We had our first appointment at Pacifica with the midwives and doulas this week. I’ve managed to gain 4 lbs in the past 3 weeks due to a liberal attitude toward dessert and pre-breakfast, or first breakfast, depending on how you want to see it.
Most of the appointment was spent going over what I eat, how I feel, how I sleep, and the midwives’ advice on such things. I felt a bit self-conscious and tedious talking so much about my day-to-day habits. The ladies also have a tendency to defer to one another, and their excessive politeness is both charming and a little annoying. When the lead midwife gives me nutrition advice she’ll always ask the others “Do you have anything to add?” I think she’s just trying to make sure the two junior doulas have a chance to speak, but her constant deference also reads as insecurity.
They also prodded my stomach and uterus a bit, feeling that it had moved up and enlarged, and applying enough pressure to remind me that maybe I’ve been a bit too delicate with myself. They offered to try to find the baby’s heartbeat, but we couldn’t hear anything but whooshing. I was repeatedly urged “not to worry”; that its little heart was as yet inaudible to the naked doppler.
Also, the ladies agreed that 13 weeks marks the end of the first trimester, though every other pregnancy blog and resource says that the 2nd tri doesn’t start until week 14. I am pleased with their judgement though, even minorly triumphant.
It feels like an accomplishment to have made it through a whole third of a pregnancy. In a weirdly god-like way (a feeling I distrust, but indulge in) I feel utterly responsible for “making” this tiny person; he/she is, in totality, a sum of everything I’ve eaten, my numerous naps, diligant vitamin-taking, abstaining and restraining. My body is willingly hostage to its growth, and I am grateful to have reached a milestone.
Super excited to start to feel movement, to actually hear the heartbeat, to find out the gender, and to actually have a bump!
This week the bump has definitely started to show. In the evenings moreso, as the food baby begins to cushion the actual baby..
I’m planning on telling people at work next week before it becomes a question. I am becoming more boobs and belly, whereas before I was pretty much horizontal lines and angles. I’ve been conflicted about how I’d feel about body changes. Being comfortable with everything expanding is something that I’ve had to just breath in and let go.
At the gym I’ve begun discreetly mentioning my state to fitness instructors so that they can give me direction on how to modify exercises. During a weights class at work, the very brassy and very French instructor outed me in front of the entire class:
“Who is ze pregnant one?” she shouts into her face microphone. I tentatively raise one hand to elbow height. “YOU.” She points. I’m in the back of a class of 30 or so. Everyone turns around. “No crunches for ze pregnant one. You don’t crunch ze baby!”
I’m proud to be “ze pregnant one” but also quietly glad no one from my immediate team is in the crowd.
For the past three years or so, summer has meant roadtripping it up to Yosemite every weekend for climbing. This past weekend I headed there with a group of girls for a ladies climbing weekend. Because we can’t rely on the boys and instead must lead all the pitches, carry all the gear, flake the ropes, and do all the routefinding, the end of the day is so much more satisfying. We decided to climb Super Slide, a moderate 5.9, and set out with two parties of two. The day was sunny and HOT; I partnered up with Kat and was super stoked to be able to swing leads with her, leading the 5.9 crux pitch (which is soft, to be fair). We all hung out and talked at the belays, and set up a rappel for 4 with our two 60 meter ropes.
Joana took a short video of the last pitch!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RwMeAhpI-TM&feature=youtu.be
I’m still unsure how long I’ll feel “safe” leading, and have read varying accounts from professional female climbers — some of whom climb hard until popping, while others have had to lay off the more challenging stuff relatively early. However, this weekend taught me that I’m perhaps putting too many restrictions on myself too soon, and maybe I should keep leading outdoors, at least on routes where I feel secure, for longer than I’d initially projected.
On a more sour note, I found out that I’m anemic, which means that I’m taking iron supplements lately and eating a lot of liverwurst, spinach, and egg yolks to get my numbers up. I ate liverwurst on toast all weekend and already can’t stand the stuff.
This week I told everyone at work my news. Timely, as I’ve begun to look pregnant-er. Not really obviously so to passersby, but people who know notice my tiny belly. I wish I were bigger, already. A weird thought to have since I’ve generally had the opposite impulse for much of my life. I alternate between days of feeling like a wondrous miracle of life, and just schlumpy.
An article on Babble (can’t find it, unnavigable web site!) on why pregnant women aren’t sexy got me to thinking about why it is so important for us/me to feel sexually attractive anyway. Can’t I accept 6-9 months of being decidedly unsexy and just bask in the glow of gestation? From a biological standpoint there isn’t anything less sexy than a pregnant lady; our bodies visibly signal that the job is done and the competition is off.
Though not yet obviously with child, I do feel on most days, sorta beautiful. I guess all those vitamins and supplements I have to take are helping.
As for weekend travels, myself and many lady friends hopped down to Big Sur to celebrate Rin’s bachelorette. It was perhaps the tamest bachelorette party ever, complete with 10 pm bedtimes, ghost story-telling, moderate amounts of wine, and lots of breathtaking scenery.
On Saturday the fog cleared for long enough for us to enjoy an afternoon on the beach — in swimwear and not jackets and scarves!
I keep imagining that I can feel the baby, and maybe I can. If I’m still I can detect a slight popping, almost like an internal fizz, or gentle nudges. I actually dreamt I was feeling him/her move last night; sharper, more pronounced movements.
Leaving for work early in the morning I usually take a few moments to inspect my vegetable garden. It’s unsightly and overgrown because in my enthusiasm to grow food I overstuffed a 4x4 planter box with about 8 vegetable varieties. Of them, really only the squash is taking off. My lovely spaghetti squash are huge, and growing at alarming rates. Their big furry squash leaves have created a jungle tapestry, choking off sunlight for the smaller plants. As a result the strawberry runners are just pretty leaves and the leeks are anemic. But the squash are fat and triumphant. So obviously metaphoric that I would choose to grow things at the same time that I started growing my own little bean, and in an absurd transference of pride, I take joy in my squash’s fecundity.
For work last week we had a team offsite hosted at the Mark Hopkins hotel on Nob Hill. Besides sitting in a fancy hotel ballroom for two days, they put us up in the hotel. A climbing friend who works as a reservations manager at the hotel upgraded our room, and also left us some wine and snacks. I had a half glass of wine but my palate was unimpressed. My taste for wine is just off. I find myself pondering how I found the stuff so appealing to begin with.
After a long day, I wanted nothing more than to lounge in the giant bed and peruse our 100+ channels of television. For this I neglected the view and turned down a trip with the boyfriend to the rooftop bar. How has pregnancy made me so lame? I am so much more content lying down than I am doing anything fun.
I spent a rare weekend in town, mentally planning new planter beds (more squash varieties!), and sleeping through the latter halves of perfectly good movies; The Dark Crystal (Fizzgigg!), Men Who Stare at Goats, The Perverts Guide to Ideology. Someday, I’ll be able to stay awake through an entire film.
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