Well, Internet, here I am. Back from the holidays. No more presents, no more waking up to parents making you breakfast, no more staying up late watching License to Drive.
What? Don’t YOU always celebrate the holidays with the two Coreys?
I had – as I hope you did – an AWESOME holiday break, kicked off by my birthday (and thanks to all of you who stopped by to wish this Turkey a happy day). Last Monday evening, I rang in my 32nd year by going out for a lovely dinner with Brad, during which I ate a very sad little portion of chicken parmesan. You see, Internet, it seems I have reached the point in my pregnancy where I can eat approximately 3 tablespoons of food before it starts to immediately backtrack up my esophagus, which is hilaaaaaaaarious. The scary part is, I’m only at 6 months. This fetus seems to have some serious boundary issues. I’m thinking perhaps it’s time to strategically place some masking tape between my stomach and uterus, Brady-Bunch-style, so that this kid can stop pushing my breakfast up into my throat already.
Good morning, everyone!!!
But for all the mealtime encores and rapidly-increasing indigestion (ever belch suddenly and uncontrollably in the presence of a coworker? No? Then you have not lived, my friend), I’m also getting stronger and more frequent movement. Like, almost constantly. It feels like it’s Peanut-Butter-Jelly-Time 24/7 up in there.
With a baseball bat!
I’m still trying to determine which sensations are coming from what kind of movement – I’m pretty sure I can tell the flips from the gentler punches and roundhouse kicks – but last week as I watched my 4-week-old sleeping niece and her involuntary naptime gestures, it really hit me that HEY, SOMEONE’S DOING THAT INSIDE OF ME RIGHT NOW, and I may have stopped breathing for just a second or two. Or sixty.
Add to this the fact that my first baby shower has been scheduled, I received a diaper bag (and diapers!) as Christmas gifts, the nursery has now been painted, and my due date is precisely 3 months from next Monday?
You and me both, kid.
(Also, please take a moment to enjoy my niece’s spectacular Beaker hair.)
Probably one of the biggest surprises of pregnancy is that – for me, at least – the realization that I’m pregnant and will eventually have a real, live baby at the end of this never stops being a complete and total shock. Yeah, morning sickness is an adjustment, and learning that scary statistic about hemorrhoids was a trip, but this whole ‘becoming a parent’ thing? Ain’t no way to prepare for that, my friends.
Or is there? I mean, I imagine not everyone approaches pending parenthood with the same wide-eyed WTF-ed-ness as I do, but I tend to believe that if you don’t nearly crap your pants out of fear at SOME point during the pregnancy, then…you might just be crazy.
Although you’d save a lot of money not needing these.
So…what was I saying? Oh yeah. This entry was supposed to be about the general malaise of the fun-fun-fun holidays being over and the empty despair I feel whenever I hear a Christmas carol after December 26th (not to mention the bleak task of taking down the tree), but it seems I have veered off into pregnancy-ville, as I am wont to do. Please forgive me. I have a prenatal appointment and my glucose tolerance test this afternoon, and the anticipation of the sugar rush/crash has me a bit distracted.
But this year I am lucky: I get to prolong the holiday spirit a bit longer because this weekend I’m hosting an informal family get-together so that the aunts, uncles & cousins can meet my sister’s new baby. And this means I get to keep the tree up and use my special Christmas dishes. Sure, the cookies will be stale by then, and I think I’ll be pushing it if I try to play Christmas carols, but the excitement of having (blessedly-short-term) houseguests is enough to qualify as holiday excitement as far as I’m concerned. But after next weekend, it’s UNQUESTIONABLY not the holidays anymore but officially JANUARY. Long, cold, cookie-less January. When I was little, I used to intensely dread January – it was always the month during which I contracted some evil cold or flu, so I associated the end of the Christmas season with, well, pestilence and suffering.
I’ve learned that the best plan of attack when it comes to January is to make it busy. So busy you don’t feel that little piece of you die every day at 5:05pm when it’s completely dark outside and there are no twinkly little lights illuminating the neighborhood. This plan worked pretty well for me last year – I filled the month with travel and trying out all my newly acquired kitchen gadgets. This year it looks like my weekends will be filled with Steelers playoff games and a baby shower (and a potential visit from my friends Bird and Boobs, should the Steelers fuck up the first weekend).
So I have a lot to look forward to. I KNOW this. But still, every year when it comes time to switch my radio from non-stop Christmas carols back to my usual free-range, organic, listener-supported public station?
You might as well tell him you’re sleeping with his wife, then hit him with a goddamn car.
Entry filed under: Gobble-gobble.