Why I'll Miss Being Pregnant

I have been pregnant for 255 days. I know, it feels like much longer to me, too. With about 25 days to go, I've officially hit that point in my pregnancy when people stop looking at me like I am just another pregnant woman, and start looking at me like I'm a liability. They stare at my huge belly with a mixture of discomfort and terror, worried, I think, that I'll give birth right in front of them. I'm hoping this does not happen.

I'll be the first to admit that I was ill-prepared for this pregnancy thing. While I've never questioned our timing on actually having a child, I didn't realize how difficult it would be for me to adjust to having my body taken over by the miracle of life. Hormones are a powerful thing, and I underestimated them. I'm sorry for that, hormones. It will not happen again.

In fact, it took me about 20 weeks to really come to terms with the fact that there was a baby growing inside of me and that I better get used to it. I complained about my bad mood. I complained about not feeling well. I complained about all the pounds I was gaining. But now, 255 days into this thing, I've realized that I'm going to actually really miss being pregnant. I was standing in the kitchen at work the other day pouring my decaf coffee, and it occurred to me that in about a month I would no longer be pregnant. And it made me sad. Why, you ask? Well here are 4 reasons:

1. People love the bump. I was not prepared for the amount of goodwill that my massive belly would generate. I've gotten more smiles these past 9 months than the previous 31 years combined. Strangers come up to me to congratulate me and strike up conversations about motherhood. They stare at my bump with such glee that I feel like they can actually see my baby in there waving back at them. I also think it doesn't hurt that there is something innately appealing about a pregnant woman -- especially one who is 9 months pregnant -- waddling down the street. It must be like seeing a hippo in the wild. 
2. People encourage me to have two servings of cake. Let me preface this by pointing out that I realize that pregnancy is not an excuse to binge eat. And, for the most part, I think I've done a pretty good job of providing my baby with all the necessary nutrition to ensure she is as healthy as can be. However, I've found that all judging stops when a pregnant woman is indulging in something delicious. Just last night we stopped for ice cream at J.P. Licks and as I was frantically trying to combat the slow melting of my huge ice cream cone, a woman in line asked me what flavor the baby had demanded. The baby! Those babies are demanding little creatures. Always needing huge ice cream cones and two slices of cake. It will be a sad day when I can't blame my ice cream consumption on the baby. 
3. Very little is expected of me. I know a lot of women have a tough time coming to grips with the limitations of pregnancy. No heavy lifting, no horseback riding, no full contact sports, no hang gliding. I am not one of these women. It is a huge relief when someone offers me their seat, because, man, standing is tough when you are pregnant. And when my husband stopped asking me if I'd like to take Oscar out for his last pee of the night it was a momentous and glorious occasion. Going down two flights of stairs is tough when you are pregnant. Heck, just hoisting my massive body off the couch is tough when you are pregnant. So I'm totally on board with these lowered expectations of me. I love that when people see me slowly lumbering down the street on one of our family walks they are thinking, "Wow, good for that huge pregnant lady!" instead of, "Speed it up, fatty!"
4. Our baby will never be so safe again. Everything changed for me when I felt our baby move. And even though she spends most of her time now jabbing me in the ribs with one tiny body part or another, there is something so wonderful about knowing she is completely safe and secure in my gigantic belly. I don't have to worry about her being hungry, or wet, or lonely. I don't have to worry about where she is or what she's doing. For the last time, she is as close to me as she ever will be and there is something really sad about letting her into this big world knowing that she'll never be so well protected again. Just thinking about dropping her off at daycare is giving me hives. 

'Honey, When Did My Ass Get So Big?'

Dear God. How in the hell, male friends, do you answer this question? What should your facial expression be? How quickly should you answer? What exactly should you say? How should you say it?

Think about it for a minute.

That question, word for word, was posed to me last night when Bridget was trying on some new maternity clothes that she'd ordered online. (Big surprise.) She wasn't angry when she asked the question. It was more of a matter-of-fact comment with a quizzical inflection at the end. "Honey," she said calmly, "when did my ass get so big?"

I froze because, well, I'm a guy. And, mostly, I say dumb things. Like this, for example: My wife's butt is bigger than it was seven months ago. (Now, of course, I can't say that to her. She can read it and be okay, but I can't actually say it to her -- especially not in response to a direct question.) And frankly, why wouldn't it be bigger? She's about 30 weeks pregnant and is growing the most important little girl in the world. Stuff gets bigger when you're 30 weeks pregnant.

But, again, I can't say that her backside has grown by even a quarter of a centimeter in response to a question about it. That would just be  asking for a fight and a free pass to a night on the couch.

During Bridget's pregnancy, which has been filled with emotion, I've learned there are certain words that SHOULD NEVER BE USED. EVER. Whether I'm talking about her body, a Kardashian, a piece of fruit, or a steak, I'm not to mention:

• Big
• Fat
• Bigger
• Fluffy
• Plump
• Huge
• Wide
• Chunky
• Girth
• Thick

Ever. Under any circumstances. And I'm fine with that. Again, she's growing the most important little girl in the world, so she pretty much calls the shots. 

So, what did I say? Did I dig myself a grave? Will I be waking up on the couch? Thankfully not. "Oh, darling," I said. "It's beautiful -- just like the rest of you."

I've learned that word, that wonderful, three-syllable word, is a the perfect answer to nearly every pregnancy question. What will our daughter be like? Beautiful. How does that diaper bag look? Beautiful. Do you like this blindingly bright purple shirt? Bea-uti-ful. And it's all true. (Well, maybe not the diaper bag.) The curious thing about a pregnant wife is that she really does get more beautiful every single day.

So, if you need me later tonight, I'll be asleep in my bed. (I think.)

Introducing the Crazy Pregnant Lady

Hi, my name is Bridget and I’m a lapsed blogger.

In my defense, as I've told my husband numerous times over the past 5 months, I have a perfectly valid excuse for my laziness. I've been busy creating life. And it is exhausting work.

As you have probably gathered from Mike's posts, I’m pregnant with our first child (a girl!). Being pregnant has been a really surprising ride. Mostly because I have not proven to be one of those pleasant, glowing pregnant women you hear about. I am an angry, grumpy, hormonal monster. And I’m growing at an alarming rate. Watch yourselves, people!

I think what initially threw me off is that in all the time I spent daydreaming about having a baby, I never spent more than 5 minutes thinking about what it would be like to be pregnant. In my head, I just sort of glossed over this step. I was more concerned about the getting pregnant bit, and was terrified that at the ripe old age of thirty I was already a barren husk of a woman incapable of creating or nurturing life. Being reasonable is not my strong suit.

After it was established that getting pregnant wasn't going to be an issue, I spent the first 3 months of being pregnant terrified that we would lose the baby. The time that wasn't spent being terrified was spent either sleeping, or downing huge bowls of white rice swimming in butter and Parmesan cheese because that was the only food that I found appealing.  Well, that and Popsicles.  Actually, that is pretty close to my normal diet, so in retrospect perhaps this wasn't pregnancy-related at all.

The second trimester has been relatively symptom-free, aside from the raging hormonal monster I referenced above. This was a side effect that I was not prepared for. I think it is safe to say Mike was even less prepared. When crazy Bridget arrived Mike became panicked. He really didn't know how to handle me. Reason with me? Bad idea. Sympathize? Nope. Ignore? Wrong.  He just couldn't understand how his normally reasonable(ish) wife had become so irrational overnight.

I couldn't really understand it either. The things that I would usually not give a second thought about infuriated me. I developed a terrible case of road rage. I hated everything. I threw fits about not having the right dinner reservations. I would start a fight with my husband and half way through realize I had forgotten what I was upset about. So I just continued yelling.

All the while, I kept hearing from people about how being pregnant was the best time of their lives. The best! That they loved being pregnant. And this just made me feel worse. Not only did I feel bad, but I felt bad about feeling bad. I was already failing at this mom thing. And the only thing I had to show for it was graduating into a higher weight class.

And now? I don’t know whether things all of a sudden changed for me, or whether it was a bunch of small things that turned this around. It helped getting further along in my pregnancy and being able to feel a little less nervous about the health of my baby. Finding out that our “it” was a “she” was also a huge milestone. Once we found out we were having a daughter, it just made things seem more real and personal. And finally, feeling our baby move has made me way more connected to this little being growing inside of me. I finally feel “pregnant” instead of “fat and crazy.”

So now, at 5 months pregnant, I have to say I feel very happy and very lucky. But it had been a bit of a bumpy ride and I think it is important to acknowledge that. It is so easy to get caught up in what you think you should be feeling that you start feeling guilty about your own experience. If there is one thing that I hope to be able to do in these last 4 months, it is to just relax and be in the moment -- whatever that moment may bring.

Unwrapping a Girl

On Wednesday, Bridget and I found out we were having a baby girl. It was big news and we enjoyed sharing it.

How we found out, I think, is worth sharing, too.

Before I get to that, I want to talk about why we found out. The answer is pretty simple: Why not? I've had several conversations with people in the past few months about whether we should discover the gender of our bundle of joy before the big day. There are two very different schools of thought on this one.

• One group, the one that doesn't count me as a member, thinks all the magic should be saved for the big day. That moment, they say, that magical moment, when the doctor says, "It's a ..." is the second of a lifetime. 

• The other group, the one I support, likes to plan. We like two magical moments instead of just one. (Because, really, that day is going to be wonderful no matter what.) We like saying, "she" or "he" instead of "it" or "baby." We like buying pink or blue things instead of green or yellow ones. 

There was no question in our case. We wanted to find out. How we'd find out, though, was up for debate. After hearing our baby's heartbeat for the first time in a cold, sterile hospital room, we knew there had to be a better way. (An awkward "thumbs up" from across the room didn't seem like the way to celebrate one of the top 25 moments in our lives.)

Enter my friend, Molly.

Molly, a colleague, is a mother of three. We crossed paths in the kitchen one day and started talking about pregnancy. I mentioned we were going to find out the gender and she shared this wonderful idea: "We bring a card to the appointment and tell the ultrasound technician to write 'boy' or 'girl' on it. Then we go out to dinner that night and find out together -- just the two of us."

Wow. Mind blown. Simple. Brilliant. Perfect.

Bridget loved it, which brings us back to Wednesday. We headed into the appointment, let the ultrasound technician know about our plan, and then watched and waited. Our baby is, apparently, very active, so it took a while to get a clear look at the anatomy. But the technician got it, left the room, and came back with a sealed envelope.

When I heard Molly's great idea, I hadn't thought of the three hours I'd spend back at work with my child's gender on a card burning a whole in my coat pocket. It was brutal. But finally, mercifully, quitting time came and we headed to West Side Lounge in Cambridge. (There was no doubt where to go.) As soon as we sat down and ordered drinks, we took the envelope with shaking hands and tore it open. And there, under a picture of our future daughter, the handwriting was clear:
"Congratulations. It's a girl."

Dozens of visions -- the first smile, ribbons, the first "Daddy," the color pink, dance recitals, softball games, and college graduation -- rushed into my mind. Bridget and I held hands, laughed, smiled, and cried, taking our time to soak it all in. It was a beautiful, memorable moment -- and one that was much sweeter than it would have been in a hospital room.

How did you find out the gender of your baby? We'd love to hear.

Cravings and a Cliche Walk

Do you remember what you were doing exactly at 8 PM on Saturday, February 9? I do. I was walking, no, trudging, through thigh-deep snow on the way to the grocery store around the corner.

Bridget, my newly pregnant wife, had a headache and she needed Tylenol. And only Tylenol.

To be honest, up to that point, through two months of pregnancy, I had expected more from her late-night needs and cravings. Like most newbies, I expected my wife to want pickles dipped in peanut butter dipped in mayonnaise dipped in chocolate every night. But for some odd reason, that wasn't appetizing to her. Up until Saturday, February 9, the list had been:

• P.F. Chang’s 
• Popsicles 
• Frozen orange juice
• Big, chunky pretzels. (“Hunny, do you know we have pretzels at home?” “Well, yes,” she replied. “But not big, chunky ones.” Argument over.) 
• Orange juice and seltzer water 
• Gummies -- from vitamins to fruit snacks 
• SO many popsicles  

(Now, I agree that Tylenol doesn't count as a craving, but it was a need. Advil, I found out that night, wasn't good for pregnant women.) 

You all probably remember the blizzard -- assuming you live on the East Coast. We got about 26 inches of snow in something like 14 hours. Boatloads of fresh powder, aggressive wind, power outages (not for us, thankfully), and abandoned roads. In other words, it was your typical winter nightmare. And as luck would have it, Bridget developed a splitting headache right in the middle of it.

So, I strapped on my boots, threw on several layers, made sure my exposed skin was at a minimum, and ventured out into the wild. Fortunately, the walk to the store wasn’t very long. But the whipping wind and driving snow made each step count twice.

Crouched down, barreling against the elements … must … go … on. I finally made it to our local Star Market -- and by that time it was 8:45. I assumed it would be closed when I left, but I knew I had to try. I had a glimmer of hope when I saw several lights on, but as I got closer, my hope faded. Sure enough, when I made my way to the front door, I was greeted by a sign: “We closed at 3 p.m. today because of the state of emergency. We will re-open tomorrow.” Damn. Only six hours late.

I trudged back, beaten and defeated. But I knew there had to be a Plan B. Thank God for neighbors. After 10 seconds of weighing my options, I decided to knock on the door of a downstairs neighbor with a young child, thinking they might have some Tylenol. I was greeted by two barking dogs and a crying child who had just been put to bed. Perfect. Such a jerk.

"So sorry, guys. Do you have any Tylenol?"

"We have Advil," they said, because, well, everyone uses Advil.

"It kind of needs to be Tylenol."

"Ummm, okay," they said. "Why don’t you come in?"

I crossed the threshold. “Yeah, Bridget’s pregnant, so we specifically need Tylenol. We don’t have any and she has a terrible headache.” Congratulations and smiles followed. And, fortunately, so did a bottle of extra strength Tylenol. I headed back upstairs (fully feeling like a knight in some sort of armor) and delivered the goods. The headache was gone within about a half hour and I had a happy, pregnant wife. (Thanks again, Marc and Brandee.)

I can't wait for those mayonnaise-covered pickles pop into her mind. Maybe I should just get some now in case.

Lying to Everyone for Three Months

I fibbed a bunch of times in December. So did Bridget. We fudged the truth even more in January and February. Basically, it was just one big, fat lie after another for three months.

"Want to go out tonight and grab a beer tonight?"

"No," we said. "We're not feeling very well."

"You going to that party?"

"Maybe," we said. "But we're pretty hung over from last night."

Lies. Lies. And more lies.

The hardest part of pregnancy so far -- and please note that this is written from the perspective of a male who hasn't undergone an enormous body alteration -- was not telling anyone we were expecting a little one. We told our families at Christmas and then took a tight-lipped oath for the next 11 weeks. The reason, of course, is that if something bad happened with the baby, we didn't want to have to tell everyone about it.

And man, was it hard to keep my mouth shut. After all, it is the biggest news of our lives.

You have, I believe, eight positive "big news" moments in your life. Think about it:

1. You get into college -- perhaps the one of your dreams. 
2. You get your first job. 
3. You get your dream job. 
4. You get married. 
5. You have your first baby.
6. You have additional babies. (I realize this can happen several times, but the first is likely to draw the biggest response from the world.) 
7. You buy your first home. 
8. You retire.

And unless strange circumstances prevent it, you can share non-baby news as soon as it happens. No one buys a home and starts telling people two months after they've moved in. No one wears an engagement ring for four or five weeks before spreading the news. (This is especially true in the Facebook era when eating brunch on Sunday is cause for tagging, photos, and three status updates.)

But baby news is under wraps until that glorious 12-week mark hits and you're a little further out of the woods. So, I'd just like to take this opportunity to say I'm sorry for lying those 40-50 times from December 16  until a few weeks ago. More specifically:

• Colleagues, I never had those dentist appointments. 
• Bridget held the same half bottle of beer for three straight hours at the company holiday party. (For the record, I drank the first half.)
• Friends who threw that lovely apartment warming party in January, Bridget was home in bed two miles away -- not visiting friends in whatever city I said. 
• Everyone who asked if we were trying to have kids yet, yes, yes we were. And it appears we were successful. 

Phew! It feels great to get this off my chest. I promise I'll never lie again. At least until we start trying for baby No. 2.

The Day We Aced a Pregnancy Test

"Honey," yelled Bridget with a strange, high-pitched shake in her voice that I'd never heard. "Come here! Quick!"

Let me pause for a moment here. As a student of writing, I’ve been told several times that it's a cardinal sin to start an article (or even a blog post) with a quote. There’s no context and it leaves the reader guessing -- a big no-no. One former sports editor put it this way: "Unless Jesus Christ played centerfield, I don’t want to see a quote at the top of your story." One of my favorite professors in grad school: "You can start a piece of writing with a quote only three times in your life, so make them count."

I think he'd be fine with this being one of those times.

I ran toward the bathroom where Bridget waited with a white stick in her hand. Her other hand was over her mouth. It was shaking visibly. "Honey," she said, now in a hushed tone. "Look."  Sure enough, there were two tiny pink lines. Pregnant. Boom. We hugged, she cried (fine, we both did), and we looked at the two pink lines a dozen more times in the next two minutes.

We then started a game of asking "Are you okay? How do you feel?" back and forth. We really couldn’t think of anything else to do. What else do you do when you're that happy?

"Well," I said, "we should still go grocery shopping. We’ll need food."

We walked the short distance from our house and found ourselves at the Star Market around the corner. Together, we wandered aimlessly for several minutes. I picked up some cottage cheese and I hate cottage cheese. She stared at different brands of pretzels for 15 minutes. I got physically lost in the frozen food aisle. It was so real, so scary, and so exciting. Our lives had changed forever within 15 minutes.

Truth be told, we hadn’t been trying for very long. (And we realize how lucky this makes us.) As our friends and family know, we decided to live without much care for six months. We went to Ireland, France, San Francisco, and Mexico. We drank good wine and spent more than a few Saturday afternoons bellying up to our favorite bar (Cambridge, 1) in Harvard Square. We talked about having kids during those six months (we both knew we really wanted them), but like most things that don’t happen tomorrow, the reality seemed far away. We decided winter would be a good time to start.

November came and went, though. We had a glimmer of hope for a moment, but it wasn’t meant to be.

And then halfway through December, the 16th to be exact, those two fateful lines appeared. After the grocery store, we were off to run a 5K in Somerville, a holiday race we’d registered for months before. I don’t remember anything about the actual running of the race, but know that I felt no pain and ran faster than I had in a decade. I'm not sure my feet ever touched the pavement because I was running on air. I crossed the line in 21:31, a 6:56 pace, which, for me, is pretty damn good.

We followed that with brunch with friends. Between bites, we looked incredulously at each other. The look continued for the rest of the day, as we made our way to the New England Patriots game with our friend, Walter. We sat for hours in a misting rain, as we watched what was almost one of the greatest comebacks in regular season history. I cheered loudly, but it was mostly for our news and not the players. When we finally got home that day -- a very, very long day -- and went to bed at 2 in the morning.

"Is it real?" I asked.

"I think so," she said. "I really hope so."

"Me, too."

The Futility of Spending Limits at Christmas

This is the third Christmas Bridget and I have spent together. And every year, the same question gets tossed around starting in early November: How much should we spend on each other this year?

In our three yuletide seasons, I've learned two very important things:
1. We are great at setting spending limits.
2. We are absolutely horrible at sticking to spending limits.

Now, we always have the best intentions. And we're both fairly resourceful and careful with our cash. But for whatever reason, we really, really suck at this.

Take last year, for example. We set our limit at $200, which seems completely reasonable for a couple. Think of all the great stuff you can get for $200! A little weekend getaway in the winter. Lots of nice, warm, stylish clothes. Tickets to a Celtics game or a concert. There are plenty of options. So, of course, we went with diamond earrings and a vacation to Ireland. The trip, obviously, was way more than $200. And so were the earrings -- that is, until Bridget finds out they are cubic zirconia.

This Christmas, the same thing has happened. Realizing that we took several big trips this year and, you know, got married, we were going to take it easy to the tune of a $100 limit. And we really tried. At least I know I did. I spent a lot of time thinking about it. I looked around online for hours. Heck, I even went to a couple brick-and-mortar stores. (Imagine!) In a nutshell, I failed. Miserably. And while I haven't unwrapped her gift to me, I know she failed miserably, too.

This all leads me to a simple question: Why? Is it because we are greedy people who love material things? No. Is it because, as my friend Jesse said the other day, you really can't buy anything for 100 bucks nowadays? Maybe. Is it because this is the last year we're going to have extra disposable cash? That could be it. (Read: Mothers, Bridget is not pregnant. I repeat: Not pregnant. We're just assuming life will be much different next year. Again, not pregnant.) But I think the real reason is -- and get ready for the corny line here -- we're really, really in love. Getting a gift that is "good enough" just isn't good enough. We both feel the need to go above and beyond.

Will there be years when we can't go nuts with gifts? Probably. Will someone need braces or money for a hospital bill or a college education? Most likely. But those years, when we actually stick to a limit, we'll look back at these years and smile. And then probably find a way to break the limit again.