I am afraid I will lose interest in my baby. I have always been a sort of one-track, task focused type of gal. I find one thing I want, and put every last ounce of effort toward it until it is mine. It’s been like this as long as I can remember – cheerleading sqaud, lead in the play, boyfriend, college, wedding. The thing is, once I get what I want, my follow through is crap. This is proven by the stacks of unfinished post wedding projects lying about my apartment. If my parent’s ever get the parent albums I promised them, it will be a miracle. So what if I put all this time and energy into getting pregnant, creating the perfect nursery, picking out the best, coolest, safest baby gear, only to find that the baby bores me after 2 months???
Trying to Conceive
Even though my husband has been entertaining the idea of having kiddos long before I gave in, it was merely a small infection, a constant low grade baby fever. It had not taken over his brain and body as a form of Baby Rabies up until a few days ago. We went out for lunch at Corner Bakery and happened to be very near a Babies R Us. Since I am an unemployed empty incubator with nothing to do but window shop for things we do not have yet (house, baby), I suggested we pop in and check out the strollers. He obliged, and within minutes of stepping through those purple front doors, we were emerged in a world of binkies, bottles, Bumbos ad Boppies. (How the fuck did our parents ever even THINK about raising us without this plethora of crap.)
First stop – strollers – an unhealthy obsession. So unhealthy, in fact, that the Rabies has us thinking that we may actually NEED that $750 Bugaboo Frog. We quickly leave the stroller section, hoping to regain our better judgement. On our way from strollers to cribs, we pass by the slings. Prior to the Rabies, I always associated slings with hippie parents – not that that’s a bad thing. I just always thought you had to be the type of mom who made her own organic baby food from the organic vegetables she grew in her own garden to wear one, and I have no time or desire for that shit. However, I found some adorable Hotslings in very stylish patterns, and I like the idea of baby as accessory (wonder how many people I pissed off with that statement). My husband has always made fun of dads wearing front loaders like the Baby Bjorn, and has vowed up and down that he will never suffer the same uncool fate – that is UNTIL he saw the JEEP branded baby front loader! Yes, my husband is a labeling whore.
I knew he was fully infected with the Rabies when he actually took it off the armless torso and tried it on. He then proceeded to run up and down the aisles with it, perhaps practicing the day he and baby will make their long awaited appearance as wide receiver (and baby) for the St. Louis Rams. He told me, “I’ve got to have one of these. It will match the Jeep.” He was quiet for a little bit after that as we browsed through the cribs, then turned to me as we reached the Jenny Linds and said in the sweetest most serious tone, “You’ve given it to me…..I have Baby Rabies.” I about lost it right there!
After analyzing this experience, I’ve come up with the following theory on how to infect your partner (assuming they are male) with Baby Rabies. First thing to remember is they don’t give a fuck about clothes or crib bedding, so if you begin inundating them with trips to Baby GAP and Pottery Barn Kids, you’re likely to loose your audience early. You must start them out with the gadgets. I find strollers to be a great place to start. Show them the ones that have shocks, handlebar brakes, rubber tires, the closer the stroller resembles a car the better. Then show them car seats. Encourage them to show you what seat would look best in their car. Keep it all about the gadgets and gizmos (minus the breast-pump – I’m pretty sure that will freak them the hell out). I’m interested in whether or not this works with anyone else, so please let me know.
I have a feeling this may be a recurring post theme on here. Let me kick them off by saying I have an irrational fear that when I become a mother I will no longer have time to put on makeup, and I will spend the next 4-6 years of my life only remotely resembling my former self – a once perfectly plucked, powdered, prissy girly girl who could spend hours gazing at and touching all the pretty products in the Mecca that is Sephora.
Along the same lines of that fear comes the second irrational fear. I will be one of THOSE moms who so clearly doesn’t have her shit together. I will be stumbling into business meetings or parent teacher conferences exactly two minutes late, and never a minute sooner. People will notice the spit up that is still crusted on the collar of my suit jacket because I never got around to taking it to the cleaners after the last time I thought it would be a good idea to hug the baby good bye before leaving the house, and that people will smell that smell on me….that smell of slimy graham crackers and baby drool. I don’t know what it is, but I have an aversion to graham crackers when mixed with babies.
No, not my husband (that’s not his name) and not my secret lover (that’s not his name either), Tom, MySpace Tom…he KNOWS I’m trying to get pregnant! He must. How else can I explain the recent appearance of all these pregnancy and baby related ads on my page? The ads for Red Bull, sexual enhancement products and hoochie mama clothes that were on there up until a week ago have been replaced with ads for diapers, both disposable and cloth, ovulation watches (yeah…that’s a concept that will leave many of you scratching your head) and mommy websites. I’ve come to two conclusions –
Conclusion 1. Tom tracks my visits to websites somehow (maybe with cookies? is that what they’re for?) and has seen the unusual number of baby related websites I’ve visited in the last month. Being the marketing savvy person Tom is, he tailors the ads on my page to match my internet browsing habits.
The problem with this conclusion is a) CREEPY that Tom has the power to do that b) makes me a little paranoid that my “friends” are going to start noticing these ads on my page and start suspecting I am TTC (or do THEY not see them?) and c) makes me wonder what the heck kind of person Tom thought I was when I was seeing the hoochie mama and sexual enhancement ads on my page.
Conclusion 2. I am suffering from a severe case of Pregnancy Vision, obviously brought on by the Baby Rabies. Symptoms of this can be noticing pregnant women EVERYWHERE you go, like they are following you in herds; cute, angelic babies around every corner; NOT seeing as many of the annoying, obnoxious babies that used to make you want to leave your romantic dinner date early to have your tubes tied; and, in general, feeling like you are being swallowed up in a world made for people who are procreating.
As much as I would like to believe my conspiracy theory about peeping Tom, I’m starting to lean toward conclusion two. Come to think of it, I’ve noticed the affects of Pregnancy Vision for a couple weeks now. I spent more time checking out the vast array of strollers at the National Zoo last weekend than I did checking out the animals. One of our conversations sounded like this…
Me: “Ooh, look hon, it’s a Quinny!”
My Husband: “What? Where? Is that a type of monkey?”
And, I swear, I can pick a pregnant lady out from a half mile away. Then I begin analyzing everything about her. What is she wearing? How is she carrying? Just a bump in front or is she building a solid foundation in her ass? When I see someone with a baby, that analyzing jumps into overdrive. I’m checking out the stroller, diaper bag, sling, how rested the parents look, did she have time to put on makeup today, is that puke I see crusted on her left shoulder, OMG did she seriously just wipe that kids snotty nose with her bare hand?
So you can see how I can attribute the seemingly sudden appearance of the ads to the PG Vision. For all I know, they were there all along and I was just ignoring them or not noticing them, much like I USED to not notice women wearing Hooter Hiders…
I just thought they were weird looking ponchos.
Last month was our first “official” month of trying to conceive. I spent a lot of time telling my husband and myself that it would be ridiculous if we got pregnant the first time around. I know that the chances of a healthy couple conceiving when timing is perfect is still only 1 in 4. I insisted that we just “have fun” with it, and that I wasn’t going to resort to any drastic measures.
Well, flash forward to a few days before the ideal window for peeing on a stick – I began doing just what I promised myself I wouldn’t. I was over-analyzing every little twinge and pain, and broke down and took a test every day for 6 days until I finally started my period again. I wasn’t terribly upset. I mean, it WAS our first month, and I had spent so much time convincing myself that it wasn’t going to happen. However, my Type A, slightly…well,very competitive and goal driven personality started to get a little irked. We definitely had the timing right….for about 14 days in a row. So just what exactly went wrong? I felt like Aunt Flo had challenged me to a duel…and I was going to KICK HER ASS the next time around!
I knew I couldn’t do it by just having fun though. No, I needed a strategy. I needed to be smarter than AF. After listening to the advice of many pregnant and pregnant to be Nesties (www.thenest.com), I charged into the Women’s Health section of Barnes & Noble and picked up a copy of Taking Charge of Your Fertility. I immediately went home and read up on all sorts of things I never even had a desire to know about my body. I can tell you that the word “mucus” now has a whole new meaning beyond a runny nose and chest congestion. My next stop in my assault on AF was the pharmacy where I bought a special Basal Body Temperature thermometer. I was prepared for battle, and began charting the next morning. There are several other…um…techniques that I’ve embraced in this war, but I’ll spare you the details. Let’s just say, I’ve resorted to drastic measures, and it’s only the second cycle. I’ve become the fertility sniper! That AF bitch is never going to know what hit her.
So here I am…in my second official Two Week Wait, which, for those of you not up on the trying to conceive lingo, is the two weeks in between ovulation and your next expected period or the first day you can test. Of course, I’m trying to convince myself that I won’t go down the slippery slope of peeing on too many sticks too early like last month, but I can’t make any promises. As much as I am Type A and competitive, I am even more impatient!
Hopefully I can keep myself busy the next couple weeks by ogling all the ridiculously expensive baby strollers and diaper bags that are all the rage right now. If I get started now, I may be able to come up with enough reasons to justify purchasing the funky, futuristic Quinny Buzz…my new obsession.
As I type this, the only person who knows that the thought has even crossed my mind to begin the whole process of having a baby is my husband. In fact, I think anyone else who knows me well would be SHOCKED to hear of what I’m about to embark on.
Yes, up until a few months ago, I was a baby-phobe. Of course, I loved other people’s babies, relished in spoiling our nieces and nephews, oohed and aahed during trips through Baby GAP, and got the occasional bout of baby fever, but that was always quickly remedied with a brief evening of babysitting. The poopy diapers, projectile milk pukes, and graham cracker encrusted slimy little hands constantly grabbing for any piece of jewelry I had on was enough birth control to get me through a few months, at least.
All that changed in April when a rocking good time at a wine festival lead to a little “oops” moment. I woke up the next morning in my wine hangover haze and it hit me….”Shit! I bet I’m pregnant!” The stages I went through were very similar to the stages of grief. First, there was denial, I refused to believe it could happen. Then there was anger that we weren’t as careful as we should be. Then the bargaining began. “Please God, just let me get my period. I promise we won’t be stupid next time!” I will say there was no real period of depression. I just headed straight into acceptance, and a step you will not find in the grieving process (for most, at least) – EXCITEMENT!
One week before my period was due for her appearance I found myself browsing Gymboree and buying baby clothes. I called one of my best friends in a panic after my purchase. “What the HELL am I doing? I don’t even know if I am pregnant!” I shrieked into the phone. She was beyond supportive and very excited at the prospect of my possible pregnancy. “Maybe you’re just excited,” she said. “Maybe you ARE ready.”
I have to say that this whole time that I was worried about whether or not I was with child, I had yet to say anything to my husband. I didn’t want to get his hopes up. I knew he was as ready as any man could ever be. It wasn’t until after I peed on three sticks that said I was indeed not pregnant that I told him about the close call. I heard the disappointment in his voice, and it all of the sudden hit me how sad I was that I didn’t see two blue lines on those tests.
So, here I am, three months later, and my occasional case of baby fever has turned into full blown BABY RABIES!! I’m afraid the only way to cure it is to have a baby of our own.
I decided to start this blog as a way to document my sure to be ridiculous, hilarious, at times disgusting, and at times painful journey through my first time around at trying to conceive, pregnancy, birth, and whatever I have time to write about after that. I anticipate that I may share “too much information” at times on here, but that’s the whole reason I started this. I need a place to let it all out. I don’t intend to censor myself too much. So if you are squeamish about the whole pregnancy thing, or don’t like my views…read no further. However, if you want a window into my world, complete with first-time ignorance and brutal honesty about what is about to happen to my body, stay tuned!