Week 29: Little Suzy Homemaker

I am living the life of a retiree at age 31. Presumably, I am still self-employed, though once clients start hearing that you’re expecting a baby, it’s remarkable how quickly the assignments taper off.

So yesterday I got up at 9 a.m., ate some high-fiber cereal (more on that later), watched the “Today” show, and went to my sewing lesson. That’s right, I’m taking sewing lessons. My mother and mother-in-law have conspired to see that I’m schooled in the domestic arts by the time this baby arrives. They keep offering to buy me a sewing machine, and they send me money for lessons since they’re not around to teach me themselves.

Not that they haven’t tried. But sewing always seemed so tedious and time-consuming, not to mention impractical. I mean, why go buy a bunch of fabric, patterns, pins, etc. and spend hours slaving over a sewing machine when you can just pop over to Old Navy and pick up a brand new shirt for $9.99?

I’ve learned part of the answer to that question: sewing kills time. A lot of time. And that’s one thing I have in abundance right now. So I signed up for private sewing lessons with Irene, a bespectacled 60-something with a dry wit and a knack for needlework. She is part of a clique of white-haired ladies that hangs out at a local fabric store.

It’s a whole little subculture, complete with its own language. They talk about selvedges and quarter-inch feet and “thread play.” They praise each other’s patchwork teddy bears and complain about their latest projects. Irene’s having quite a time with the sleeves of a Renaissance costume she’s sewing for her granddaughter’s school play.

So yesterday it was just me and the white-haired ladies. My quilt is coming along quite nicely. Irene loves to tell people, “This young lady is working on her very first quilt for her baby.” This seems to please the old ladies.

I thought I was a perfectionist until I met Irene. She folds, creases, measures, and re-measures the fabric before she cuts it within eighths of an inch. “Close enough” is not in her vocabulary. She insists I rip out a crooked seam I would’ve ignored. I know she’s right, though.

I’ve got the whole front side of my quilt completed. As I look at the bright, cheery fabrics I stitched together with my own two hands (with some help from Irene’s), I feel a glow of maternal pride. I try not to think about the quilts on sale across the street at Filene’s Basement. Where’s the fun in that?

Weird Symptom of the Week: Because my blood iron levels are low, my doctor has prescribed twice-daily iron supplements. In case you didn’t know, iron tends to, uh, slow down the plumbing. Hence the high-fiber diet. Prune juice, anyone?

Week 28: Hypno-What?!

Last night we had our first HypnoBirthing class. Now, if you’re like us, you’re thinking, “That sounds pretty wacky.” It might even conjure up images of the hypnotist who performed at your high school graduation after-party. You know, the bowtie-wearing guy with the staticky microphone who made the captain of the track team stand up on his chair and bark like a dog.

Well, HypnoBirthing’s not like that. It’s more akin to the kind of hypnosis people undergo to lose weight or quit smoking. It’s even more similar to the type of positive thinking techniques self-help gurus promote on infomercials.

So what’s a perfectly normal couple like C. and me doing at a HypnoBirthing class? Well, the thing is, despite my initial skepticism and subtle mockery of the concept, it intrigues me. I may shop at Ann Taylor and lust over Pottery Barn furniture, but at heart I’m a little less conservative than I might appear. I’m into feng shui. I read my horoscope regularly. I once tried on a wedding dress made out of hemp. And as my doctor put it, “You’re a vegetarian and you do yoga. You might do well with HypnoBirthing.” She’d already pegged me as the earthy-crunchy type.

So, with visions of patchouli and Birkenstocks dancing in our heads, C. and I pulled up to the house where the class was held. Another couple was stepping out of their Honda CRV. “That guy looks like me,” said C., with audible relief. We scrapped our escape plans and followed them inside.

As it turns out, we are the only two couples in the class. The instructor, Marjorie, makes up for her pupils’ lack of weirdness, however. She is a middle-aged mother of five with a Dorothy Hamill haircut and an intense gaze. She fixed it on each of us in turn as she asked us about our expectations about childbirth, what we did for exercise, and whether we preferred nature sounds to Tibetan chanting. C. filled the nervous silence for much of the class. The rest of us were grateful for his easy banter.

But even C. lost his composure a bit when Marjorie invited us to try various massage techniques on our partners. “My hands are palm fronds, sweeping gently across her back,” she cooed, as she demonstrated on our classmate. “What?!” said C. “Shhhh! Palm fronds!” I glowered back at him.

For next week, we’re supposed to read up on HypnoBirthing vocabulary. (Instead of “contractions,” the preferred term is “waves of energy.” Instead of “water breaking,” we refer to “membranes rupturing,” and instead of “delivery” we say “birthing process.”) We also have to pick out our birthing background music (I’m guessing Gwen Stefani is not recommended) and practice our visualization techniques. I, for one, will be going the Caribbean beach route rather than the balloons-and-blue-silk-ribbons route. Don’t ask. It’s a HypnoBirthing thing.

Weird Symptom of the Week: I’ve forgotten about this feature for a couple of weeks. The latest? Baby hiccups. Either that, or the rhythmic pulsing means the baby has really cranked up the bass on the constant dance party he’s having in there.

Week 27: What’s Up, Doc?

The next task on our parents-to-be checklist is to choose a pediatrician. I’ve been putting it off because it seems so daunting. First, I’ve got to poll friends and acquaintances for their recommendations. And, inevitably, everybody tells you something different. One loves their grandfatherly-type doctor, while another cautions against going to any physician who’s been out of medical school longer than you’ve been alive. Then we’re advised to actually interview potential pediatricians in person. I printed a two-page questionnaire off a parenting web site, though I don’t even understand half the questions. What do I know about vaccinations or co-sleeping?

Let me tell you, this is considerably more effort than I’ve ever expended choosing a medical professional for myself. Usually, I just open the insurance booklet and pick someone with a name I can pronounce. Or I go with the one who has the first available appointment. Hardly discriminating, but what do I care? Normally I see a doctor once, maybe twice a year. And most spend less than five minutes with their patients, anyway. I had planned to be more thorough when choosing my OB/GYN, but I was pregnant by the time my appointment rolled around with the first potential doctor a friend recommended. I liked her well enough and it seemed like a hassle to switch at that point, so I stuck with her.

We’re going to be spending a lot more time with our baby’s pediatrician, though, so I’m willing to make the effort to find a good one. The first one we met with, Dr. M., is an older woman who treats my friend S.’s kids. She was warm, friendly, and reassuring to C. and me, who clearly know nothing about children’s healthcare. She talked a lot about breastfeeding. She had a reasonable selection of magazines in the waiting room.

The second pediatrician we met with was a guy my friend’s wife had gone to medical school with. Dr. G. is a young, newly-minted pediatrician with an amiable personality. In addition to his office hours and the staggering number of appointments we’d need in the baby’s first year of life, he talked about his dog and his baby daughter. Her name happens to be C.’s number-one choice at the moment. (In the waiting room, C. told me that my first choice for a girl’s name has just been taken by his coworker’s new pug puppy. If this were the only dog we knew with that name, I might ignore it. As it happens, we know two others. What’s with giving canines people names?!) Dr. G. also talked a lot about breastfeeding. His office is conveniently close to a good bakery/coffee shop.

I’m particularly aware of the importance of our decision because of the bond I had with my childhood pediatrician, Dr. Robinson. He was a genial man with slicked-back, chestnut hair who always sounded slightly congested. He once bet me a six-pack of root beer that I didn’t have a bladder infection. I won the bet. (A mixed victory, since guzzling soft drinks is probably the last thing anyone in that condition should be doing.) Still, I liked and trusted my childhood doctor. I would like our child to have a similar experience.

So I guess that means my decision on which doctor to choose should be based on more than whose office is closest to a Starbucks and has the best magazines in the waiting room. Though I really can’t underestimate the value of a good white chocolate mocha and the latest issue of National Geographic Traveler.

Week 26: Fit Mama II

I never got around to signing up for a prenatal yoga class. It seemed like too much on top of the birthing classes and all the home improvements we're working on. So I’ve continued with my regular Tuesday night yoga class, albeit with a few modifications.

For instance, the Cobra is now out of the question, as is any other pose that involves lying on my stomach. So I’ve invented an alternate pose I call Begging Dog. It involves raising myself up on my arms and extending my neck while keeping my knees in contact with the ground. It’s similar to what my dog, Gracie, does when she smells peanut butter and sticks her snout in the air to get a better whiff.

Then there’s the Dead Manatee, where I flop over onto my back and lift my inflated midsection into the air, imitating a large aquatic mammal that’s gone belly up. This is similar but not identical to the Reclining Hippo.

Since I am the only pregnant person in the class, I do feel self-conscious at times. I used to take pride in my Bow Pose and Dancer’s Pose, envisioning myself as the epitome of elegance and grace. Now, not so much. I refrain from grunting if at all possible, but I often cannot stifle the occasional groan or moan when shifting position. And I flop these days more than I flow. True yogis would shudder, I’m certain.

Still, I have to give myself credit for showing up. That I make it off the couch and into the gym these days is pretty amazing in itself. So I’m not my former fit, flexible self. But I can do a pretty mean Lumbering Elephant.

Week 25: The Waiting is the Hardest Part

Here’s what no one tells you about pregnancy: it’s often kind of boring. There will be days, weeks even, when not a whole lot happens. Sure, the baby is growing and changing constantly inside that big belly of yours, but from the outside, it’s not that exciting.

Let me clarify: I am thankful that my pregnancy has been uneventful, medically speaking. I have felt great for the most part, and have had no complications. I realize I’m very lucky. It’s just that, except for my occasional doctor’s appointments, there’s not all that much to do while I’m waiting for the baby to finish up in there and get born already.

We’ve ordered the crib, registered for baby gear, and are putting the finishing touches on the nursery. I’ve read more books than I ever knew existed about pregnancy, birth, baby names, and infant care. We’ve signed up for childbirth classes, gotten recommendations for pediatricians, and borrowed an infant car seat. I’m even learning to sew and knit, for Pete’s sake. That should tell you how much time I’ve had on my hands lately.

So now, there’s not much left to do but wait. Of course, few people – especially those who already have kids – have much sympathy for me. “Ha! You certainly won’t be bored in a few months,” they say. “You’ll WISH you had time to be bored!” Or sometimes they’ll say, “Enjoy it while it lasts. This time will be gone before you know it.”

Yet somehow, knowing that come June, I may not have time to shower, let alone take in a movie or get my nails done, doesn’t make those activities oh-so-much more enjoyable now. I’ve always been able to do those things. Big deal. I think they really only take on heightened appeal when you can’t remember when you last had time to do them.

I do take advantage of being able to sleep in when I feel like it, and go out to dinner with my husband. I keep telling myself, “In a few months, these date nights will be rare occasions that will require advance planning, a babysitter, and a list of emergency phone numbers.” I guess I could get started on that list now. It just seems so … boring.

Weird Symptom of the Week: Sleep is now frequently interrupted by calf cramps, bathroom visits, and general anxieties about work, breastfeeding, and the expiration dates on the dairy products in the fridge. Also, my stomach looks and feels like an overinflated basketball. I fear that it may explode at any moment.

Week 24: Our Other Baby

I’ve neglected to mention until now that there is actually already another member of our immediate family besides C. and me: Gracie the dog. We adopted our lovable mutt from a shelter about a year ago. She’s got a scraggly black beard, soulful eyes, and a tendency to toss her Milkbones the minute she’s locked inside a moving vehicle. (She gets that from me – weak stomachs run in the family).

Gracie is the sweetest dog in the world, even if she’s no Rhodes scholar. She flees from garden gnomes and barks viciously at wind chimes. She’s fallen face-first into duck ponds and off the edge of decks because she’s unable to distinguish them from solid ground. She has consumed entire boxes of roach poison and peppermint tea, along with several recycling bins’ worth of junk mail. What can I say? We love her anyway. Maybe too much.

Sometimes I look into Gracie’s deep brown eyes and say, “Dog, you have no idea how your life is going to change in a few months.” She’s used to being the baby of the family – commanding all our attention and affection, sleeping at the foot of our bed, being taken to the dog park on weekends. Little does she know that in May, a little pink (not to mention loud and stinky) interloper is going to join the family. Poor pooch doesn’t even see it coming.

She may have her suspicions, though. The whole week after we got back from our “babymoon” she gave us the cold shoulder. Wouldn’t come out of her bed, wouldn’t play with her favorite sock-ball, wouldn’t even come upstairs when we whistled. The brat.

Gracie would have even more reason to resent us if she knew that I have considered taking her name away and giving it to the baby. Don’t judge me! We have been having such a hard time coming up with a girl’s name that we both like and that sounds good with our last name. “Gracie” works. And we wasted it on the dog! Anyway, we already renamed her once. At the shelter they called her “Jacquita.” Would another name change really matter at this point? Still, I can’t bring myself to do it. “Gracie” is such a brilliant misnomer for our clumsy mutt.

I hope that Gracie will adjust to having a baby around the house. Like I said, she’s a sweet dog and she’s good with kids. Plus, she and the baby can bond as they slobber on anything within arm’s (or paw's) reach.

Weird Symptom of the Week: This is a new addition to my journal, made necessary by the fact that I am now experiencing random, pregnancy-associated discomforts. This week, it’s calf cramps in the middle of the night. Can you say OUCH?!

Week 23: Up to My Ears in Baby Gear

A baby requires more gear than an expedition up Mount Everest. Not only do you need a crib, changing table, bassinet, rocking chair, and playpen, you also apparently need a highchair, a stroller, a baby carrier, an infant car seat, a convertible car seat, a bouncy seat, and a swing (motorized, with six speeds and 15 musical selections). And that’s not even counting all the diapers and clothing and bedding and bathing and breast-feeding paraphernalia.

Now, I know you may be thinking what I was thinking: Surely babies don’t need ALL this stuff. I mean, there are tribes in Africa that raise their children with no other accoutrements than a homemade baby sling fashioned out of a sarong.

But here in the U.S., as any experienced parent will tell you, you not only need all this stuff, but you would be willing to sacrifice an organ rather than live without it. At least, this is what my friend T. told me as we were wandering the aisles of Babies R Us, scanner in hand. Yes, when you register for baby gear at these places, they set you loose with a multi-page checklist of “must-haves” for new parents and a scanner so you can zap any piece of merchandise your little heart desires.

I didn’t get any further than the diaper-pail aisle when I froze up. Did I want the Diaper Genie, which turns dirty diapers into magical, stink-free, hermetically sealed sausages? Or should I go with the plain old diaper pail that looks like a regular kitchen trashcan? T. and I examined the inner workings of a few models while she pointed out that some contained no form of odor-shielding apparatus – a crucial feature, for obvious reasons – and others required special, extremely expensive refills. Do you know how many diapers a newborn goes through in a day? Four or five? Maybe six? Try TWELVE, people!! At that rate, the money we’d spend on the diaper pail refills would burn through the kid’s college fund in a few months flat. So I went with the basic model.

It got a little easier as we moved on to the other aisles. Digital thermometer – zap! Baby bathtub – zap! Highchair – zap! Baby Bjorn – zap! I stalled again when faced with the swings and bouncy seats. Surely I wouldn’t need both. Most of these contraptions are the size of major kitchen appliances, not to mention rather gaudy. But T. remarked that while the swing was guaranteed to lull her daughter to sleep, only the portable bouncy seat would do for trips to Grandma’s. Fine. Zap! Zap!

I nearly had a meltdown when we got to the strollers, though. Talk about too many choices. And I’m not even referring to colors and fabrics. There are umbrella strollers, jogging strollers, reclining strollers, ultra-light strollers, and “travel systems.” That’s the marketing term for these all-in-one thingies that include an infant car seat that snaps onto a stroller, which folds up to fit in a car trunk.

See, the idea is that this one stroller will accommodate your child when she’s an infant and then convert into a toddler stroller, all the while providing you with nifty features like rain canopies, under-seat storage, and cup holders. But here’s the catch – this convenient “system” weighs more than most 10-year-olds. The thing is HEAVY, and that’s without an actual human baby in it!

Speaking of which – side note – I am beginning to feel ridiculously heavy myself. My body is not used to carrying a 20-lb. bowling ball strapped to its front. At least, I’m assuming that’s where the extra 20 lbs. has settled, since the rest of me looks about the same and the baby only weighs about 1 lb. at this point. Anyway, it’s starting to get a little uncomfortable, walking around, sleeping, and digesting with this large weight resting just above my belt. Best not to think about what month nine holds in store …

So, back to the baby gear. Not only is most of this stuff heavy, unwieldy, and garishly colored, it’s also EXPENSIVE. Of course, the idea of registering is that other people will buy it for you. (You know, the same people who shelled out for that platinum-rimmed Waterford wedding china that’s now gathering dust in your dining room.) But why go broke giving someone a six-speed motorized swing when you could just get a cute onesie and a pack of bibs and be done with it?

Odds are, we’re going to end up purchasing most of this stuff ourselves, however impractical it may be to fork over $90 for a mass-produced baby carrier we’ll only use for three months. That homemade African sling’s starting to sound pretty good. I wonder if it comes with a lumbar support attachment?

Week 22: I’ve Popped!

At some point over the past week or two, I have started to really look pregnant. Of course, people who know me could tell something was up awhile ago. But to the rest of the world I think I just looked like I was carrying a little extra weight around the middle. You couldn’t even tell in baggy T-shirts. But now, it’s unmistakable. I have an upside-down salad bowl protruding from my abdomen – with the tell-tale “outie” belly button on top.

The reactions I’ve gotten so far have ranged from, “Oh, look how cute your belly is!” (immediately reaching out to touch said belly) to “Holy sh*t! You look, like, completely pregnant already.” (This from my ever-sensitive brother.) For the most part, I’m not too concerned about my extra weight (19 lbs. and counting). But occasionally, some doubts creep in – say, when I’m squeezing into my biggest pants and I still can’t button them. Or when my stomach casts a shadow over my knees. Or when I look at myself from the side and notice that my belly now sticks out farther than my chest. Or when I think about the fact that I’ve still got almost four months to go before this bun’s ready to come out of the oven.

When I’m not thinking about my ever-changing shape, I’m thinking about baby furniture. You thought it ended with the glider/recliner? Oh, no, my friend, you’re sadly mistaken. Even more important than the chair is the crib. I had naively imagined that finding a plain, white, mid-priced crib would be a cinch. But that was before I wandered into Babies R Us and discovered convertible cribs, sleigh cribs, single drop sides, double drop sides, and wheels. Prices varied by hundreds of dollars. And it turns out white cribs are no longer in fashion – who knew? Natural wood finishes like cherry, honey oak, sandy pine, and chestnut are popular now.

Of course, no two brands use the same finishes or the same names, so good luck trying to match a crib and a dresser from different lines. And you can be sure that your favorite crib will only come with a matching deluxe double dresser with a hutch – costing hundreds more than the simple changing table you had in mind. (That only comes in deep mahogany, sorry.) The helpful salespeople might also mention that the cribs may take anywhere from eight to 14 weeks to ship, though they can’t guarantee delivery before your child’s out of diapers.

Hubby and I spent way too many Saturdays and way too much time on the Internet before throwing in the towel. That happened right around the time we looked up user reviews of the crib we’d finally decided on. One user gave it five stars and praised its sturdy construction, while another gave it half a star and described in graphic detail how one of the wooden rails had split, causing her maimed child to be rushed to the hospital. Comforting.

So we went ahead and ordered a basic, white, mid-priced crib from Sears. They’re a reliable company, we reasoned. The elderly salesman in the furniture department had a grandfatherly quality; surely he wouldn’t steer us wrong. Plus, it was on sale. When it doubt, let frugality prevail. Next we ordered a simple white dresser – also on sale – from JC Penney. We plan to throw a $25 changing pad on top and call it a day.

Will the finishes match exactly? I fear not. (One woman’s “eggshell” is another woman’s “satin.”) Will our baby need to be rushed to the hospital because of faulty construction? I sure hope not. The medical bills would definitely cancel out the money we saved by not getting the deluxe honey oak hutch.

Week 21: Babymoon in Paradise

Before I got pregnant, C. and I had been planning a trip to Buenos Aires in February. We later scrapped that plan and decided to find someplace closer and cheaper. After all, we’ve got a lot of major purchases coming up. So when we found cheap airfare to Florida this month, we decided to take a week-long vacation while we still can. The travel industry has actually coined a term for a final pre-baby getaway -- the babymoon.

Since I’ve never been to the Florida Keys, we decided that might be a fun destination. We chose Key Largo because it’s the closest to the mainland. I didn’t think my pregnant bladder could survive the much longer drive to Key West.

When we arrived at the airport in Florida, they didn’t have the car we reserved so they gave us a white convertible – bonus! We found a great little hotel on the Internet overlooking Florida Bay. The décor was very classy and modern, with tile floors, leather couches, a spacious bathroom, and a kitchenette. (You know we pregnant chicks love to eat!)

I was kind of surprised when the guy who runs the hotel said “Congratulations” as soon as we walked in. C. assumed I had told him I was pregnant, but I hadn’t. Plus, I was wearing a flowy tunic top and didn’t think it was that obvious. But he kept commenting on how pregnant I was – “Are you eating everything in sight yet? Better be careful if you go kayaking.” – that I started to get a bit of a complex! He’s the first stranger who’s commented on my pregnancy immediately upon meeting me.

Anyway, he was a pleasant guy, and he ran a nice hotel. The best thing about it was that they deliver fresh pastries and yogurt to guests’ doorsteps every morning. By the second day of our stay, my stomach had developed its own internal pastry clock, awakening me in anticipation of the yummy papaya- and guava-filled croissants by 8:30 a.m. (On our last day, they gave us three – one for the baby!)

Our first day in Key Largo was in the low 80s and sunny. We drove a couple miles down the road to a state park, where there were two sandy beaches with restrooms and refreshments nearby – another bonus! The water was pretty chilly, so we just sat on the beach and relaxed in the sun.

But it was a good thing I brought two swimsuits -- my newly voluptuous figure proved too much of a strain on my pre-pregnancy bikini, causing the top to pop open unexpectedly when I bent down to pick up my book. Luckily, C. provided a screen while I covered myself!

That afternoon, we rented kayaks for what I hoped would be an easy paddle for a couple of hours. Things started out fine, but an hour or so into it, we got turned around in the narrow channels and lost our way. Three hours and some choppy water later, we somehow ended up back at our starting point, exhausted. I was a little scared I’d damaged my unborn baby. But when I felt him/her moving around later that night, I relaxed.

The next day was overcast, so we drove to Key West for the day. It was a nice drive along the Overseas Highway, but by the time we got there, we only had enough time to eat lunch and look in a couple of shops before we had to head back for my prenatal massage appointment in Key Largo. Key West seemed a little too busy and crowded for my tastes, anyway.

The spa at the Marriott just down the road from our hotel was situated in an open-air tiki hut overlooking the pool. My massage therapist had outfitted the pregnancy-appropriate massage table (topped with a special cushion with scooped-out areas for my boobs and belly) with heated blankets. The massage was amazing. Though I don’t know what exactly was prenatal about it. I’d heard you’re not supposed to stimulate certain parts of your feet and ankles because it can cause contractions, but she didn’t seem to avoid those areas. Anyway, afterward I felt unbelievably relaxed.

At night we didn’t do much more than eat and go back to the hotel to watch movies in our room. The first night we had the most amazing coconut-crusted mahi mahi with curry raisin sauce at this little hole-in-the-wall place down the road. The next night we headed down the highway to a fancy French restaurant in Islamorada. I keep thinking to myself, we won’t be able to come places like this once the baby arrives. It was a super-elegant, waterfront restaurant with dark wood paneling, cream walls, and black and white nautical prints. Kind of like we’d decorate our family room if we could afford to. My potato-crusted grouper with roasted tomatoes was a work of art, as delicious as it was attractive. So was C.’s wahoo with seafood risotto. Even though we were stuffed, we ordered the crème brulee for dessert. Hey, I’m eating for two, right?

The last day, we drove back to West Palm Beach and stayed with my grandfather. It was fun to see him, and my aunt and cousin from Kentucky were visiting, so I got to see them, too. Everyone made a big deal over my pregnancy, and my aunt gave me some cute maternity clothes. (So far I haven’t had to buy any for myself!) We came home relaxed and ready to tackle the baby’s room. Well, maybe we'll start on it next weekend …

Week 20: Don't Mess With Mama

The first half of my pregnancy has been remarkably easy, happy, and free of stress, strife, and morning sickness. People have even told me that I have that special mom-to-be glow. Too good to be true? Yep. This week the meconium hit the fan. (For those who haven’t been hitting the baby books like I have, that’s a fancy word for baby’s first poo, described as a “tar-like, greenish-black substance.” Pleasant, huh?)

First, things got sticky at work. Two clients, whom I’ll euphemistically describe as “challenging” to work with, came back to me with last-minute complaints and/or changes on projects I’d thought were long since completed. One had the gall to underpay me and insult my work to boot. Part of me wanted to say, “Kiss my rapidly expanding posterior. I have more important things to worry about.” But of course, that would be unprofessional, not to mention it would draw unwanted attention to that particular body part.

So I bit my tongue and did my best to satisfy these people. But inside, I seethed. I seethed so much that I gave myself stomachaches, woke up at 3 a.m. running through perfect come-backs in my mind, and just generally made myself (and my poor husband) miserable. I envisioned toxic waves of negativity flowing through my body, endangering my baby. And that made me mad. These mean, ridiculous, nitpicky people had gotten under my skin and were interfering with my life, my pregnancy, MY BABY. I believe I experienced my very first episode of “protective mother rage.” How dare someone mess with my (unborn) child!

So once all that drama passed, I got hit with a nasty stomach virus. My husband had suffered through it a week before and I was thanking my lucky stars that I’d managed to avoid it. But no, the bug was festering inside me, waiting for the most inopportune time to erupt. For the past 24 hours, I’ve barely been able to keep down peppermint tea and Saltines.

I have renewed sympathy for women with morning sickness now. I don’t know how they get through a day, let alone weeks or months, feeling like that. I feel very lucky to have escaped it. My biggest fear, instilled by the nurse at my doctor’s office, was that I would become dehydrated and have to get an IV. Needles and I don’t go together so well. Fortunately, I woke up this morning after 12 hours of sleep feeling like a new person.

This week has taught me not to take my pregnancy, or my health, for granted. My body’s got an important job to do, the most important job it will probably ever have – creating a new life. And it’s my job to make sure I keep my body in the best operating condition possible. If that means kicking a few unappreciative clients to the curb, so be it. My baby’s worth it.