that anyone has been unkind, per se. Except for that one day when a co-worker looked at me and said, "god, you're fat." That was not so much kind. But otherwise, people just treat me kind of normal. Like the girl in the grocery store parking lot who almost ran me down today as I waddled to my car.



I have a new game I use to entertain myself and remind myself of just how amazingly pregnant I am. I have given this game the uber-creative moniker, "the shower game". Here's how it goes: every day when I take a shower, I make my back all straight and correct-postured. Then I bend forward at the waist while keeping my back straight. I bend bend bend until I can see all my pieces. Once I've positively identified all my pieces, I make a mental note of my waist angle. A couple of weeks ago when I started this little game, I was at about a 25 degree angle. These days, I'm at about 35 degrees. I find myself looking forward tremendously to 45 degrees. 90 degrees would be neat too. Except that by the time I get that big, I have a feeling that I'll need some weird sort of mirrored contraption to find all my pieces. And I probably won't be able to get back up. And then my husband will find me all stuck and bent in the shower. And I'll have to admit to him my little shower game.

I bet I'll be a neat mom.

Who took my map?

After living life for three years as an infertile, I have a confession to make. Four months ago, I would have cringed and threatened to slap myself across the face at such a confession. But I have no self control, so confess I will: I do not know how to be a pregnant person.

Infertility is the cruelest and most painful waiting game I know. Monthly reminders of the lack of conception. Waiting for the next test. The next set of stirrups. The next cycle to start. The next. The next. The next. Waiting to find out if you will ever become pregnant.

Oddly, I got pretty good at all that waiting. I would even say I found peace in it. I accepted the unknowns, not out of some beautiful zen moment, but out of the sheer reality that I had no other option. I embraced the idea that infertility, for me, was a journey. I often even felt lucky to have the opportunity to turn a painful experience into a time of growth, reflection, and acceptance.

And now I am pregnant. I start my fourteenth week today, and I am still in quite the state of shock. I am beyond excited. I feel blissful, lucky lucky lucky, and totally confused.

I don't quite know how to look back and make sense of this most recent development. For me, living infertility was a bit like being suspended in space and time. Becoming pregnant has launched me back into the real world. Living infertility was the most polarizing experience I've ever had with the rest of humanity. Even among my most beloved friends and family, I separated everyone into an "us" and them" sort of alignment: the fertiles vs. the infertiles. Where do I fit in now?

The infertility/fertility journey doesn't end at pregnancy. I never knew that before. I don't know if it ends at birth. My infertility induced clarity, acceptance, and balance seems to have at least momentarily been replaced with a gluttonous appetite for all things baby. I glide from peaceful moments of loving my pregnancy to impatient and frustrated longings to finally hold my babies and see their tiny faces.

And maybe this is really what it's all about. I have about six more months to reflect and sort things out. That's the same amount of time my babies have left to live in the safest and most sheltered environment they'll ever know. And then together they'll join this crazy world. I don't care if my babies grow up to be doctors or lawyers. I want my babies to know that life is beautiful and confusing. And once they know that, I want them to choose to jump right in, with wild and reckless abandon.

Sweet Babies...

Bunk beds...Baby B lounges on top of Baby A. (Look at those skinny little legs!)
Baby A looks like he's thinking. (Yup...Baby A has a penis...)

Baby B sucking his or her thumb.

Hello, second trimester. I'm going to be a mommy.

Cleavage: I have that.

Yup. Boobies. Breasts. Sweater meat.

I got it.

Before you're tempted to feel offended, I feel the need to offer up the fact that I've lived quite happily for 27 years with my rather boyish figure. I gave up on push-up bras some time around the age of 17. Once that snow-ball got rolling it didn't stop: bras were out the window altogether by the time I finished college. And goodness, the liberation!

So for as much as I've not really minded my rather plankish form, I have to say that my new beautiful ta-tas are not to be minded either. Here's why:

1. They jiggle, for goodness sake, and that's just fun.
2. From the side, I look like the letter B, but with legs and a head. And who doesn't like the letter B?
3. I have a cute little freckle that looks quite fetching when it's sitting atop my massive cleavage.

And after waiting for this pregnancy so long, I fully intend to throw myself into the experience with joy and hopefully only a few teensy complaints (like the terrible headaches that have become my constant companion).

So if there's ever been something to feel joyful about, I think I'm there. Two babies in my belly and I've finally reached a full B cup (yup...didn't mis-type that...not C, not D, just celebrating the B here, folks!) feels like heaven.

A Crib!

One of my husband's co-workers has offered us an almost-new crib.

PEOPLE SEE US AS PEOPLE WHO WOULD NEED A CRIB!!!!!!!!!

A feeling of real-ness abounds...a feeling I've been waiting for. We were offered a second-hand crib!

And of course we'll accept. Not only does it make me feel like I'm taking a small step towards my goal of environmentally responsible parenting, not only does it solve the problem of whether to buy one crib or two, but it means I will have in my house a physical representation of the moment this all started to feel real.

A second-hand crib never sounded so good.

Hi. I have a hairy belly.

I am not a hairy person.

Throughout my life, I've often been asked if I shave my arms. This is a bizarre and rather personal question. I don't go around asking random people which body parts they choose to de-hair, but apparently, something about my inviting demeanor brings forth such questions.

I do not now, nor have I ever, shaved my arms. They don't look hairy, especially from far away. But if you look closely, (which I expect you would be inclined to if you'd be so forward as to ask whether I've shaved them or not) you will see that I do have hair on my arms. It's sparse, and fairly see-through, but it's there. And in fact, it's quite long. Like, probably 2/3s of an inch long if I were to measure, which I won't.

One summer I decided not to shave my legs in order to be a more informed consumer. Cause if I'm going to choose to shave, I want to know what I'm giving up. That wasn't my prettiest summer. Apparently in addition to unnaturally long arm hair, I grow leg hair, too. And while it may be sparse, it certainly is not see through.

But overall, I've sort of led a charmed life in the hair department. No weird back hairs, no uni-brow, no lady moustache.

I think the charmed phase is coming to an end. And it scares me a little bit.

On a recent trip to the beach, the babies and I were enjoying some sun (safely, with lots of SPF and water...no lectures here). My pottish belly was all hanging out of my bikini and my loving husband had convinced me that my physique screamed "pregnant" and not "fat." So life was pretty good. And then I looked down to admire my spherical form, and came to a rude awakening.

I look like a peach.

Round, plump, and fuzzy. Those translucent, sparse, yet long hairs of my upper appendages seem to have migrated to the belly region. In no particular order. No happy trail here...just a random forest of silken strands. And should that sound sort of appealing, let me remind you, that calm forest resides on my belly.

And yet I can't find it within myself to complain. Compelled to share? Yes. Complain, never.

I've always kind of liked peaches anyway.