It’s probably just as well for our future children that Baby #1 won’t get a detailed log of every moment of this pregnancy. I’d hate to start a tradition that I can’t keep up, and far be it from me to foster sibling rivalry before there are even siblings. Still, I’m a little surprised at myself for the near-total lack of documentation. After all, I was the kid who filled thousands and thousands (and thousands) of journal pages as a teenager. I’m going to pass the blame off onto having a full-time job, coping poorly with morning sickness, and then having a mostly-unremarkable pregnancy.
Anyway, here we are at 39 weeks and feeling like maybe it’s time to commit things to paper. Things are, like I said, pretty unremarkable, aside from the whole miracle of life thing. I can divide this pregnancy neatly into three phases: pretty miserable for weeks 6-12, then hungry, then hungry-but-stomach’s-too-small-to-eat. This morning, Johnny summed it up in his own three phases: “First you didn’t look pregnant, and then you looked a little pregnant, and then…pop!” Here’s the photo illustration of that:
The only real problem to speak of has been my chronically low progesterone levels, which didn’t come as a big surprise. They required a little help from Johnny, in the form of shots at home. The poor man never signed up to provide this level of home healthcare, but he really did those shots like a champ, despite the fact that it was his least-favorite two moments of the week. Trailmix, just so you know, we made a “shots for shots” deal, and you now owe your parents 52 shots of our choice. Even at the height of side effects and ridiculously painful injection sites, this qualified in my mind as “not noteworthy,” because really, other people do much more difficult things in pregnancy. And what was the alternative, anyway? I was oh-so-glad to get the all-clear to stop at 37 weeks, but I’d gladly do it again (that’s good news for you, future babies).
What else do I want to remember? Let’s start with the fact that every day for the last 10 weeks or so, Baby has started dancing around at exactly 1:50 PM. Like clockwork, regardless of what I’m doing. I can’t wait to see if this carries over to life outside the womb. There’s a lot of movement in general, and while I’m sure I’ll miss feeling it, I’m also ready for it to start happening further from my bladder (and lungs, and kidneys).
I’m not sure if I ever actually mentioned the origin of the “Trailmix” nickname, so here it is, for posterity. When we told Baby’s cousins that we were expecting, Johnny asked then-three year old Bean what we should name the baby, and his immediate response was, “Um, Trailmix!” Given that Baby was, at that point, about the size of many elements of trailmix, it stuck. I later explained to Bean that after the baby was born, we’d need to name it after a saint. He thought for a minute before coming up with “Joan of Arc of Padua!” We’re reserving veto power.
We’ve got real names all set, except that our boy middle name is a little up in the air. It’ll probably come down to whether Trailmix is born on a particular feast day. We just missed St. Gildas the Wise, though, and without that, what’s the point?
The doctors have all been really pleased with things; with the exception of one nurse who made a comment about weight (at the first appointment!), the word “textbook” gets used a lot. They’re mildly concerned about measurements, so we’re going to do an ultrasound on Friday to check things out. It’ll be the first one since September, and we’re looking forward to getting one last peek inside. The deal Johnny and I made at the start still stands: if he can look at the screen and figure out the sex, then he gets to know. If not, we’ll be bringing two little outfits to the hospital. Coincidentally, two outfits happens to be about as many as I have left that fit, so come on out, little one!