Posts Tagged ‘uncertainty’

Confessions of a (stalled) self-starter

Wednesday, October 28th, 2009

A few things you need to know about me (the non-pregnant me) in order to appreciate this post. Generally speaking, I am an extraordinarily driven, high energy, achievement oriented soul. A mixed bag really, as while possessing these traits allows me to get a lot done when I’m in a good space, they also contribute to the fact that I’m seriously intense, oftentimes opinionated and generally prone to work-a-holism. Translation: for better or worse, I derive my worth from what I accomplish… and therein lies the present problemo. These days, I am not accomplishing anything. Worse still, I feel no inclination to do so.  In short, I’m not quite in that “can I just hole up and cry?” place, but I could definitely benefit from some… something. Now if only I could figure out what that something is (since copious amounts of Chateau Neuf and/or luxious, exorbitant spa days are out of the question), perhaps I could console myself. In the meantime, I’m stuck.

These days, my overall approach to existence seems to be “why bother?” Not that I don’t want to be existing, but that I don’t know who it is that has inhabited my ever-expanding body, so why should I attempt to do things for her? I have no motivation to write and I have even less desire to socialize. After all, there’s no doubt I’m pretty lousy company. At best, my friends must find me one-note and dull, and that’s to say nothing of how horrible I feel for my husband, who has to scramble to interpret my every fluctuation. Yet, while I’m intellectually aware of what I’m like to be around sometimes (I mean, let’s face it, there’s an implicit upside to dealing with a person whose blog is called Mood Swings), I find myself constantly annoyed that he’s not perfect… As in, what the hell was I thinking marrying a man who isn’t psychic?! Isn’t reading my mind part of the deal?!

All of this admitted, being generally self-aware, I know that when I’ve felt blah (okay, crazy)  in the past, I am well served to take even better care of myself — both physically (which I do generally anyway) and also emotionally/mentally. Along those lines, going to the gym and having goals/setting intentions to give me direction and purpose usually improve my state of mind. The trouble is, going to the gym requires the fortitude to leave the house, and being driven requires actually knowing what you want. In other words, in order to self-start, you kind of have to know where you’re going, or at least have a general direction. At this point however, beyond having a baby in the room I know I have to finish (but don’t have the strength, artistry or time on hand to face) before he gets here, I have no clue what my life is going to look like two months from now… or a year from now… or ever again, really. Beyond cute little hands and feet, dimpled legs and arms and tiny outfits with hooded ears (I have to confess, those things completely melt me), I don’t know what to set my sights on. And so it is that I’m floating aimlessly toward motherhood… with that status as my only discernable defining characteristic.

It’s like all of my positive core qualities have been wiped out while all of my neuroses have been magnified. Do you hate me yet? Because between bouts of excitement over the impending arrival (who I imagine to be an amalgamation of my currently absent best characteristics and those of his father… all wrapped up in a – please god – under 9lb package), I most certainly do.

I guess at the end of the day (and this rant), all I can say is this: Poor Dash to one day have his mother’s insanity documented for him on the internet. But since that is indeed a fate that is part of his future (and god knows his birth won’t be the end of his tenure as my subject matter), here’s to hoping I return to some semblance of normalcy.

This way I can hold it all over his head as part of the unsettling (and magical!) experience I endured to bring him into existence.

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Boo, hiss, blah… help!

Friday, October 16th, 2009

The past few days, I’m feeling moderately depressed. Is it circumstantial or is it hormonal? That is the question. Odds are, it’s a little bit of both. From my experience in relationships, when one partner is having a tough time, the other one is meant to be there for support. Trouble is, both J and I are in need of some TLC these days and thus, neither of us is fully able to give it. And so the distance sets in. I feel alone. He doesn’t talk. He is man. I am woman. Only in the most primal sense, we can’t even get that right since I’ve gotten so huge (and uncomfortable) I have no idea how we’re supposed to be able to have sex anymore.

Somewhere deep down, I think doing the deed regularly would help matters… bring us closer… (even if there is a baby foot nestled in my ribcage the whole time and the very act itself has devolved into a slapstick comedy of errors), but I can’t even come close to summoning the interest. Let’s face it, I can’t catch my breath at night and when I wake in the morning, my bones ache courtesy of relaxin. Dash has an uncanny ability for telling exactly when I’m falling off to sleep, taking it as his cue to practice for a 2024 run at gold in floor exercise and I’m back to peeing at least three times a night, only now, my bladder (too compressed to fully function) has about all the power of a prune (and is likely about that size). With that in mind, how am I supposed to tolerate (nevermind actually enjoy) what would sadly amount to further prodding–by a person twice my size? Did I mention the stabbing pains in my hinterlands? To think, I used to complain about getting a Brazilian!

Indeed (and however ironically, considering how we got here), I am NOT in my sexual prime. And I’m terrified I won’t return there for some time… two things that only serve to deepen my despair. Where has Stephanie gone? And will somebody put her back when this whole thing is over?

As if being in total discomfort and existential crisis 24/7 isn’t enough (we won’t even get into the economy, the job market, the reality that I may be forced into de-facto stay at home motherhood at a big cost to my lifestyle… and ego), I still resent J for not trying to get it on with me… despite the fact that I know he’s just being courteous! (Besides, who in their right mind would want to f*@k me right now in the first place?) I’m aware that I’m sending mixed messages… and the code is so complex, I can’t even decipher it myself!

Finally, add to this whole debacle that I have about this much energy and even less tolerance for the myriad of ridiculous things that annoy me and one thing is clear. Six weeks into my marriage, I am not the best wife. And I hate myself for it. What’s even worse is that I have no idea what to do about it… except, that is, to wait, which is inordinately difficult for someone with my proactive personality type. Patience is not my virtue, but I know I’ve got to find some way to implore it… and that way cannot involve Xanax, Ambien or any worthwhile amount of red wine. Don’t French babies drink while in utero? Argh!!!

Luckily, the one and only thing I know I can truly count on at the moment is that this too, shall pass. Just don’t remind me of that fact because I’ll be honest… your use of bad cliches (in reference to my situation… or anything else for that matter) will definitely piss me off.

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Timing Is Everything (or Science v. My Intuition)

Tuesday, October 13th, 2009
When oh when will Dashiell arrive... or at least when is meant to come?

When oh when will Dashiell arrive... or at least when is meant to come?

Before I get into my recently re-ignited concerns over when, exactly, my little bundle of joy is going to make his first appearance outside of my womb, let me start by saying that the results from our fetal MRI are in, and as predicted, Dashiell’s brain is just fine. So fine, in fact, that when my OB called yesterday to inform me there was nothing to worry about, she actually told me that MRI reader had called her and questioned why she’d ordered the procedure in the first place. I don’t know whether that’s more reassuring for me or for the hospital who gets to bill my insurance, but whatever the case, the quote was this:

“Yeah, his ventricles are prominent, but everything looks normal.”

Translation: Dashiell has a big brain… just like his mommy. Yes, we’re back there again. Except, as I mentioned above, something about my perception of all of this has changed. Though I’ve been assured that it’s not the case time and time again, I’m thinking that my son may not be the uber-baby everyone in my medical circle is predicting and that instead, he may very well be  due a few weeks before my EDD of 12/21… which would make him only slightly larger than average.

Now, I understand that early ultrasounds are extremely good predictors of a baby’s due date and the one that we had in the beginning of the second trimester (which has been my doctors’ point of reference during all of these subsequent tests) is probably reliable… But there’s something to be said for a mother’s intuition, too. And I’m just not totally sure I’m buying it. Here’s why:

Prior to all of these concerns about Dash’s giant head and off the charts growth, I always had the feeling I was a little ahead of schedule. I felt fetal movement sometime around week 14-15 (when it’s not said to start until weeks 17-18).  My feet and hands started swelling in July — way before week 27 when What to Expect warned of it. In fact, just about everything in “America’s Pregnancy Bible” happened to me roughly two to three weeks before they told me to expect it. Ironic that an agnostic mom-to-be doesn’t quite trust her baby bible? Perhaps. But the widely accepted guidelines have never been quite right in my case and I always found it curious, particularly when Dash started growing so rapidly. Then again (I told myself), every pregnancy is different. Or at least that’s what the book keeps reminding me, and since my doctors have all assured me that the EDD is right and Dash is just big, I’ve gone along for the ride. Let it suffice to say that I’ve never been able to make that leap from agnostic to full-on non-believer… despite an ex who liked to read me Richard Dawkins in bed. But it is in my nature to question. The same has been true of this pregnancy. (See of Brains and Balls for example.)

Anyway, that’s precisely where I was yesterday (vacillating), when things took a turn. On the heels of the call from my doctor, I started feeling slight cramping. The first rumblings of the prophesied Braxton Hicks contractions I assumed, and as such, nothing to be concerned about. That is until I felt sharp, stabbing pains in my nether regions. Not just like one or two pokes or prods, but like repeated jabs, throughout the afternoon and into the night. A search in the aforementioned What to Expect When You’re Expecting for—forgive me if this is TMI—vaginal pain, turned up empty handed (except as it related to delivery and post-partum discomfort). My handy Mayo Clinic Guide to a Healthy Pregnancy however, did make mention of the phenomenon… as a normal (and indeed, expected) part of pregnancy… in week 33.

You know, three weeks ahead of where I am now. A week in which (were I to be there now), Dashiell would be tracking as only slightly larger than normal.

If these pains are the pains of which the mighty Mayo speaks, they’re related to my cervix preparing to dilate. In first time mothers this can take quite a while… like as long as six to eight weeks. Nowhere does anything say it could take ten… which is what I’m supposed to have left in this pregnancy.

The point is, whether it’s rational or not, I am thinking I need to be ready for Dashiell’s arrival earlier than anticipated. Am I just crazy and paranoid (two oft-forgotten side effects of pregnancy)? Maybe. But with my belly growing increasingly heavy and my middle of the night bathroom trips once again on the upswing, I’m still glad we got the crib and dresser put together this weekend… and I’m determined that we’ll have everything altogether by Thanksgiving, just in case.

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The Sins of the Mother (or Of Brains and Balls)

Thursday, October 1st, 2009

When I was in Miss Pellegrino’s second grade class, we learned about measurements… not the 36-24-36 variety so often on my mind these days as my waistline expands, but the use of inches and feet, centimeters and meters, that sort of thing. Anyway, as part of the lesson, we were instructed to measure a variety of things to which we had easy access – including the circumference of our heads. Easy enough, right? Right. Only my head, it turned out, was the biggest in the class… I’m not sure, but I want to say it was 21 inches. Ginormous for a six year old (according to my smaller headed classmates) and naturally, something to make fun of me for. Luckily however, I was not about to be teased for something that was so obviously not my problem (lest we forget, all the stars have massive noggins). As such, I concluded that my giant head was the result of my giant brain. Translation: I was smarter than everyone else. And that is what I told them.

From a local paper in CT (where I'm from), a kid getting his head measured. Yet another irony... or coincidence.

From a local paper in CT (where I'm from), a kid getting his head measured... Coincidence?

Unfortunately, this didn’t prevent future nicknames like Smithsonian, Webster’s (Dictionary) or–and here’s a favorite for a self-conscious 13 year old girl–Captain Forehead, but it did give me a leg to stand on when trouble arose. That’s right. “I’m smarter/more evolved/more interesting than you” became the defense mechanism that stayed with me through any appearance, behavior or emotional stability-related difficulties until sometime around my 30th birthday. In fact even still, three years later, I occasionally fall back on the same de rigueur position. (Though at this point I know I can’t be that smart… otherwise I’d have a lot more money).

Anyway, the point of telling you all this is that on Monday I learned that Dashiell is no longer in 95th percentile size-wise. Instead, he’s in the 98th (and rapidly headed off the charts). That’s right. At 28 weeks, your average child is 2.25lbs. My little boy? A cool 3.7. And while I used to be amused that he was so gigantic (joking about his genius and his – just like mommy – giant brain), I’m starting to get scared. Not only about how in the hell a person like me (35” hips anyone?) is going to deliver a 10 pound tot, but more importantly, about my baby’s health… Besides, the specialist did say he could be as small as 9 pounds… So why would I worry about my vagina?!

The short answer is that I’m not… not really at least. Here, on the other hand, is the real kicker:

Apparently, Dashiell’s brain really is bigger than normal. So much so at this point, that a Fetal MRI has been scheduled to screen for Ventriculomelagy. Of course the doctor did tell me he sincerely believes everything is fine – that the baby is simply a “big boy” and his brain ventricles likely just reflect his size – but he finished that sentence with “better safe than sorry,” and “the only way to know for sure that everything is okay is to look.” Now intellectually, I completely understand and am in no way alarmed (I’m smarter than most people, remember?). But emotionally? Let’s just say one should never let a concerned pregnant woman near the google. Reading about enlarged ventricles and stints in babies brains and developmental disabilities, is a lot for anyone to take – nevermind a hormonal freakshow with swollen feet, frayed nerves and too much time on her hands… specifically, a full week before she take the test to find out if there is, in fact, something wrong with her little one. And that’s to say nothing of the irony or the completely ridiculous fear that between endocrine disorders and big brain jokes and an inflated ego, I somehow caused this.

In any case, while I wait, I’m working on staying positive, which truthfully isn’t too hard most of the time. After all, here’s what the doctor who ordered the Fetal MRI (and then had me schedule another follow up ultrasound because, as he put it, “I just have to see how big this baby gets“), said.

“Okay, so here’s what you tell your husband,” he began. “His brain is big. They’re going to take a look and it’s probably fine. But his balls – as we say in the medical profession – are HUGE. Yeah. This baby is carrying around a set!”

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Fear and Uncertainty in Los Angeles (An Introduction)

Friday, September 25th, 2009

Here’s the scoop. Six months ago, I was busy planning my wedding (a casual, elegant affair I had no financial business throwing, but had scheduled for September all the same), when… well… let’s just say my mood dipped, drastically. My boobs hurt, I couldn’t sleep through the night and if I didn’t kill myself any second, I was certainly going to brutally murder The (poor, unfortunate) Limey I’d agreed to marry a few months before. Though I will admit that a certain amount of tempestuousness is part of my Scorpio nature (Sun, Moon and three other planets all in the sign of the stinger, tyvm), this was not a normal state of affairs for me… at least not exactly. You see, six weeks earlier I had begun bioidentical hormone therapy to treat my low estrogen and testosterone (not typical conditions at my age, but just two of my four endocrine issues all the same)… and it was working. The black cloud of spiked cortisol had dissipated, my energy was improving and—best of all—my libido was returning after a six-month hibernation!! In fact, for the first time since my rollercoaster of hormone disorders began (robbing me of vitality and signaling a cruel “welcome to your 30s, kid!”), I felt just as I always had prior to these problems… in other words, like nothing could stop me.

Until, one morning in early April, I didn’t. And understandably (after three years of yo-yoing treatments, none of which seemed to do the trick for more than a few weeks), I was terrified. Especially when the feeling got worse… and worse… and worse. Not only was I nauseated and teary 24/7, but I couldn’t bring myself to write (which I have to do to make a living) and I didn’t want to get out of bed! Worried that recovery was all a hoax and that the once vibrant, sassy, sexy Stephanie would heretofore be replaced with an angry, a-sexual, acid-tongued shrew I couldn’t stand to face in the mirror, I was ready to crawl in a hole and die… When, one Friday evening (following a few glasses of medicinal Veuve Clicquot at the Avalon), I found out I had another thing coming.

You guessed it, (though let’s be honest, it shouldn’t be too hard since this blog is on The Cradle), turned out, I was pregnant.

Two positive pee sticks, a blood test, six ultrasounds and some 24 weeks later, I am officially nearing the end of the second trimester of my very first (albeit totally unplanned) pregnancy… And already, so much about my life has changed. I survived the stress of planning a wedding, am now happily (though very newly) married and am sporting a basketball sized belly inside which a little boy by the name of Dashiell Alexander currently resides, listening to my every word and kicking me on occasion (though only when I deserve it). I have also been introduced (and indoctrinated into) a world of acronyms, abbreviations and information I didn’t previously know existed (BFP, SAHM, MIL?!), and I’ve been touched as my friends with children have come out of the woodwork, willing to listen and eager to share the experiences of being a parent. I’ve even begun to feel closer to my own mom (despite the fact that she drives me crazy sometimes!), simply because I can now truly understand the bond that she feels to me as her (only) child. But there is still one catch in this blissfully happy, joyous, insta-family situation. A catch I haven’t shared with my DH or the army of supporters who have offered their help, advice and understanding… mostly because I feel too selfish admitting that I’m what’s been on my mind these days.

You see, while I’m extremely excited for Dashiell’s arrival and thrilled about becoming a mom… at the same time, I’m nervous—scared really—about what exactly, is going to become of me. All these new titles (wife, mother-to-be, mother), the stuff we spend our young lives aspiring to… but now what? Who am I really? For the first time in my life, I feel less certain about my future than I ever have before. Will my career disappear just as it was starting to take off? Will my goals all change in the face of this little person who has already become the center of my universe? Who will I become?

(And most importantly, will that person have stretch marks?)

Luckily, I’ve got three months before little Dash arrives to figure it all out. And whilst chronicling my misadventures, figuring it all out is exactly what I will try to do here, in this blog. So wish me luck and please, join me. God knows, I need all the help I can get!

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