I Didn’t Barf!

So here I am 21 weeks pregnant. I think. I mean, I know for sure I’m pregnant, unless I’ve just started really retaining water in my abdomen. It’s just hard the second go-around, as I’ve heard, to remember how far along you really are. I mean, with Kate I’d know at any time how preggers I was down to the day. “Oh, 23 and 3/4 weeks!” I’d sunnily respond to anyone who asked. These days when someone inquires I mutter that I’m due at some point in January, and hope that’s enough info for them.

I was obnoxiously healthy happy and fit when I was pregnant with Kate. One of those women with skinny arms and legs who was “all belly.” This time, uh, not so much. Let’s just say I saw a reflection of my butt in the mirror when I was getting into the shower the other day and I was stunned. It is vast. I am growing at a furious rate.

The first time I had the benefit of getting knocked up soon after my wedding when I was in peak physical form. I’d worked out like a demon pre-wedding, determined to have the arms of a goddess in my strapless gown. (I can’t help by imagine that our guests are still cooing over my buff upper bod three years later.)

So anyway, I hadn’t really “let myself go” as they say since Kate was born. But I was hardly the hard body I used to be. Besides, your body has this kinda “memory” to it from being pregnant before. So before you’re even ready to tell anyone you’re in the family way, your shirts start riding up like cropped tops.

Since liposuction during pregnancy is probably ill-advised, I guess I have no option other than to try to get some exercise now, and wrangle with postpartum saddlebags postpartum.

All that said, we are thrilled, delighted and generally giddy over the prospect of welcoming another creature into our family who has the potential to be even 1/8 as amazing as Miss Kate. And aside from my 7-week eye episode, I’ve felt fabulous, if a bit more flabulous than I’d like.

I’ve had friends who couldn’t even wear necklaces during their pregnancies because the chain around their necks made them nauseous. I’ve heard all about those who kept Saltines by their beds to calm their stomachs before their feet even touched the floor in the morning. One friend had evening sickness that was so dizzying she couldn’t even read or watch TV–she had to just brace herself to stop the room from swirling.

Comparatively, I’ve been one of those “I am woman hear me roar I’ve never felt so beautiful” kinda pregnant gals. Good hair, good skin. No stretch marks. Not a lick of nausea or food aversions. Happily making my way to prenatal yoga two times a week through Week 41. (That’s one week after Miss Kate should have qualified me for the Mom and Baby Class, for those who are uninitiated with the human gestation period.)

So, it was dismaying last week when I’d finished off yet another excellent meal prepared by my person chef (and life partner), Mark, that I felt not so fresh. I wasn’t nauseous per se, but strapped with a wicked case of heartburn. Heartburn is without a doubt the worst malady for not seeming like a bad thing when you don’t have it, and feeling like sheer medical trauma when you do.

I thought my chest would burst into flames. And that thought was actually kind of appealing, since I thought it might not be pleasant, but it’d probably feel a lot better after. Anyway, I ate 93 or so fruit-flavored Tums and tried to steady the ship. But at one point I had one of those saliva-rising-up-in-the-throat rushes that has undeniable portent to pukedom, and I sprinted to the bathroom without even stopping to pause the Tivo.

Any other normal human would be in the moment, but for me I clutched the porcelain god thinking to myself, “No, no!” And not because I simply didn’t want to deal with the unpleasantness of barfing–because I didn’t want to wreck my Perfect Pregnancy track record. No longer would I be able to smugly boast, “Never sick once!” to a friend who clearly wanted to stab me for it. Though that might not be such a bad thing…

Thankfully, my episode passed. I mean, subsided with no dinner passing back out my lips. So, my record is someone tarnished but still intact. And I’ve learned some tips from my friend Megan who has done a truly amazing job “cooking” twins alongside my silly little single pregnancy. She’s had episodes of heartburn which I’m sure make mine look like nothing more than a case of garlic breath. (Her advice: No lying down right after eating, and when it’s clear Tums won’t do the trick, go for the Pepcid.)

For now at least, I’m happy to report having a handle on the heartburn. The next step is reining in the expanding booty.