I’ve struggled with a blog topic this week because quite frankly, I’m sick of myself…I can only imagine how you feel about reading these pregnancy posts. Buuuuuut since it’s 10 am and I’m already half way all the way through a bag of m&ms, something must save me from myself.

If we just call a spade a spade and admit this entire post is going to be hormone-fueled rant with NeNe Leakes gifs as filler content, does it give me any leeway?

Side note: NeNe is my new Ramona Singer. Cannot get enough of her. LOVE.

So the American Academy of Obstetrics and Gynecology released new definitions for “full term pregnancy” this week, which until now was considered 37 weeks…although most women are given a due date at 40 weeks, meaning pregnancy is really 10 months long, not 9 like all the movies claim. Sneaky bastards. However, the updated definitions are now:

• Early term: Between 37 weeks 0 days and 38 weeks, six days
• Full term: Between 39 weeks and 40 weeks, six days
• Late term: Between 41 weeks and 41 weeks, six days
• Post term: 42 weeks and beyond

Logically, I realize this is a good thing. We are a society that is induction and c-section happy, particularly for non-medical reasons. If there is no medical threat to the mother or baby then I think babies should be able to bake as long as they need. Emotionally though? I’m PISSED.

The only thing getting me through the miserable cesspool of third trimester was that magical 37 week mark where I could finally kick up my feet, breath a little sigh of relief, and smugly announce to the world that I was full term.  You’re telling me I have to wait another several weeks to do that?!

Well, now what am I going to do? I suppose I should just buck up and realize this is just pregnancy, not a death sentence. Millions of women around the world have done it, many in far worse condition than I am. Blah, blah, blah.

I am certainly no special snowflake when it comes to this “journey”. In fact, I could probably be the poster child for #firstworldpregnancyproblems. Oh your feet are swollen so you need to put on your ProCompression socks from your last marathon? Booo hoooo. Your diamond wedding band doesn’t fit so you’re worried people think you’re a trollop with a bastard child in your belly? Womp womp. You can’t find a ridiculously overpriced coming home outfit that she’ll poop and puke in 10 minutes later? Poor you, Marie.

But isn’t that the beauty of having your own blog? You can spin the truth however you see fit under the jurisdiction of “poetic license”.

In any case, I would like to say thank you to the people who have continued reading (and commenting!) on all of my pregnancy posts these past several months. I know it’s not everyone’s cup of tea and while I’m sure to have solicited my fair share of eye rolls, it’s been really nice having an outlet to complain to share things.

Just look on the bright side, because of the updated full term guidelines, I have even more weeks to really stretch these pregnancy page-views to the max. Thanks, American Academy!

Now, I must go and immediately delete all these amazing downloaded NeNe Leakes gifs from my desktop computer. Another pregnancy side effect? Insomnia-induced anxiety that caused me to panic at 3 am that I’d go into early labor without erasing my Internet history on my work computer. Not so sure Buzzfeed, Get Off My Internets, and Feedly count as “productive work environments”.

 

 

 

We’re in the 30′s folks – almost 35 weeks pregnant. 37ish days left.

Of course, all of this is a crapshoot anyway since she could come anytime in the next 3-7 weeks. (I mean, really, biology? Couldn’t we have narrowed the window down a little bit better by now?)

As you’ve probably noticed, I haven’t done a Weekly Update in several weeks. I’d apologize, but I highly doubt anyone really misses them. I’m officially the whiniest and biggest I’ve been in my life. I can assure you I’m not glowing. I’m not magically rubbing my belly and pontificating the miracle of life. I have three chins and my former triceps now flap in the breeze.  There is a lot of miserable complaining. NO ONE needs to have that documented for posterity on the Internet. I promise you. I’m just happy and grateful that Charlie girl continues to bake away because that’s all that really matters.

Even though I knew this would happen and I tried to avoid it, I have become completely fixated on these final weeks. I have a calendar at work counting down the days until full term, maternity leave, and my actual due date. My countdown to maternity leave should really be titled “Days Left of Waddling to and from the Overcrowded Subway Where NO ONE Offers Me a Seat”, since that’s what I dread the most (related: people suck).

It should come as no surprise that I’ve researched just about every labor preparation method and Old Wives Tale out there. While I’m not trying anything to induce labor until at least 41 weeks, I do want to mentally and physically prepare myself as much as possible for when it does happen.

Most of the techniques are of the hippie-crunchy-I’m-going-to-hug-a-tree-in-my-cloth-diaper variety, but I figure they can’t hurt:

• drinking Red Raspberry Leaf Tea – started at 30 weeks with 2 cups/day and will work up to 4+ cups/day by 38 weeks. Rumored to help tone the uterus to make contractions “more efficient”. It’s caffeine free, so I usually brew it and drink it cold with ice cubes and some lemonade – if nothing else, I’m well-hydrated?
• taking probiotics to fend off Group B Strep – for those unfamiliar, 1 in 6 women test positive for GBS and require IV antibiotics during labor. Dragging an IV pole around is something I’m hoping to avoid so I’m taking some extra steps to fight off any potential infection. Typically a good diet (and plenty of yogurt!) can keep your GI Tract “healthy” enough, but my midwife recommended fem dophilus probiotics so I take one pill/day. There are also lots of things you can do with garlic cloves – but I’m NOT going there. 
  
• taking Evening Primrose Oil – will start taking at 36 weeks and up the dosage at 38 weeks. You can google it. Using words like cervix and effacement just make me squirm on a public blog.
• eating dates – this was a new one to me, but recent studies have shown that women who eat dates on a daily basis have shorter labors with less interventions. I see this as the perfect opportunity to eat copious amounts of Sticky Toffee Pudding and call it a medical neccessity.
• pelvic rocks, tilts, and swaying - imagine yourself on your hands and knees looking like a complete idiot in your living room every night while you watch TV. That’s me.

Beyond that, there are two Old Wives Tales I’m willing to test out. The full moon is supposed to bring on labor and since  November’s full moon is within days of our due date, I’m not-so-secretly hoping that’ll be the nudge Baby G needs to evict herself. To up my chances, I’m totally going to make this “famous” labor-inducing eggplant parm. Some restaurant in Atlanta has apparently put over 300 women into labor within 48 hours of eating this recipe. It’s likely a coincidence (how many women did it NOT work for?), but silly things like this are right up my alley. After all, I am the girl who peed on baking soda to determine the sex of our baby. The least it’ll do is give me some heartburn and a few dirty dishes (which I’ll promptly make Sean wash).

In the meantime, I’m going to do my very best not to drive everyone around me absolutely batshit insane. I’m sorry, friends and family. I really, really am…

I’ve been mulling this post over for a while now, but GOMI’s latest front page blurb motivated me to finally put pen to paper (well….keys to board?).

Oversharenting (v.): the act of obnoxiously spamming social media with every mundane detail of your child(ren)s life.

Root words: oversharing and parenting

Synonyms: every mommy blogger ever

Antonyms: our parents generation

As we inch closer to our due date, the topic of sharing future parenting stories and photos is in the forefront of my mind. Here’s the conundrum: I’m a social media whore. A crack fiend for Facebook. and Twitter. and Instagram. and blogs. and… and… and… I freaking love over-sharing stupid details about my life. Does anyone care that I ate 3 cookies last night or my opinion on this week’s episode of Parenthood? Nope. Do I put it out there anyway? Um YEP.

But, and this is a giant but (not to be confused with my own butt at 8.5 months pregnant, which is also quite large), I feel weird about doing the same thing with our baby. Now, I see my own hypocrisy here. For all intents and purposes*, I write a pregnancy blog…one where I’m guilty of over-sharing on multiple occasions, so it only seems natural that I’d flow into the world of parenting. Yet, the more “real” this kid becomes, the more protective I feel over her privacy, identity, and future digital footprint. In hindsight, I regret even sharing our name choice on social media because it’s “Google-able” now (if that’s even a word?). At 15 weeks, she was still a dreamy idea to me so it didn’t seem like a big deal, but she’ll be here soon – her own person with her own rights. Did I encroach on them already? Sure, there’s the argument that I’m her parent, which comes with its own unique set of rights to her decisions…but what does that really mean? Do I have the right to put her diapered butt on blast to people across the Interwebz just because she’s too young to ask me not to?

From a purely sociological standpoint, I find the entire topic to be pretty fascinating. There are plenty of opinionated articles and editorials floating around cyberspace on children’s privacy issues and social media, but as this is a relatively new phenomenon, there isn’t a lot of real research on the long-term effects this sort of (over)exposure has on children as they morph from those cute, chubby-cheeked pumpkins on Instagram into awkward teenagers and then full-blown adults. I know it’s a different world, different generation, yada yada yada…but I think of my own struggles with adolescence. Kids can be cruel enough to one another without years of a parent’s social media exploits to fuel the fire.

So I guess the question becomes: how much is too much? Where do we cross the line from a proud parent sharing an anecdotal tale or funny photo to “oversharenting” and exposing more than we should?

I imagine this is only going to get trickier for Sean and I once Miss C is born and looking all sorts of adorable. I can already admit that it’s going to be hard for me not to Insta-spam her every waking moment…especially when I’m home alone on maternity leave or doing those lonely middle of the night feedings. Social media has brought some wonderful people into my life that I otherwise wouldn’t have met and it continues to be a valuable wealth of resources and community for my unending stream of inane questions and commentary. I don’t want to turn my back on that, so hopefully, much like our other parenting decisions, we’ll find our groove and figure out something that works for our family.

As for the direction of my blog, I can say with certainty that I will not be a mommy-blogger. I will not be sharing breastfeeding struggles, potty-training techniques, or any of our daily adventures. Instead, this blog will likely focus on all the other parts of my life – getting back into shape, running, cooking, baking, trashy reality TV, and humble bragging cleverly disguised in self-depreciating humor.

For those that have gone a more private route – I’m thinking about setting up photo albums for family/friends through either Dropbox or using the iCloud Photo Streams since they are invite-only. I’d love to hear any positive or negative experiences with either? 

* updated: MOMENT OF SHAME: I originally had this written as “For all intensive purposes”. Should we just revoke my BA in English and Master’s degree in Publishing? Stick me in a hole filled with Healthy Living Bloggers to die a shameful death? I can’t even look at myself right now.

Opposites attract, two parts of a whole, yin to my yang, fat kid to my cake….

Whatever the expression may be, it definitely applies to Sean and I. In many ways we are completely different: he’s a charming extrovert who loves small talk and hates making plans in advance while I’m happiest at home with some quiet time and a zealously detailed Google calendar. Regardless of our contrasting personality traits, we have a rhythm that works really well for us.

As we started discussing labor and delivery, I was interested in doing the Bradley Method for a number of reasons – the biggest one being the partnership aspect to it. For those unfamiliar, Bradley Method is also known as “Husband Coached Childbirth” and emphasizes the role of your spouse in a successful (med-free) labor and delivery. I’m not here to spout the virtues of a drug-free birth, especially as a rookie who hasn’t even done it yet. For us, it simply suited my personality the best. As I’ve mentioned 32948203548234 times once or twice, I have a wee bit of trouble giving up control so the idea of being numb and not being able to work with my body during such an intense experience completely freaked me out (perhaps that’s why I’m also a terrible snowboarder?). Over the years, I’ve learned that the best way for me to reduce anxiety and stress over something new is to learn all I can about it. Hencethereforehitherto, 12 weeks of Bradley Method classes devoted to overloading my hormone-addled brain with information sounded pretty darn perfect (THERE’S EVEN A WORKBOOK. AND HOMEWORK. So legit).

We’re at Class 8 now and while we’ve learned a lot, I will admit I think they could be taught in less time. Some of it is a bit repetitious. However, with that being said, I am more and more impressed by my husband with each class we take. The man is a natural.

One of the key components of this “Husband Coached Childbirth” is for your spouse to be your advocate during labor – he knows your needs and knows how and when to speak up for them. It may not be for everyone, but for me, this is a godsend. I’m the type who will leave the hairdresser with crooked bangs or eat a meal that’s wrong a at a restaurant because I don’t want to offend these total strangers I’ll never see again (ironically enough, I have NO problems telling my  friends and family how I feel. Sorry guys). I can only imagine when I’m in pain in the hospital that the last thing I’ll want to do is work up the courage to tell a nurse I don’t want something.

Enter Sean.

Sean is a salesman. Literally. Like he does it for a living. And he’s really, really good at it (#wifehumblebrag). Not only would Sean not hesitate to send back a meal at a restaurant, but he’d do it in a way that the waiter thought it was his idea and they’d end up grabbing a beer afterward. It’s actually ridiculous. I have visions of Sean fist-bumping the nurses working our room  and scoring us extra ice chips while I grunt like a stuck cow in the corner. It should be positively delightful.

As we learn more about the process and get closer to d-day, I am continually reaffirmed that pregnancy, labor & delivery, and parenting decisions are personal choices (so perhaps we should all lighten the eff up?).

Bradley Method works so well for us because it’s a natural fit for the tempo of our relationship. I see it as an awesome opportunity for us to focus on our strengths both as individuals and together as a couple to achieve something (errrr….someone?). Totally cheesy. I know. Blame it on the pregnancy hormones, but I’m feeling all sorts of love for this guy and what we’re doing.

Plus, it means Sean gets to call all the shots and be the boss for the day and we all know that won’t happen again any time soon

It’s October 1st.

Ummmmm…..

that means we’re having a baby NEXT MONTH. Perhaps people will stop side-eyeing me so much when I tell them my due date.

October feels like a major milestone. We’re in the home stretch now and I cannot wait to meet the adorable little alien that’s currently destroying my body cell by cell. She better be cute…and brilliant…and rich enough one day to buy her mom and dad a suuuuper big house. (Kidding. Kind of.)

To really drive the whole “Holy shit, you’re having a kid soon” feeling home, I arrived at work this morning to a bunch of calendar meeting invites for the next few months that I had to decline because I’ll be on maternity leave starting in mid November.

No 2 hour Friday afternoon off-site meetings for 3 months?

Bring on all the poop and spit up I can handle, Charlotte. I’d still prefer it to those meetings. Even if it is all unpaid. (THAT’s a rant for another day)

I’m sure this month is going to fly by between all the upcoming events and things left on our to-do list to accomplish.  October will be bringing:

- hospital tour

- breastfeeding class

- infant first aid and CPR class

- the rest of our Bradley Method classes (isn’t my husband SO lucky with how many classes I drag him to?)

- baby shower (!!!!!)

- throwing a party (for no real reason…because who doesn’t want a bunch of your husband’s drunk friends over at 35 weeks pregnant?)

- finalizing a pediatrician

- prenatal massage for this Large Marge

- cleaning and organizing a zillion teeny, tiny baby outfits

- spending the equivalent of a small country’s fortune at Buy Buy Baby and Babies R Us accruing the rest of the baby gear we’ll really, really “need”…obviously our daughter will never thrive if she doesn’t have the 3 play mats, a wipe warmer, organic crib mattress and the Rock n Play. Duh.

Should be a thrilling month. By the time November rolls around, I’m hoping my only real “task” left will be to prep a bunch of freezer meals and be as fat and lazy as possible. I plan to watch A LOT of movies and go out to as many dinners as possible. I have the sneaking suspicion I’ll also start going slightly insane waking up every day thinking, “Is this it? Will it happen today?!” However, knowing my luck and the stubborn streak both Sean and I often exhibit, this baby will probably be late and baking until early December. At which point, my only goal will be not to kill anyone.