A Survival Guide to Interacting with Pregnant Females

These pants are now solely being held up by a belly band. There is no zipping or buckling about it anymore. P.S. This is a pic from a few weeks ago (14 weeks). I'm much poofier now.

It's all been worth it to see this munchkin. (10 weeks)

I haven't been pregnant for very long. As my hubby so innocently reminded me the other day, I'm not even half-way there yet. (Nice one, hubs!;)) However, I do think I've picked up a little wisdom along the 4+ months of pregnancy I've experienced so far. Plus, I've been able to glean some little pearls of wisdom from the other, oh, bajillion friends who have had/are also having babies recently.

So, without further ado, I give you a guide to navigating the dangerous waters of Interaction with Preggos.(Just a quick note--these guidelines are meant to be humorous, not offensive. I mean, they could save your life, but just... you know... take them with a grain of salt.)

First, a few reminders of pre-pregnancy tactfulness:

(1) Avoid interrogation about unborn children.You never know what's going on with a couple. Some couples legitimately don't want to start a family until well into their 7th year of marriage. I mean, I can't really blame them. "Just the two of us" time is hard to let go of. Heck, some couples don't ever want to fill their household with tiny baby screams. And to each their own, because I know enough to know that life is hard and doesn't get any easier with kiddos. But some couples really do want to produce a human that looks a little like each of them, and they try really hard for a really long time. So, what I'm trying to say is, as well intentioned and non-chalant as the question, "So when are you gonna have kids of your own?" may be... It's sometimes a hard pill to swallow. Just to clear the air, I didn't have a problem with that question. I think that kind of question comes from a certain subculture of the US, and it's a subculture that I happen to have some roots in. So, I never really realized that it was a touchy area until I started making babies of my own. And despite not being the quickest baker of baby buns ever, that question never made me shed great tears of sadness. Mostly because (a) I knew that it was only fair that I do my fair share of waiting for a baby when I had friends who'd tried for much longer, and (b) the question usually came from very sweet individuals. However, for some people it probably would make them cry out in the night. And for any of you who have ever gone through the heartsickness of not knowing why your body isn't working properly and can't produce some offspring for any extended period of time, you can certainly understand why. So avoiding that question, as tempting as it is to ask it when there is a lapse in conversation, is probably the best way to handle the sticky-sitch.

(2) Do not point out early signs of pregnancy, especially before the big announcement. Birth control and the stopping thereof can do some crrrrazy things to a body. As a result, sometimes "signs of pregnancy" may just be signs of changing hormones. Or some of us just may have a great love of the sweeties. (Yeah, ME!!!) These roller-coastering hormones (or excessive intake of pasta and donuts) may produce some changes that make one look a little bit like she's on the verge of puberty again. My pre-pregnancy woe was pizza face (remember this post?). Luckily I didn't have to deal with gaining back my baby fat until after I got pregnant (more on that later). No, I kinda slid the other way after cutting off my supply of the pill. I lost a bunch of weight and had a 10-year-old boy bum for 7 months. Either way you slide, wacko hormones are fun stuff. So the trick is to never ask a lady if she is pregnant until it has either been announced from the source herself or a reliable third party. I mean, who doesn't remember that part from "Two Weeks Notice" where handsome Hugh sticks his foot in his mouth with the secretary applicant... twice-times? Yeah, not a fun situation to be in. Also, offering unsolicited weight-loss or skincare advice is a huge no-no. I mean we already know that you know we put on a couple of pounds or are breaking out like a 15-year-old, but the delusion of others' obliviousness is a beautiful (thin) layer of rose-colored glass which should not be broken. EVER.

Okay, now approaching fully pregnant women (and bear in mind that the examples given are a mixture of personal experience and observed experiences from others):

(3) Do not point out pregnancy symptoms. Period. For some of us, once the hormones, weight of a humongous uterus + growing baby, increased blood, and nightmares do fun things to our skin (i.e. acne, stretch marks, dark under-eye circles, and varicose veins), that then becomes the straw that can break the camel's back at any time. Not only are hormones making many of us a little touchier than usual (okay, maybe more than a little), but some of us have to deal with actually looking like we are carrying around another person + food supply for said other person, and that our hormones are bouncing around like pin-balls on steroids and wreaking havoc in very noticeable places. So saying things like, "Aw, I see that baby pudge! So cute!", "Are you breaking out?!", "What are those things you're wearing on your legs?", "You look like hell! Are you sleeping?"---these things are probably not your best options for convo-starters. They are, however, great conversation enders. Just hopefully for the unfortunate speaker of these words, the conversation doesn't end with a round-house kick to the trachea.

(4) No touchy. Belly bands, compression stockings, granny panties, baggy shirts, stretchy pants--lots of layers of fabric go into being pregnant on a daily basis. And there are two reasons for that. (1) Some of these layers are absolutely essential. Belly bands hold my pants up when I can't button them & compression stockings keep my legs from feeling like water tower holding tanks. And (2) when you just feel big all of the time, extra layers or baggier layers keep things hidden that you would rather not have seen. Therefore, it is important that those layers stay intact and are understood by others. No, I don't love wearing lots of clothes while feeling like a blimp in 95 degrees with 90% humidity. But ya do what ya gotta do. What makes it bearable is when I'm given a little breathing room. That means as much as one would like to touch a preggo belly, resist the urge! And make sure that every layer of clothing a pregnant woman has so painstakingly put together stays in its place at all times. No trying to sneak peaks of the belly either. It will probably produce the same unfortunate results as the worse-case scenario from guideline #3. Pain.

(5) Only happy thoughts. When talking to a fellow preggo, I like to ask myself WWMEPSD? What would my emotional pregnant self do? If I plan on saying something to a pregnant woman that is meant as a compliment, but it could possibly be construed in any other way, I don't say that thing. Maybe the pregnancy glow comes from an accumulation of wonderful things said and well wishes sent to the bearer of the baby. And that's as it should be. So if you see a pregnant lady who is not glowing, give that girl a compliment and some ice cream. But make sure the ice cream is nice and frozen and that compliment is not backhanded. Or you might get back-handed. (Goodness, so much violence!)

(6) Leave the naming to the parents. Everyone loves asking what you will name your baby. And then giving suggestions if you don't have a response. And that's understandable. Naming a human being has got to be the coolest thing in the world! But if you want to avoid any kind of awkwardness, just wait until the parents announce the baby's name. If a mother-to-be has picked out a name and is not keeping it a secret (there are a lot of potential name-stealers out there, ya know?), then she will make that name known to the WORLD! Seriously, it will be everywhere! On the wall in the nursery that you will find pictures of all over Facebook, zooming around as her computer desktop's screensaver, written on her hand, tattooed on her belly... you name it. But if you haven't heard what the baby's name will be, it's probably because (a) the parents don't have a name yet and feel like slackers when you ask, or (b) the parents are keeping the name hidden like a magical sparkly prince(ss) crown, only to be revealed at the birth of the child when it will then be placed upon the child's bald, red head. I made the mistake of asking this question at a baby shower a few weeks ago, and I felt awkward about it for about 5 hours afterwards. Seriously, I could hardly even concentrate through "The Dark Knight Rises" because I kept analyzing the future-mommy's response and kicking myself for asking that question.

(7) Just don't... when possible... Watch her when she weighs herself, ask her how much weight she's gained, tell her she's lucky that her pregnancy is "easy," drink her non-caffeinated, non-diet sodas from the fridge, tell her she's being irrational, put her in charge of awkward situations or any situations involving salespeople, ask her questions you know she doesn't know that answer to, make her wait for any meal, make her wait to use the restroom, ask her if she needs to pee (even if she probably does), let her drive during rush hour, try to read her mind, try to ask her questions so you don't have to read her mind, leave lots of cookies within her reach, hide the cookies from her... This could go on for a long time. And I am seeing a lot of similarities with this and a list of Don'ts for when women are PMSing as well. Just use the good sense that God gave you (or borrow some if you don't feel you were given sufficient for this particular circumstance), and you should be just fine!

I hope this list helps us all to avoid some close encounters with the pregnant kind! Pregnant women everywhere--may the force be with you! And husbands of said pregnant women--may the force, some sanity-inducing hobby, and a lot of luck be with you as well!
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I just have to add, on a more serious note, how grateful I am for Clint and his support. He's had a crazy schedule lately-- on call at the hospital for surgeries, long days of studying, days of standing for hours and hours in freezing OR rooms... But this past weekend he took the whole weekend to spend time with me (and Christine, holla!). Then Sunday, after home teaching, he came home while I was taking a nap and very sneakily cleaned the whole house, started the laundry, and took Snooki for a walk. Then Monday before his night shift at the hospital he finished all of the laundry, unloaded the dishwasher, and made the bed to save me the work. I just adore that guy!

Summertime and the living's easy--and kind of hard

1- giant crape myrtle growing across the street.

2- the view on my way to the irs office.

3- puppy cuddles and neon things.

4- date night, law library. this was a theme night of clint's creation. 

he took me to places that represent reasons why he loves me.

he's such a stud, seriously.

5- one excited snooki enjoying a little freedom.

6- new work shoes from my mommy. they fit like a dream.

7- no shoes. pool side.

8- delicious summer snack. and there's a wee bit of salt on top. i'm turning into my grandpa, nobigdeal.

9- houston skyline. i drive on her streets 'cause she's my companion.

10- palm trees even in abandoned parking lots. i love this about my home.

11- cat eye and 80s brow. gotta love the styles of 2012.

12- street flower. hardcore.

13- these must be giant daisies, because they are the friendliest.

14- southern tree with little tufts of spanish moss.

Do you notice something missing in these pictures?

Yep. My husband's face.

That's because his face is in a book in a library. 14 hours, every day.

Except for Sunday. (Sunday in for lovers.)

This absence of his shining presence is a necessary evil. DEATH I (STEP 1) is in 2 weeks, and it is kind of a big deal. So no one has seen much of him of his pals for 3 weeks now. And we've planned for this. Every exam period, every missed sports event, every PB&J-- it's all been practice for these few weeks of funfunfun and anxiety. This is the time I was thinking of when I told Clint under the canyon stars that I would follow him anywhere, support him in anything, clean all the things-- I would marry a future medical student, and I would love it. 

And I do. I really do. But sometimes it's hard. 

It wasn't until this past Sunday that it really hit me how much I miss him. He's decided to take Sundays off from studying to save his sanity and hopefully reap some Sabbath day blessings. I don't know about him, but I've certainly felt blessed as a result. I cling to those precious hours, and this Sunday my clinging turned to begging just a little bit. Please, just a little more time.

But time marches on. And so does the dutiful med student.

I love my med student. I can't wait to have him back, but I am so proud of him. And I'm thankful for his example to me of hard work. Really, really hard work. Every day. 

And I'm proud of all of my girlfriends holding down the fort as their hubbies study. Congratulations to those who have finished (Hoyts! & Christensens, right?!). Good luck to those who are testing today (Williams fam! & Englishes!). Happy summer, champs!

Husband, you probably won't read this until after your test, but I love you.

Deuces

Yesterday I was having a fairly crappy day. The reasons aren't really important, except to say that they were not as much within my control as I would have liked them to be. I guess I could always react better. I mean, when life gives some people crap they make art out of it. Am I right?

Anyways, when I got home from work Husband was at the library studying for DEATH I, and my small dog wasn't showing me much love-- not that I can blame her since we just paid someone to remove her ovaries and then strapped a plastic cone around her face just to make her life really great.

Some days, usually on crappy ones like yesterday, these soft, sweet whispers tell me exactly what I need. Not in a crazy way. (Not like the whispers that told this individual what s/he did or did not need.) But the whisper was clear last night, so I decided to heed it and head out to pick up some of the kids for Youth Group a little early. I figured a nice drive, a pit-stop at MickeyD's for a very large Diet Coke, and not showing up late to Youth Group for once would all help to improve the general mood of the day.

 And it did. It really did.

Although throughout the course of my evening I did lose one pair of sunglasses and that very large Diet Coke to some of the most adorable children I know, I didn't get any dinner cooked for the starving student, came home with Modge Podge and glitter all over my hands, and am more baby hungry than ever (I mean seriously, those babies!!!)-- it was so incredible to know that someone was watching out for me yesterday and knew exactly what I needed.

Plus, there may have been a dance party involved. And I do so enjoy a good dance party.

Deuces.

Agua con Gas

Dinner at Tango & Malbec on Saturday night.

Late night. W Alabama, Galleria. Ritzy. Pearls and diamonds and curls. Argentine. Que chevre, amigos.

Milanesas. Agua con gas. Mucho dinero.  Groupons not accepted on Saturdays. Sin dulces.



Word to the wise: the water with bubbles is a rip off.

Bad Face Day

So lately I've had a few bad face days. Well, more than a few. Try every day for the past 6 months. 

It's not the first time I've struggled with a long stream of continual bad face days. This first started my junior year of high school. That was the worst. I come across pictures from that year from time to time and have to look away real quick-like, afraid that the acne-monster may sense me looking at those pictures and decide to come and hit me with his zit-stick again. 

Yeah, that was not a great time for me.

I've thought about this a lot. I've thought about how sad and unfair it is that even after I've been so very accepting and tolerant of being cursed with a hideously small hind-quarter, my face has become just as unmanageable. I mean, it's not like I haven't tried! Two whole rounds of Acutane! And you know they give you hell before you can get some of that stuff. Then the hellishness of getting the scrip is followed up by 3 months of even worse acne as your body rejects having it's pores choked and dried up like so many microscopic prunes. That's 6 months per round x 2 rounds = 1 year of dry, patchy skin, nose bleeds, achy bones, and 2 forms of birth control. 

It's not fun stuff. But it works. Until it doesn't.

So here I am again, feeling sorry for myself and angry at Life for dealing me this Joker-- the kind of Joker that you get dealt and the dealer then tells you that Jokers don't count so you now only have 4 playable cards in your deck. And it may not sound like such a big deal to you. (If it doesn't that's probably because you haven't dealt with it before.) But to me, it really is. Call it vanity, call it pathetic-- whatever. Maybe it is. But acne at 22 is tough. I can scrub my face with the best cleanser 3 times and top it off with expensive, light-weight-but-not-too-light-weight moisturizer and still feel dirty. I can spend a half-hour with my concealer, foundation and powder and still look blotchy all over. I can get my hair did and my nails did and put on my spiffiest outfit and still just see Pizza Face blinking back at me in frustration. And Pizza Face just keeps blinking and blinking at the mirror until hot tears streak down and melt all that moisturizer and makeup away. And Pizza Face wonders Why can't I just be given something more manageable? Isn't it enough that I have unruly hair and funny toes and skin that scars when you look at it wrong and chubby fingers and a half-sized torso and big cheeks and a tiny bum?!

It's about at this point in my mind-rantings where I start laughing at myself. And the laughing turns to crying. And the crying works it's way down to the floor. And there I am. Kneeling and crying in all my weepy, blotchy, snotty glory. And there is nothing left to say or do but offer up all of that heartache and insecurity in prayer. And then there comes the gratitude-- for all of my functioning body parts, for the fact that it is PMS and not chemo pills that makes my bones hurt, for a husband that tells me daily that I am the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, for a mother and sister who say they don't remember my acne ever being bad (and for knowing it's because love is blind), for all of the days that pass where I don't get a phone call saying a loved one has left this earth, for a job that puts food on the table, for friends that love me because they know there is something lovely and eternal underneath my skin. For all of these things I am grateful. 

Then comes the sorrow. For all of the selfish thoughts. 

Then comes the peace.

I don't know why I've been given so much. Sometimes I catch glimpses of what I'm supposed to be and what I can really do, but I'm going about it like a three-toed sloth conquers a giant tree-- very slowly. So why I am continually given things I know I don't deserve

is beyond me. 

But today maybe I can try and show a little gratitude. Maybe I can turn this Bad Face Day into a Good Person Day. And maybe tomorrow morning when I'm blinking at the mirror I can see a little bit deeper than my own face.

Super Tuesday

Houston Livestock Show & Rodeo 2012

Is anyone else's spouse glued to primary election stats these days?

No???

Oh. Okay.

Daydream Recap

This weekend was one wonderful, far-too-short daydream.

And you know, when it first started I was like, "Huh, this weekend might be kind of a bust." Because it began with me and Mister sitting on the bed trying to come up with something to do with our tired minds (particularly his which had been drained of all its brainy juices from a week of med school exams), getting really hungry and a little cranky, and resorting to leftovers.

But I should have known. I just should have known that weekends are for being wonderful. They are for putting fake bets on a dog because he poops the most at the greyhound race track. They are for waking up at noon, barefoot running in the "morning," and the development of lovely feety-callouses. They are for faux fur and stripes and orangey-red lipstick (just like Iris!) and finding a new obsession (um, Chick-Fil-A's fresh lemonade...holla!). They are for The Cheesecake Factory and lots of love and laughter around a tiny table with your Texas-family. They are for wearing stretchy pants all the time, and baby-watching on the train. They are sunshine naps and pleasure reading on a warm blanket in the park. They are for long distance calls to your Mom & Dad & sister (who has to stay up late to do homework again) and wishing so hard that you could hug them all very tight. They are for snuggling up in front of a movie with a cup full of frosty Blue Bell & milk. 

They are for falling in love over and over again.

They are for preparing yourself for another week in the real world.

Happy Monday!