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.

Happy Birthday, Wife

As you can see from that image, my beautiful wife, Bridget, is pregnant. She's about five months pregnant now -- a little more than halfway there -- and, as you can imagine, people like to talk about that bump quite a bit. In their defense, it's pretty hard not to. It's a huge protrusion that contains a new life. How can you not talk about it? It'd be like talking to Larry Bird and not mentioning the Celtics. Or chatting with Morgan Freeman and leaving out The Shawshank Redemption.

But this post -- and this weekend -- are not about the bump. They are about Bridget because Sunday is her 31st birthday. Hooray! Happy Birthday, wife!

And to take a page from my wedding vows (which takes a page from David Letterman), I'm going to share 10 things you probably didn't know about Bridget. Some will be serious and some will be light (after this week, who couldn't use something light?), but all will be true.

Without further ado:

10. She has perfect running form. I mean, perfect. She may not be the fastest (spoiler: she's not), but she runs with this fluid motion that would make Usain Bolt weep.

9. She went to college in Canada. More specifically, she went to McGill University in Quebec. Why? Well, why not? The education is just as good and it's way cheaper.

8. She's not bitter not spending this year's birthday in Paris. Oh, wait ... Last year, we had the good fortune to spend her 30th birthday -- and the second of our mini-honeymoons -- in perhaps the most beautiful city on Earth. This year, a french restaurant in Cambridge! Same thing, right?

7. She would spend every last penny on travel. If Bridget had a choice between food, water, and a trip to Cambodia, she'd choose the third option. She's one of those people who thinks spending money on experiences is far more important than spending money on material things.

6. She hates jaywalking. Crossing outside of a crosswalk without the image of a bright white walking man in front of her makes her really, really nervous. It's peculiar.

5. She's a dawdler. When we first started dating, this was the biggest fear on her list. She tended to move fairly slowly, while I wanted to hike a mountain, give blood, and go to Fresh Pond before 8 AM. So far, we're doing okay.

4. She's really smart. She got 1490 on her SATs. I've always found that impressive.

3. She hates re-watching shows or movies. Like most people (I think), I have a collection of go-to flicks when I need a little comfort. Hoosiers, Swingers, and Sideways top the list. Bridget hates watching something she's already seen. "You already know what's going to happen," she says.

2. She could eat white rice with butter and parmesan cheese for every meal for the rest of her life. Seriously.

1. She's really, really, really excited about being a mom. Can't you tell by the big, beautiful smile on her picture above?

Happy Birthday, Bridget! I can't wait to celebrate your 81st, too ...

When Girl Meets Dog

I'm nervous about the birth of my daughter for many reasons. I don't know how to change a diaper, feed a baby, or dress someone other than myself. (And if you've seen my Syracuse shoes, you may be questioning that last point.)

Truth be told, I've never babysat a day in my life. I tell people this and they are shocked.

"Never?"

"No. Never. I was too busy trying to drive outside fastballs to right field and hone my streaky jump shot when I was younger. Leave me alone."

(Of course, now, I wish I'd been a babysitter instead of an athlete.)

I'm also nervous that my daughter is going to cry all the time, despise baths, or hate when I hold her. Perhaps she won't eat enough. Or maybe she'll eat only very expensive steak dinners. Hell, I don't know.

What I do know, though, is that of all the things I'm nervous about, Oscar, our dog, may be No. 1 on the list.

Oscar is our pride and joy. Like most couples without children, we treat our pet like he's our son. We smile and nod knowingly when people at Fresh Pond tell us how cute he is. We talk about him when we go out to dinner. We give him treats, feed him organic food, and let him sleep on the bed. (You could also say he lets us sleep on the bed because he takes up so much damn room.)

Oscar, you can imagine, is very needy. He whines when we don't play with him, or when we're on our iPads and not giving him our undivided attention. He cries when he's even the least bit hungry or feels that maybe, just maybe, he has to pee. In short, he's a drama queen.

So what's going to happen when a princess and a drama queen butt heads?

Everyone is telling us that Oscar will be forgotten, a second-class citizen, when baby Briddon is born. But I refuse to believe that. Sure, we'll shower our daughter with attention, but we love Oscar too much to give him the cold shoulder.

So how can we ensure that this meeting -- and this new living arrangement -- is going to work out for everyone? Do I sit down and have a man-to-man chat with Oscar about how we're adding another member to our pack? Do we get him a baby doll that wets itself and cries? Do we start ignoring his pleas, cries, and moans?

We've heard the helpful trick about bringing home something with the baby smell (a blanket, a hat, etc.) from the hospital right after the birth. We're definitely doing that. But what other advice does anyone have about ensuring the peaceful coexistence of a baby and a needy pet?

Our entire pack is listening ...

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.

Three Stories of Great Customer Service

Generosity, my wife often says, is one of the most important things in a marriage. Doing the little things -- putting extra ice in a drink, taking the dog out when it's below freezing, giving a massage when you actually need one -- makes a huge difference.

That mantra holds true for relationships outside of marriage, too. And this past week -- our anniversary week -- we've benefitted from three wonderful examples of customer service:

1. On Tuesday, I thought of the perfect anniversary gift for Bridget. (We hadn't planned on doing anything big because we're saving for Baby Briddon.) My idea was simple: I wanted a graphic keepsake that incorporated my wedding vows. I turned to my friend, Alex, who turned to his friend, Danny, who has a fantastic new business. Danny takes classic books and creates amazing pieces of art. Called Litographs, he prints the entire book within the image on a poster or a book. Decorating a nursery? How about The Wizard of Oz?  Need a gift for a book-lover? Try The Great Gatsby. Check out the whole collection. Danny took my idea, made it into the memorable piece of art above, and refused any kind of compensation for the rush order. The gift made Bridget cry and and made me realize just how kind some people really are.

2. We went stroller shopping a couple weeks ago at a place called Magic Beans in Cambridge. We weren't going to buy, but just felt like we needed to start rolling them around a little bit. One of the staff members, Michelle, spent what felt like 30 minutes with us answering every question we could imagine. She was patient, friendly, and incredibly knowledgable. Nice, right? Well, the reason I'm writing about it is because we received a hand-written "thank-you" card and a $20 gift card from Michelle a few days ago just for stopping in the store. Think we'll buy there? Yeah, me too.

3. We celebrated our anniversary in Chatham and didn't have the best luck with food. To make a long story short, I ordered something that turned out to be a lamb stew. I hate stews. A lot. So, with hopes of turning things around, we went to this little hole-in-the-wall place called the Hangar B Eatery at the municipal airport. The food was spectacular -- probably the best breakfast we've ever had. But what really made the difference was the three, free delicious blueberry muffins we got for having to wait an extra 15 minutes because of the crowd.

Generosity, it seems, is still alive and well. And its made the last week our lives -- which included our first anniversary as a married couple -- that much better.

Where is the Baby Going to Fit?

We live in a 768-square-foot apartment in Cambridge. And, truth be told, we like it an awful lot. It’s located in between Harvard Square and Porter Square, and, for all intents and purposes, is surrounded by everything we need. We have lots of culture, great neighbors, and convenience around every corner. You want restaurants? A stone's throw away. Grocery shopping? Just down the street. Boston? Hop on the subway and I’ll see you in 10 minutes.

Despite everything our apartment has, it’s missing one important thing: space.

Now, babies, I hear, are small, which is good. But babies, I hear, need a ton of stuff, which is bad.

Why is this hitting me all of a sudden? We're just coming back from a trip to New Hampshire where we visited our friends, Dan and Steph, and their four-month-old bundle of joy, Landon. They live in 4,000-square-foot pad with guest rooms that are the size of our apartment. Their back deck may be bigger than our street. (I exaggerate, of course, but you see where I'm going with this.)

Now, we’re not materialistic people by any stretch of the imagination, but for the past couple years, we've been able to buy ourselves nice clothes and nice things. The trouble is we’re already out of room. Both our bureaus are bursting at the seams (literally, thanks to Ikea) and our closets are stuffed like a big ol' Thanksgiving turkey. Our spare bedroom? Think more Shawshank Redemption and less Downton Abbey. 

So where will baby Briddon's stuff go?

Last weekend, we went stroller shopping, which was actually pretty fun. Then we got to the part about having to fold it up and actually keep it in our apartment.

"And this just folds neatly like that," said the incredibly helpful saleswoman at Magic Beans.

"Right," I thought, "and then how do you fold that up because that thing will dominate our linen closet."

So what's the answer? Do we have to throw away a bunch of our things? Do we have to rearrange our apartment to make way for baby? Do we have to move? We’ve decided the answer to question No. 3, for now, is no. We like the city and we plan to stay here for at least one kid and maybe two -- assuming there is a two.

But I can’t imagine what life will be like a year from now. I look around the apartment and see adult things. We have candles and DVD players and speakers and picture frames and iPads. Will those be replaced by bottles and toys and dirty diapers and onesies? The answer, I’m realizing, is yes.

This, of course, will be a huge adjustment. The more I think about it, though, the less worried I get. Stuff is overrated anyway. Just please don't make fun of me if I wear the same outfit every day after August. The rest of my clothes will be in storage.

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.