Ah, finally...a little bit of good news in the IF blogosphere. It's about friggin' time.
For those either recently pregnant or still soldiering on with the hope of being pregnant, I warn you of one thing when pregnant: the sudden change of you as an independent woman to a delicate flower. Ugh. It sounds like a dream, right? No lifting, no stretching, no arduous tasks around the house. It's like post-retrieval time all over again, and wasn't that a dandy time? Three days of lounging on the couch wearing stained sweatpants and eating copious amounts of junk food is one thing, but when you have to covertly look over your shoulder and quietly lift a glass from the second shelf of your kitchen cabinets so as not to arouse suspicion, things have gone too far. Yesterday one of the glasses clinked against another and my cover was blown. A disembodied voice called out from the living room, "What are you doing? I hope you are behaving yourself!" Suddenly, I'm 6 years old again and have been caught climbing on the kitchen counter in an effort to reach the candy hidden on top of the fridge.
I have been advised not to walk home a certain way in broad daylight, especially if my MP3 player's headphones are visible. This was not a problem pre-Enid, in fact, it was recommended that I walk that way as it was quicker. It seems that my safety could be compromised when it was just me with barren womb, but put a life in there, and well...the rules have changed.
Caffeine is limited. I know, I know, that's a good thing. I gave up coffee (more or less) pre-IVF, so I've been off the juice for awhile. However, I like to have a cup of nice, strong coffee once every two weeks or so. When I tell The Dude how much I enjoyed my off-limits coffee, you'd think I'd just mixed up a nice cocktail of strychnine and arsenic to make my lunch go down a bit easier. I also like a Coke occasionally, about twice a week. This has been deemed as acceptable, as long as I do not exceed that dosage. The repercussions would be grand if I did.
Rubbing anti-stretch mark cream into my stomach so that I don't *hopefully* get any angry red streaks etched into me? I'm rubbing too hard. I'm bothering Enid. Enid even wants me to stop rubbing so hard, as I'm putting a dent in his/her head, or perhaps putting too much pressure on its torso. This extends to healthcare providers as well during ultrasounds and doppler sessions. When we had our 16 week scan The Dude was focusing more on shooting death rays at the ultrasound tech than he was watching the miniature rope-climber on the screen. He was actually moments away from asking her if she would mind relieving the pressure on my abdomen a little bit. You know, because she doesn't do dozens of these things a day. I would have laughed heartily at the time had I not thought it would result in a rather unfortunate expelling of gallons of urine.
The concern The Dude is expressing is overwhelming most of the time. However, he is also capable of moments of non-obsessive concern, as evidenced by yesterday's surprise for me. Lucky Charms AND Betty Crocker Cream Cheese Frosting? Uh, awesome. In case you're wondering, it's not like I'm baking a cake or something. I eat the frosting straight out of the canister. It's not weird in the least, ok? I use a spoon. Most of the time.
Additionally, any ill will I feel toward The Dude is obliterated when I'm getting the hairy eyeball during a doppler session at home and he says, "Don't push too hard, my baby doesn't like that." It's a simple statement, but to hear him say "my baby" fills me with a happiness I never thought I would be able to feel. I want everyone to know what that is like, especially when it always seemed such an impossibility.