I’m going to get someone to bring me a whole platter of this THE MINUTE SHE IS OUT OF MY BODY.
Was out to dinner with the boy on Saturday. Navigating restaurant menus has become tricky, because my first inclination is to either order steak or salmon. I like (nay, love) my steaks rare (warm and bloody, really), which is a no-no during pregnancy. Salmon isn’t on the always-avoid list, but because the mercury can be harmful to the little one, I’ve just not eaten any in the past nine months. At this point, I don’t think it would harm her, as she will be, as of this coming Friday, A FULL TERM BABY (woot) — but why take any chances?
I miss eating Brie. And all soft, unripened cheeses. I so miss sushi – salmon sashimi in particular. I miss drinking a full glass of Jacob’s Creek moscato (oh, who’m I kidding? I can easily polish off a bottle of that sweet elixir) and having a cigarette after a good meal. Yes, I’m a former smoker. We’ll see what happens with that. I know it’s a disgusting vice, and I’ve made it the last 200-odd days without one, so how hard can it be to continue on the path? I’ve got to say it’ll be a lot easier to maintain non-smoker status as the boy quit last summer…and if I’m planning on breastfeeding, the drinking and the smoking will have to remain a negative, Batman.
Know what I also miss? Exercise. Never thought I’d say that in a million years! I can’t wait to get back to doing Insanity and ZWow and all of my other HIIT. Exercise also includes salsa/bachata – and any dancing in general. I’ll likely have another 6-8 weeks after Aisha is born to be able to even THINK about moving with any intensity, but oh, how I dream about being active again.
Don’t get me wrong; I’ve enjoyed having pregnancy as an excuse to pretty much eat and sleep with some abandon, but I also have to say I can’t wait until she’s here so I can get back to some semblance of the me that was.
I miss being able to see my toes. 😦
I have one of these about once or twice a month. Well-done. With bacon. Now verboten. This makes me so sad. Thanks A LOT, Aisha. 😦
I was back at L&D bright and early Sunday morning. I got my dad to drop me off, and texted the boy to meet me later. Upon my arrival, I didn’t even have to re-process; I showed up and explained why I was there, and the reception nurses were all, “oh, yes… you were here last night, abdominal pains, come right in.”
I was set up on a bed in triage, hooked up to the NST monitors again (netting, dopplers, and movement clicker thingy) and told to hang tight while they located an ultrasound tech.
Even though it was empty, triage is a white-noise cacophony of the whirs and buzzing of various machines. Over the rapid “squooshing” of Aisha’s heartbeat on the fetal monitor, I could hear the primal, pained vocalizations of a lady in the throes of labour down the hall. After about ten minutes of grunts and sceams, there was momentary silence… and then the faint wail of a baby. I smiled, recalling how much I enjoyed hearing that sound during my stay last September. Read more
This time, it ain’t my baby that ails me.
I just got back home from being in hospital – again! This makes visit number five since September.
I went in yesterday evening for sharp, stabbing pains at the top right of my abdomen. It’s been ongoing since Peanut dropped sometime on Thursday night, and I worried (briefly) that it might be placental abruption. There has been no bleeding and no nausea, chills or fever, so I was pretty sure I wasn’t in the throes of anything serious. However, the area was tender to the touch, and since my name is not Doc McStuffins, I thought it would be better if I made a visit to Labour & Delivery to get checked out.
The nurses at L&D at my home hospital are more than familiar with me, so admission was a breeze. Besides, it’s rare that anyone wanders into L&D after 10pm, so it was a light night. I was set up in a bed in triage, asked to give a urine sample and squeeze into the netting that holds the various monitors required to assess me, and was told that a nurse would be in momentarily.
I was hooked up to sensors to follow Peanut’s heartbeat and movement, and after about 30 minutes the printouts from the machine led the nurse to determine that the baby was fine. Since I’d come in complaining of abdominal pain, she wondered if it might not be some kind of heartburn? And perhaps if I took sodium citrate I might feel better? Read more
The pregnant lady wants what she wants.
Throughout different times in my pregnancy, I’ve craved different things.
In the very early stages, I wanted all kinds of dairy (yogurt and milk – chocolate milk in particular, and process cheese slices. Do those even count?). I developed an affinity for condiments on everything I ate, especially ketchup – something I wasn’t very fond of prior to becoming pregnant. There was also a hankering for meat. Beef and pork were the flesh of choice; I was never a huge chicken fan before, and something about the smell and taste of it completely turns me off now.
I have always had a well-developed sweet tooth, and pregnancy has only served to heighten this. I eat a candy bar about twice a week, usually a Twix or Wunderbar, and in the absence of chocolate, a personal-sized mini-tub of Hagen Dazs dulce de leche does the trick. Read more
And so, we bid a sad adieu to my once-monthly treat of bloody cow flesh and other goodies. Pregnant ladies have no fun.
So, my bloodwork came back from the lab, and now it’s one hundred per cent official. I’m having a bean, and I’m due somewhere around the 28th of February.
After confirming the news and the estimated due date, my doctor gave me a little moms-to-be package to read when I got home, and a quick rundown of all the things I can and cannot do/eat/think/wear/imagine/try now that I am Officially With Child. She also made me my first appointment with an OB GYN. She asked if I wanted a male or female specialist, and to be honest, it really didn’t matter. So she chose Dr. Freedman – “You’ll like her, she’s good,” I was told – and rang up her receptionist to book me for the next month. During the call, she made mention of “patient’s AMA.” When she was done, I asked her what AMA stood for. “Advanced Maternal Age,” came the reply. Doctor-speak for “you’re old and your ovaries are dusty.”
I have a feeling I’m going to be hearing this acronym a lot over the next nine months.
Chez moi, I perused the whack of pamphlets and information that was given to me during my appointment. Read more