More Fun with Pre-Natal Yoga!

People are always recommending pre-natal yoga. They say it's relaxing and a great way to stay limber. But mostly, they say the words that bring comfort to your ears. They say, "It'll prepare you for labor."

And they even reassuringly offer that, "Everyone can do yoga!"

Except...

I'm starting to think that I...

I suck at yoga.

We begin each class with 15 minutes of breathing. This was a concept I thought I had mastered. I mean, I can do it in my sleep and everything. The instructor worked exceptionally to motivate our breathing, telling us to, "Fill your prana with air!" and "Feel your chest rise!", as though at any minute we might lose focus and accidentally suffocate.

In her sanguine voice, she explained how important this exercise was, saying "During labor, breathing is all you have!"

I interjected, "Well, that. And drugs."

Apparently, yoga is not interactive. I did not know this, because I suck at yoga.

We moved into the Tree Pose.


Seriously. Do you have any idea what a room full of off-balanced pregnant women look like trying to do this? I began to wonder if the next instruction would be, "Now, get out your Twister mats." Luckily, we moved instead to something easier - standing with our arms and legs spread out, like a star. Or a gingerbread man. Mmm, gingerbread. Oh, sorry. Damn cravings.

Realizing that standing was something I could do for hours, I was optimistic. Just when I thought I was getting good at yoga, we are instructed to, "Let our stars shine!"

I think yoga might be my personal hell.

Later, when we assumed the Goddess Pose, which is oddly similar to the Space Invader Pose, we were asked to determine the flavor of our goddesses.

I think my goddess is bacon with a side of cake flavor. Though I'm not sure what flavor my goddess is supposed to be, I'm pretty sure that's not it.

Man, I suck at yoga.

It just never seems like it's going to end and I spend every moment envisioning that I am somewhere else. And yet, after wards I find myself laughing about it all.

What better preparation for labor could there be?

So, I think I'll keep going.

Losing it

Last night was pre-natal swim class. It's a tight knit group of us preggos, and we spend as much time indulging in non-stop pregnancy talk as we do swimming.

Two of the girls were missing from the class, which didn't come as a surprise seeing they had both been bursting at the seams and were due any day. There's an excitement that permeates through the rest of us when news comes that one of our own has finally reached that point where everything - the build up, the expectations, the curiosities - become an overnight reality.

We look at them, and see ourselves.

After class, we received a message from one of the girls. It was bare in its simplicity.

"I went into labor a few days ago. Unfortunately, the baby did not make it."

A ton of bricks doesn't strike as hard as those two simple sentences scratched on a tiny square of paper. We stood there silently. We weren't crying, but I'm not sure we were breathing either. We just stood, paralyzed with the images of our own baby rooms in varying states of completion. I saw the onesie with the bike on it, the empty crib, and the changing pad the cat has now taken to sleeping on. No matter what we have left to get or prepare for the baby room, only one part of that room is a true necessity - the baby.

As the silence broke and tears welled, our hands all found there ways to our stomachs. Slaggy gave me the tiniest of kicks.

Someone asked in a stuttering voice, "How could someone go on?"

I answered with the only truth I know. We'd hurt. We'd heal. And we'd try again.

Six months ago, I was just another woman. I was strong, fit, and essentially still wearing the same body I've been in since I was 13. Over a handful of months, and without my knowledge, help, or permission, my body morphed itself in such a way that the priority was no longer on me. My body just knew how to create a baby, which is convenient, because I wouldn't have a clue where to start. Our minds and bodies came prepared to provide security, sustenance, and life for these fledgling beings. I can't help but wonder if we aren't also engrained with a certain amount of resilience to withstand the vulnerability that comes with loving someone so very much.

Last night, I slept intermittently, often dreaming about little Slaggy. During my frequent awakenings, he seemed to always be there, already awake, and punching away at my insides almost to say, "Hey! Is this your bladder? Is this your bladder? How 'bout this?"

And I appreciated every single punch.

Now, for a moment of happiness, I bring you impossibly cute dog and cat snuggling:

The Placenta Tree

When you're knocked up, you find yourself asking a lot of questions. Should I strive for a natural birth? Will I ever lose the baby weight? Where the hell are my toes?!?

Apparently, there's another question I need to be asking myself.

After the baby is born, what do I do with the placenta?

Like many of the other woefully ignorant mothers to be, I figured the doctor would just take it and toss it down the hospital garbage disposal. Then, the other day, I saw our neighbors and their family gathered in a circle, celebrating the planting of a placenta tree in their backyard. Like, they kept the placenta, put it in the ground, and stuck a fruit tree on top of it, so that one day they could totally freak their kid out and turn them off to lemons for the rest of their lives.

Or, maybe, they're just hoping that the placenta tree can open up lots of discussions about life, lemons, and the downfalls of symbolically representing your kid with a tree.

"Mommy, where did that lemon tree come from?"

"Well, after you were born, we buried the placenta under the tree, so that we could watch the tree grow as you grow."

"Then, why is the tree dead?"

"We forgot to water it."

So, now I've come to realize there is a whole world of options for post-birth placenta functionality. We could plant a tree or a nice decorative placenta hedge, but seeing as our dog has become very adept at digging up yard treasures and eating them, that might not fare so well. We could seal it in a Lucite box and turn it into a paperweight, which would be both practical and make a great graduation gift. Then again, we could always eBay it or turn it into a nice pair of mittens for our newborn.

After turning all these ideas around in my head for several minutes, I couldn't get over the fact that none of these really felt right - nothing seemed to completely capture both the longevity and fragility of life. And that was when I had a placenta epiphany.

I figured, if our neighbors can plant a placenta tree, I can make jerky out of mine. All I'd have to do is set it and forget it, and the life sustaining quality of my placenta would get a shelf life that'd rival a Twinkie. Eat your heart out, Ron Popeil (though, not literally, as heart jerky would obviously just be gross).

Oooh! Stuff!

Even though little Slagathor Megatron III is perfectly happy renting my uterus these days, he's now got his own room too. My desk has left, the crib is up, and we managed to find a toy car rug that really ties the room together. Naturally, the poster of Johnny Cash flipping off the camera is still hanging. It just works so nicely with our "puppies and social discontent" nursery theme.

Stuff.

Sweet baby Jesus there is a lot of stuff out there for babies. It's a little overwhelming to sort through it all. There's stuff you want, stuff the baby actually needs, and a ton of completely useless stuff advertised as "totally and completely necessary for the mental well-being of your child!" (like the Zaky Infant Pillow, because nothing shows a mother's love like creepy disembodied hands).


After strolling through the baby aisles at Target in a total daze of stuff overload, I found myself asking questions I never thought I'd end up asking, like, "Should we get a baby wipe warmer?" Luckily, I was prepared for the lust of consumerism, and came completely unprepared with any form of payment. When I finally shook off the fog of vibrating baby slings and bottle warmers, I realized I had to get my priorities straight on what constituted a true necessity.

Sure, most people would say that diapers are the only universal must have item, but really, who needs diapers when you've got hardwood floors? No, the only real necessity is our sanity.

So, obviously, having a pump track in our backyard has taken top priority. (It's like a teeny tiny BMX track for you non-bike folks)

Now, some people think this is totally impractical and is just our way of pretending that we intended to kill our lawn in less than a year (it turns out those things need watering, whoulda thunk it?) But, really, the pump track will be a great way to blow off steam, sneak in exercise after Slaggy Mega 3 is born, and...uh...okay, mostly is just cool as hell.





As far as the other baby stuff, we're having some problems. Namely, the animals are convinced that we're suddenly dousing them with material love. Kitty is stoked that we've finally gotten her a bed that prevents Boudreau from screwing with her while she's sleeping.


On the other hand, she hasn't scratched our faces off in our sleep for using her as a test dummy. So I guess we're equal.


Meanwhile, Boudreau is finding it very difficult to differentiate between his colorful, squeaky, and slobbery dog toys and the new onslaught of colorful, squeaky and slobbery baby toys.


Ahh, sweet, sweet, stuff.

More fun with pre-natal yoga.

People are always recommending pre-natal yoga. They say it's relaxing and a great way to stay limber. But mostly, they say the words that bring comfort to your ears. They say, "It'll prepare you for labor."

And they even reassuringly offer that, "Everyone can do yoga!"

Except...

I'm starting to think that I...

I suck at yoga.

We begin each class with 15 minutes of breathing. This was a concept I thought I had mastered. I mean, I can do it in my sleep and everything. The instructor worked exceptionally to motivate our breathing, telling us to, "Fill your prana with air!" and "Feel your chest rise!", as though at any minute we might lose focus and accidentally suffocate.

In her sanguine voice, she explained how important this exercise was, saying "During labor, breathing is all you have!"

I interjected, "Well, that. And drugs."

Apparently, yoga is not interactive. I did not know this, because I suck at yoga.

We moved into the Tree Pose.


Seriously. Do you have any idea what a room full of off-balanced pregnant women look like trying to do this? I began to wonder if the next instruction would be, "Now, get out your Twister mats." Luckily, we moved instead to something easier - standing with our arms and legs spread out, like a star. Or a gingerbread man. Mmm, gingerbread. Oh, sorry. Damn cravings.

Realizing that standing was something I could do for hours, I was optimistic. Just when I thought I was getting good at yoga, we are instructed to, "Let our stars shine!"

I think yoga might be my personal hell.

Later, when we assumed the Goddess Pose, which is oddly similar to the Space Invader Pose, we were asked to determine the flavor of our goddesses.

I think my goddess is bacon with a side of cake flavor. Though I'm not sure what flavor my goddess is supposed to be, I'm pretty sure that's not it.

Man, I suck at yoga.

It just never seems like it's going to end and I spend every moment envisioning that I am somewhere else. And yet, after wards I find myself laughing about it all.

What better preparation for labor could there be?

So, I think I'll keep going.

Love Tentacles and Cheesy Poofs

You know things will change. You wait for it. The suspense is almost intolerable. Then one day, you wake up and everything is already different. And this ain't even the tip of the iceburg.

My belly has been growing. Fast. Damn fast. I know this because when I see people who I haven't seen in a few weeks, they greet me with a not so subtle, "Oh shit!" This was a change I'd been fearing, that is, before I realized all of the rad perks that come from ascending from "oddly fat" to "way the hell knocked up."

I can do anything.

I get automatic first in line bathroom privileges. If I ask to try a bite of someone's food, they'll give me half their plate. I'm not allowed to clean out the kitty litter or clean with toxic chemicals. People are insanely nice, even as you're swiping their empty grocery cart.

The only downside so far has been having to shake up my exercise routine. And, yes, there are incredible women who mountain biked until their last month and, in lieu of pain killers, chewed broken glass while in labor.

I am not one of these women.

My ego just can't handle going 5 mph and walking down rocks I know I can ride. Yeah, yeah, I'm pregnant, I've got a good excuse for going slow. My belly might know it's growing a baby, but my ego does not.

My solution was to start doing things I already sucked at, namely swimming and yoga. The yoga class is just for us knocked up types, which was good, because I can so kick another preggo's butt at yoga! Except, we ended up spending most of the class just sitting there imagining things, like say, giving birth. When this resulted in a collective panic attack, the teacher told us to, "Pretend our hearts have tentacles, and imagine those tentacles reeeeeaaaaaching into every part of your body that needs a little extra love."

Seriously, love tentacles? Seriously?

Later, we closed our eyes and "experienced our inner goddesses." I experienced the pain of suppressed laughter, some Cheeto induced heartburn, and a few kicks from Slagathor Megatron, the Third (we're working on middle names).

Everything we did was slow. I kept hoping that things would speed up and we'd eventually have a yoga race or something, or maybe break up into teams for some full-contact yoga, like hockey but with stretchier pants. No such luck.

The thing is, with all the cheesyness and unbearable slowness of the class, my shoulders started aching, then my quads were on fire. The next day, my everything hurt.

I am definitely not winning at yoga. Next time, I might see if my love tentacles can pick up some slack.

In other news, Ryan has been out of town this week, which means I got to do some buck wild preggo partying*.

(*Preggo Partying: Going to bed by 9PM and eating Cheetos with the dog in bed. Hoot! Hoot!)

Advice from Toddlers

So, the other day I was having a very deep discussion about life, babies, and cake with a 3 year old. I figure, she's got as much experience as anyone when it comes to those issues. Sure, she hasn't been to "medical school" or "pre-school," but I don't see why that would effect her ability to give me sound medical advice.

"In a few months, you'll have a new little friend ya' know."

"Yeah, I know."

"Do you think it'll be a girl or a boy?"

"It's a boy."

"Would you rather have a boy to play with?"

"No. Girls are waaay more fun. So, how does the baby get out of your belly?"

"Well, have you ever seen the movie Alien?"

"No."

"Hmm...let's get some cake."

Of course, relying on the medical opinion of a toddler can only get you so far, mostly because it's hard to take someone seriously when they're wearing a tutu and raincoat. At 19 weeks the time has finally come for a high quality ultrasound. The one that shows the bits. Done by a real doctor.

I was required to drink 16 ounces of water and keep a full bladder for an hour before the ultrasound. I'm sure the doc would come up with some fancy practical reason for putting a pregnant woman through this torture, but I think they really do it just to watch your face as they push down on your stomach, point to the screen, and go, "Oh! And that's your bladder. Look how full it is!"

Alright. It's mugshot time. If you want to see insanely big versions of these pictures, just click on the photo.

So, our little human is getting even more human-like by the week. Here is little Slagathor/Edna Lou, currently 19 weeks, 10 ounces, and %100 fully assembled human!


I'm pretty sure the black space to the left of its head is little Slaggy/E.L.'s pompadour.

Below is the baby-in-progress trying to catch a nap and wondering why the hell someone keeps turning on the lights and moving the room around.

So, Ryan hates feet. I mean HATES feet. He despises foot medicine commercials (who doesn't?) and gets startled by sudden feet shots in movies way more than when the guy with the knife jumps out of the closet. But, when these little guys came up on the screen, you could see him dreaming about kissing on these little baby feet.

And now for the moment you've been waiting for!

(Insert rimshot)

I believe the exact words of the ultrasound technician were,
"Wow. It is absolutely, definitely a boy."

Ryan's response was, "YES!"

Yup, that's our boy's junk right in the center there.

Now that we know we're having a boy, we can finally stop calling the baby Slagathor/Edna Lou. I consulted with my 3 year old life coach on the matter. After all, she didn't need an ultrasound to tell us we were having a baby boy.

"If it's a boy, we're going to name him Slagathor. Doesn't it sound Nordic?"

(She giggles hysterically)

"Well then, what should we name it if it's a boy?"

"Pontshoon."

"Pontshoon?"

"PONTSHOON!"

After a bit more discussion, with her continuing to insist on the name Pontshoon, she got upset and ended the conversation because I wouldn't use her name.

But seriously, Pontshoon? Now that would just be weird. I mean, when people would ask what we were naming him, we'd have to answer, "Pontshoon." Everyone would think we were just joking.

No way, missy. We'll stick with Slagathor, thank you very much.

Thank God, it's human!

Here goes my entry into nerdom and obnoxious preggodom all in one.

See, I've never been big on blogging the day to day frivolities of my life. And, I didn't want to become one of those moms-to-be that shoves sonograms of indecipherable blobs in front of other people's faces insisting, "Isn't it ADORABLE!"

But, it turns out that there are a lot of soon to be grandmas, great grandmas, and potential future babysitters who actually want to see those black and white blobs. So, here are my adventures in procreating.

I'm currently 18 weeks along and no longer fitting into my jeans. I'm pregnant enough that friends are rubbing my belly and strangers are giving me that, "Well, she's either pregnant or oddly fat," look. Ryan says I'm glowing, which I assume means, "Your new rack is awesome!" and people in general keep telling me that I look great. My current theory is that people feel the need to tell pregnant women how wonderful they look, because they fear you will have a hormone induced rage-out if they don't. Luckily, aside from some overwhelmingly vibrant dreams and my new and improved chest, I haven't felt the full wrath of the hormones yet. Consequently, neither has Ryan.

But, please, keep the compliments coming.

I'm in full belly flutter mode and am pretty sure I can feel little Slagathor/Edna Lou dancing around. Of course, it may just be last night's bean dip wreaking havoc, but I prefer to think it's the miracle of life instead of the miracle of digestion.

Alright, here's the moment you all have been waiting for: the first pictures of lil' Slaggy/E.L.


Here we are at 16 weeks, or t-minus 24 weeks and counting. The top picture is baby on its back with its hands and feet in the air, waving 'em like it just don't care. The head is the blob on the right. Lord knows what the blob on the left is.





Next up, we've got proof that we're having...a HUMAN! Though we'd always assumed we were having a human, up until this point, we've been looking at a sea monkey. Not that we wouldn't love our little sea monkey and force you guys to tell us how cute it is, it's just that, given the option, we'd prefer a baby without flippers. The blob by the head is not over-sized ears (as my mom so politely tried to ask), but a wee little baby hand raising the roof.



Lastly, we have, a blob. Slaggy/E.L. was in the process of flipping around when this picture was taken. We can only hope it has inherited Ryan's dancing skills instead of mine.





Now, let's take a trip into the Way Back machine for a moment. Here is our little sea-monkey at about 8 weeks. Isn't it ADORABLE?!?

And, finally, this is my belly at 8 weeks when I'd just barely begun to show. I'm mainly posting this as proof to myself down the road that I didn't always have a wiggling yoga ball attached to my abdomen.

I'm currently taking bets on what my cat tattoo will look like post-pregnancy.

The options are:

a) The same (now please don't rage out on me preggo-lady).
b) HAHAHAHAHAH! You're so screwed!
c) Like Jerry Louis, but fatter.

Take your pick!

(and tune in next week to find out the sex of the baby!)