So, I’m forty-one years old and had planned to be finished having babies. I’ve got two incredible kids whom I love with all my heart. But, it looks like I’ll be having three. I’m sure I’ll love this little girl as much as I love my son and daughter, but, boy was I NOT ready for another pregnancy!
The first thing to understand here, besides my age, is that my body DOES NOT handle pregnancy well. If there’s a non-life-threatening complication, I’ll have it. Thankfully, it’s only the non-life-threatening ones I seem to get. But, let’s go through the list just for fun (and these are just the ones I’m willing to share with you – there are a few more, um private, issues that I’ll just leave out):
- Morning sickness and headaches –the kind that last all day and well past the first trimester mark.
- Sleeping ALL THE TIME. Really. All the time.
- PUPPPS – for those of you who don’t know what this is, it’s a full body rash – everywhere except your hands, face, and feet. And, it’s BEYOND itchy! The only cure? To deliver your baby, which means you have this rash for something like two to three months most of the time. Thankfully, I only had this with my daughter and it only lasted two months. Hoping it doesn’t happen with this one! On a side note, if you or anyone you love gets this, buy Grandpa’s Pine Tar Soap at any pharmacy and shower with it three times a day. It’s the only relief I found but it works wonders.
- Carpel Tunnel –what? You didn’t know pregnancy can cause this? Yeah, me neither. With my daughter, I had the pleasure of going for cortisol shots straight into my carpel tunnels. Twice. Luckily, it was better with my son. Hoping it will be better with this one, tooJ
- Projectile vomiting. Yeah. I really do mean PROJECTILE! It was like a scene out of The Exorcist. Not fun.
- Heartburn for months on end. Every single day. No matter what I ate.
- Oh, and I deliver late. Really late. Had to be induced twice with my daughter (yes, twice) and once with my son.
Those are the things I haven’t blocked out. So, what am I doing to keep my spirits up during this pregnancy? I’m focusing on the end result: that itty bitty baby that I’ll have to hold and snuggle and love and kiss in just sixish more months. I’ve started sewing for her. Here’s the ruffly sleep swaddler I made for her. I’ll make a ruffly hat to go with it and take pictures of her in that when she’s born. I doubt it’ll be very comfy to actually sleep in so we’ll get the pics then change her into something more comfy.
We’re working on a name. My family thinks they have some say in this so they’re emailing me new names every day. They don’t. I fired them all from the naming committee last time when someone suggested I name my son Skywalker. Thor was also suggested. You see what I’m dealing with here? My husband is barely hanging onto his position on the naming committee by a thread. One of his recent suggestions? Oakley. Aren’t those sunglasses or snow boards or something?
Now, on a really fun note, my daughter – who is four and a half – is absolutely thrilled about the baby. She would like this baby to be all hers, but she told me she’s willing to share it with me. We’ve tried to take a really straight-forward approach with the discussions of where babies come from, but we’ve hit a few snags. We went and bought some very frank books that discuss the mom and dad each having a piece of the puzzle to make a baby.
We’ve read the books to her. She now knows that mommy had the egg and daddy had the sperm and we put them together in mommy to make a baby. So, we’re out at the July 4th festival, just walking across a field, when she starts with her questions again. They pop up every now and then and we answer as best we can. This conversation didn’t go so well, but luckily nothing was overheard so child services isn’t on to us yet.
She asks how daddy gets the sperm in mommy. We say that’s a conversation you get to have when you’re older. It’s only for gown up mommies and daddies to know. She accepts that with a nod and I think, “whew, we’re off the hook. Good job Mommy and Daddy.”
Until two seconds later when she says, “can daddy put a baby in me?” Oh, not without being arrested, sweetheart. Really, what do you say to that? My husband swallowed his tongue, as he does in all crises, so I was left looking down at her innocent little face, trying to explain why that couldn’t happen.
We had a week or so of no more little zingers, until she came home the other day and told us that Stacy’s mom is also trying to have a baby. We smile and say “that’s nice.” She nods and says, “yeah, they’re gonna try again tomorrow.” TMI, baby, TMI.