Wednesday, February 27, 2013

Expect to Hate Your Husband

 *A few nights ago I was woken from my pizza-induced slumber for no apparent reason. I didn't need to pee (Shock!). I didn't need a drink of water (Shock!). I wasn't in any sort of pain and hadn't been awoken by my furry child's wet nose on my arm (Shock!).

My mind rarely slows down when it's awake and it took the opportunity to think about all the things I needed to do at work that day. Usually I'll grab a Post-It to write stuff down to relax my mind but, lo and behold, everything I was thinking of was already on my fancy-smancy to-do list!

Stupid brain.

I assured my brain that I had everything organized on a pink Post-It in my planner and that it was, indeed, time to go to sleep. I tried and almost succeeded.

...if it hadn't been for smelly Husband...

Everytime I was on the cusp of unconsciousness, Stinky McStinkerson decided do I put this delicately?...fart. What happened to consideration for the pregnant one? Hmmm?
So, here's the deal folks. Pregnant women are like superheroes. We have an enhanced sense of smell. It's one of our many superpowers. So Husband's normally innocuous flatulence became toxic and possibly deadly.

I woke up Husband to alert him of his offensive odor. He blamed it on the dog and promptly fell back asleep.

A few minutes later, another squeaked out and I just about suffocated in my cocoon of gaseous death. I woke him up again and told him to go to the toilet. He simply said, "I don't hafta go." And, once again, promptly fell asleep.

About this time, I started contemplating if I really needed Husband...

After long deliberation, I decided that Husband is good to have around, ya know, in case I have a jar I can't open or something. So Husband got to live and I FINALLY fell back asleep.

The next morning I was in better spirits after farty hubby got up and I got in about 45 minutes of good, uninterrupted slumber.

Too bad those good spirits were short lived.

While getting ready in the bathroom Husband proceeded to call our impending ultrasound the following Friday a "test."

Whoa, whoa, buddy. A "test?" Getting to see our little "miracle of life," "apple of our eye" in fuzzy black-and-white wonderfulness is a "test?" First you fart all morning and then you call our ultrasound a test?

How dare you, Stinky? How dare you?

So I spent the day planning for the following night. It wasn't murder I had on my mind, oh no. It was revenge! Sweet, stinky revenge.

*I was originally going to post this shortly after Valentine's Day and Husband's birthday, but I put it off for a week or two. Husband was a sweetheart last week and I felt guilty about posting it. Well, guilt over, enjoy!

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Expect to Stress about Stress

Getting pregnant is stressful. Being pregnant is stressful. Having children is (I'm assuming) stressful. But do you know what's even more stressful? Being stressed about having so much stress.

I tend to be one of those Type A, dominant personalities. I come from a long line of stubborn, prideful perfectionists. I also have a wee bit of anxiety. As such, I get stressed easily and load way too much on my plate.

This past year has been stress central for me. I started a new job, moved into a new house, struggled through 13 months of trying to get pregnant, got pregnant, and dealt with the first trimester while adjusting to the new job. It was a nice break from stressing about Grad School, but it was still stress nonetheless.

The stress started to subside a bit after the first trimester nausea ceased and I got into the swing of things at the ol' job. But I'm Priscilla, stress master extraordinaire! I have to have something to stress about!

So why not stress about stress?


It all started when I read an article that said that if you stress a lot while pregnant it increases your odds of going into preterm labor or delivering a low-birthweight baby. Also, chronic stress puts your baby at risk for having depression and increased irritability later in life.

ALSO having a low-birthweight baby can cause other complications such as chronic lung disease, developmental delays, learning disorders, and infant mortality.


And now that I know this little nugget of information, I start stressing about being stressed and this compounds my stress.

Are you getting stressed trying to follow my stress cycle?

...I wonder how many times I can use the word "stress" in this post...


I've been brainstorming ways to decrease my stress. Yoga's out since I'm not really the breathe-deeply-while-bending-in-unnatural-ways type of person. And the deep breathing itself is a no-go. I've been having some pregnancy rhinitis and sound like a pig while breathing normally. Let's not even entertain the thought of what I'd sound like if I took deeper breaths. Yikes. I also don't like baths or massages. I'm pretty much the weirdest girl ever.

Right now I'm sticking to primetime comedies with slurpees and chocolate doughnuts.

The stress cure of champions!

Friday, February 1, 2013

Expect to Cry At Upbeat Songs

The first trimester for me was three month marathon of craziness chalk-full of nausea and emotional turmoil. One day I hated Husband with every ounce of my being (sad I know), the next day he was quite possibly the best human being on the planet. One morning I was begging for saltines, the next day they were of the devil. I was a mess. Add working full-time in a new, demanding career on top of it and you've got the perfect pregnancy storm.

I cried at all the classic things: homeless people on the street, pictures of monkeys hugging cats, those damn commercials that encourage you to donate to dogs that have been abused. It was all extremely typical.

But one day my emotions got confused. I can't really blame them. I'm pretty...what's the word...eccentric? as it is so I'm sure my brain was on overload while trying to deal with a second being in my body. (Say all you like but I'm positive that baby is like a second personality. Ya know, with trying to get me to eat a sickening amount of ice cream, and making me put my underwear over my pants. That sort of thing). Poor brain!

I was only a few months into my new job, 1 1/2 months in to the pregnancy, and was feeling quite stressed over all the responsibilities on my plate. (Not to mention I was working with kiddos all day long while fighting back crazy nausea. Sheesh to the max). One fine morning I was halfway through my 40-minute drive to work and was trying to pep-talk myself into having more confidence.

Normal people do this right? I'd hate to find out now that I was already clinically insane BEFORE allowing a tiny creature to take up shop in my womb. How awkward would that be?

Anywho, so I'm talking to myself in the car. Ya know, the classic, "you can do this," "you are a capable employee," "you won a dance competition at Summer camp back in 2003 AND you can belch like 2 grown men. This career stuff should be a piece of cake."

It seemed like it was working out. I was feeling back to my awesome self when the song on the radio changed.

To "Break My Stride" by Matthew Wilder.

Boom baby! This song is my jam! Don't know it? Let me sing a few measures for you:

Ain't nothing gonna break my stride,
No body gonna slow me down
Oh no!
I got to keep on movin'!

Hello Perfect Timing, and welcome to my car ride to school. I mean, amIright?

For the first line and a half I was using this song to motivate myself even further...

...until the waterfall started.

By "slow me down" I was in a metal vehicle of pure, raw, pregnant lady emotion.

And once it started it wouldn't stop. I bawled through the whole three minute song as if I had just witnessed some poor, defenseless baby seal being shoved into a wood chipper. (Too much on the visual?) Meanwhile, I continued to pathetically sing-mumble through the verses because I thought that if I sung along I might trick my brain back into understanding that this song is upbeat and happy, not an ode to seal homicide.

The song ended and I gradually gathered back my composure. By the time I got to work, only the tiniest hint of red still remained on my lower eyelids. My coworkers were none the wiser.

But I was scarred, torn, beaten. Matthew Wilder had broken me - a job once made famous by Michael Bolton. I have since recovered from this trauma and have yet to cry at any other non-Bolton ballads, but I shall never forget the day that I almost caused an accident from a music-induced meltdown.

Awe, memories.