Posts Tagged ‘pregnancy weight’

Week 37

I have been living in an alternate reality full of denial and disbelief. I guess Pregnancy has served as my punch-line the last nine months, rather than my true state of being. But all that changed this morning. I was getting dressed for a client meeting and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror across the room. Shocked, I realigned myself for a better view. Unbelievable. There was my 93-year old grandma staring back at me—her 200-lb 5’4” frame resplendent in large cotton undergarments and knee-high compression socks. Without my contacts in, I could have sworn Grandma was right there with me, grunting as she bent over to wedge her swollen feet into orthopedic white tennis shoes. At 37-weeks pregnant, I am my mother’s mother.


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Week 32

It’s official–I’m eight months along! Seems like just yesterday that I found out I was pregnant and I went into denial. But now, there is simply no room for denial. Nope. I can feel this little girl growing bigger inside me daily. My breasts and belly have exceeded any size expectations I had in the beginning.

This week also marked me getting very, very ill— and there is nothing that I know of that can be worse than being pregnant and sick at the same time. You certainly can’t pull off cute, that’s for sure.

See, being this big has put a certain damper on love with the husband. Sex would be nice, but how do you do it? Okay, you can do it, but it’s a lot more scientific than wild and crazy.  But you want to make sure that your man isn’t feeling left out or unloved while you grow his baby, and that you are still the girlfriend he remembers wanting to have a baby with…so what do you do?

I resorted to typing dirty text messages to him while he was at work. “Ooh, baby, guess who’s in bed and ready for action?” and “Hurry home for afternoon delight”… I even tried to post a few lusty photos of my gargantuan boobies, but erased them quickly when I saw how veiny and bulbous they looked on screen.  Half of me wanted him to get so excited that he came home immediately—like in the movies. But the more rational side of me thought, Geeze, hope he doesn’t take me up on this ‘cause I look like crap and I just hocked up a loogie the size of a gumball.


According to Clint, it wasn’t that I was sick or untempting that kept him away—duty called at work—but he did like the text messages none-the-less.

Phew. Dodged that bullet.

Meanwhile I lay here in bed; sweats and chills alternating, breathing shallowly through my mouth and trying to find a position that opens the nasal cavities. How are you supposed to rest when you can’t breath? If I’m on my side, everything drains to that side—obviously, I need to lie on my back. But what about the baby? I suffer through guilt, fear and self-loathing. I call girlfriends and leave voice-mails in a cracking-high-pitched voice and watch snippets of Oprah and the Doctors. I watch the clock. I eat cookies. I play three games of Scrabble by myself. Finally, I drift off to sleep somewhere between a re-run of Friends and the five o’clock news. Clint finds me sprawled out in the middle of our bed, wet with sweat, drool running down the side of my face into the pillow case and snoring.

Oh how he must love me.

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Week 29

Yes, I can see my own double chin. Thanks for noticing! My profile is now even more displeasing to me. Dear Plastic Surgeons, yes we will be talking soon. I suppose I’m not too surprised to learn that I have ballooned up in two weeks time. I can’t put my finger on the exact meal that did it —of course it’s always a combination of bad choices—but the large plate of tiramisu that I-did-not-share-one-bite-of could have contributed a greater portion of weight gain than my other pleasant selections.

Getting heavier

Getting Heavier!

Six-point-eight-pounds in two weeks. That’s a lot for a momma when you consider that Baby only weighs, maybe 2.5 lbs total at this point. I’ve officially passed up “The Weight That Could Not Be Attained, Ever.”

My mother, upon hearing the news, did a quick grab test. A grab test is a lot like what the wicked witch did to Hansel and Gretel, i.e., stick your finger through the bar and let me see how plump you are! She came away perplexed. “Hmm, you seem pretty solid to me.”

So, I’ve gained weight. I’ve also developed a healthy (?) fear of losing the baby. I can’t get comfortable at night and inevitably end up on my back, exhausted and wet with sweat, wondering if I am cutting off the femoral artery and yet, too tired to turn over again. Add to that a wariness of anything ‘new’. Just lately, I thought I smelled something fishy when I went to the bathroom. I grabbed my pre-natal care Bible and found: dun-dun-dun…nothing. So, I did what any good hypochondriac does, I called the women’s care line immediately.

Secretary: Hi, thanks for calling the women’s care line! I need your name and birth date please and I’ll have a nurse call you back sometime between noon and three.

Me: Oh, hey, that’s not good enough. I want to speak to a nurse now.

Secretary: Is this an emergency?

Me: Maybe…I don’t know.

Secretary: If you think it might be an emergency, you really need to hang up and dial 911.

Me: Wouldn’t it be easier to patch me through to a nurse?

Secretary: That’s not really how we do things here, m’am.

Me: Listen. I’m at the airport (lie) and I’m about to get on a plane (yikes, another lie), and I have no time to wait for her to call me back—I won’t even be able to answer—and this is really, really important. What if I shouldn’t fly today? What then? Find out later; too late? When I’m dead?

Secretary: (BIG EXHALE) Hold on. I’ll try to locate a nurse.

Nurse: Hello, Josie?

Me: Yes! Hi.

Nurse: You have an emergency question?

Me: I smell something fishy.

Nurse: Fishy…like…what?

Me: I don’t know. Fishy. Is that something to worry about?

Nurse: How’s your discharge looking?

Me: Nothing unusual. I don’t really have ‘discharge’.

Nurse: But you smell something “fishy”.

Me: Yea.

Nurse: Okay—Let’s take a look at you when you get back from wherever you are going. When will you be home?

Me: I could probably be home tomorrow. It’s a really quick flight.

Nurse: Uhm, yea…. Okay, Josie. I’ll pencil that in to your 29 week check-up.


So now I’ve been weighed, measured, pronounced fat and am waiting for Dr. S to show up and tell me all about week 29. She arrives full of vim and vigor (love this woman), while clicking a long metal thing together.

“Hi Josie! So, guess who this is?” she holds up a ghastly steel speculum. “It’s Mr. Speculum!”


“I heard you called yesterday, and you said a Magic Word to my nurse. An enchanted word that conjures Mr. Speculum and all his glorious powers. Can you think of the word?”


“No, FISHY! So get up there girl, and let’s take a look!”

Well, it turns out there is nothing fishy whatsoever about me. It’s that dang pregnancy nose again. Anything normal I smell in triplicate. And if you think I’m gross to referring to a woman’s smell as ‘fishy’, I’ll have you know that Richard Burton’s pet name for Elizabeth Taylor was ‘Ocean’…no wonder they were the love of a decade.

Pregnancy nose is a blessing and a curse.  I can’t stand the smell of uncooked poultry. But, I can find an M&M in the bottom of my purse even when I thought I’d eaten them all. No, I’m not planning on gaining six more pounds this week, but two or three couldn’t kill me. Right?

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