Pregnancy is Beautiful, Part Five-Hundred-Eighty-Seven.

It is once again time for the Pregnancy Whine of the Month.

• Hips.  Why are they necessary?  Seriously, like it wasn't bad enough having a random hip cramp during sex.  Now it's all like Hi, I'm going to twinge every time you get out of your seat.  You know.  For funsies.
• Hips are also unnecessary when you sleep on your side.  Seriously, waking up 3 hours early because your hip is suddenly aching in severe pain because you haven't moved since you fell asleep is not the best way to be woken up.  Surprise sex?  Sure.  "Surprise, bitch, roll over!"?  No, thank you.
• I'm hungry, but everything tastes like cardboard.  Surprisingly, cardboard causes me to vomit (I used to consider cardboard a nonoffensive, though nontasty, flavor).
• Nothing is worse than craving something for a few days, finally going to the store to buy the ingredients, cooking it, craving it even more after smelling it, and then 3 bites in deciding it tastes gross and every bite makes you hurl.  Nothing.
• Everything is offensive.  The way the sun shines so cheerfully into my bedroom window is incredibly offensive.  The fact that the bathroom is freezing as soon as I step out of the shower is offensive.  The fact that my husband can eat whatever he wants without taking a trip to see John is so very, very, very offensive.
• Everyone who talks about their easier pregnancy sucks.
• Everyone with a worse pregnancy makes you feel like you're lucky for a second, until you decide that once again everything sucks.
• Pregnancy pillows are awesome, but why can't they just move with you in bed?  Why do we have to adjust them manually?
• All those cheerful people going about their cheerful days being all cheerful and shit need to get the hell away from you.
• Exhausted all the time.  When you're not exhausted you're on this weird pregnancy high.  When you're not on your pregnancy high, or maybe when you are, you have insomnia.  When you have insomnia you're never tired.  Only you're tired all the time.  So basically, you're always tired-never sleep-oh look a squirrel!
• Nesting should exist during all stages of pregnancy.  It doesn't.  My poor house.

The case of the meddling in-laws.

As some of you are aware, I have issues with my in-laws.  My mother-in-law, specifically.  This isn't an unusual situation to be in... Unfortunately.

However, I have found that I have less and less desire to announce my pregnancy because of this reason.  My father-in-law, while sweet, has staunch opinions on whether we should have another child.  My mother-in-law tends to obsess over my son as it is, so I'm not looking forward to the entitlement that will follow a second.  My stepfather-in-law, however, is great.

As for my family -- well, I'm thinking of sending them a card.  I don't really want to announce to them, either.

While we could care less of the opinions of family members, it still puts a damper on the idea of announcing our pregnancy.  With our first, we were excited and told everybody as soon as we peed on the stick.  (I know; I can hear the cringing!  You don't have to tell me.)  Aside from my parents, we had a pretty positive reaction from all.  It is a little sad to know that we won't have the same reaction for our second.

With that said, I'm wondering if I should just wait for the birth announcement.  Haha.  Just kidding.  Maybe.

I have found myself to be highly disappointed at the idea that family members can be so rude about what you do with yours.  If you're on your "disappointing" first, second, third, fourth, fifth, or higher pregnancy -- I just want to tell you, "Congratulations!"  Because it is a blessing.  Always.

From One to Two, or How Humans Evolve to Use 2 Arms Like 16.

The other day I took my son out on a little mommy-son date.  I wanted to buy him some more shoes and socks (seriously kid, what is up with your monster feet?  Size 7 shoes and barely 2 years old?  Why?!).  Before heading into the store, where he would have to call up all the patience a 2-year-old can muster while Mommy inspects everything, I decided to give him a little treat and stopped by a little burger shack.

It used to be a favorite place of mine to eat for lunch when I was working.  It was sadly not as great this time around, and I was highly disappointed.  But that's not actually important to the story, so:

I watched my son bounce around all the tables.  This is a rare occurrence for him, as normally his father or I will be holding him or having him sit in a high chair.  We don't let him run around free.  But, we were the only customers, so I figured it wasn't so bad.  He enjoyed it and I got to smile.  The workers thought he was adorable.  Win/win all around, really.

We ate.  He ate a lot (hello growth spurt; starting to wonder if maybe a shoe purchase should have been delayed), but we still ended up with a little container of food.  And my drink.  And my purse.  And him.

As I struggled to get out the door with food-drink-purse-him, I started panicking.  How am I going to do this with two?!

Food in one hand.  Drink in crook of arm.  Purse over shoulder (fell to elbow) of other arm.  Him in other arm.  As far as I'm concerned, the math says "YOU HAVE NOWHERE ELSE TO PUT A NEW BABY."

Fuck.

I know it's possible; I see people do it all the time.  Maybe when this kid comes around, my 2-year-old will actually be able to be trusted to walk straight to the car and get into his carseat instead of trying to dart into traffic.  Maybe I'll just grow a couple arms.  Maybe I'll be able to balance my food and drink on my head while carrying two kids.  I have no idea.

All I know is that it is possible.  People can do it.  Which leads me to believe that moms of multiples have magical powers to use 2 arms and make it seem like they have 16.  Maybe there's a class?  I could totally take a class.  I'd probably fail... but, hey.  I'd love a class.

I'm pretty sure I'm never leaving the house once there's two of these things running around.  The panic attack I had even thinking about it made me realize I'm still a newbie to this parenting thing, 2 years in.

I hate you. I love you. OMG I'm awful. You know what? I still hate you.

Apparently, my husband is fascinated by my mood swings.  In his words, "You didn't have mood swings like this with our first."

I feel like I did.  I thought I did.  But maybe we have gone through the blissful pregnancy amnesia and just don't remember how bad it was... Or, I could just be going psychotic.  I mean, it can go either way, really.

Earlier today, my husband happened to get near me.  I didn't want him to be near me for some reason (the closer his proximity, the more annoyed I felt), so I turned into a mega ultra bitch for no reason, just to get him to take another few steps away from me.  He rolled his eyes.

Then he came by and tried to give me a kiss.  I was automatically annoyed because hello... Proximity.  No thank you.  Then he tickled my feet, probably because I was being childish.  I glared at him.  He tried to kiss me again and I eventually shrieked -- like a 4-year-old -- "LEAVE ME ALOOOOOOOOOOONE!"

I know.  I'm incredibly mature.

He stood in front of me with his hands on his hips, pretending to be upset.  "Honey, you know you're driving a wedge between us, don't you?  If you keep this up, how is our relationship going to make it?  What if we develop bad habits that we don't get over after the baby is born?"

Still irritated, I told him it was his fault for... well... irritating me.  He turned on the sarcasm.  "Oh, I'm sorry.  Is it so horrible for your spouse to kiss you?  I apologize.  I know I hate it when my spouse kisses me."

I started laughing.  I couldn't help it.  I was trying to stay angry because obviously it's his fault that I don't want him around me for no reason whatsoever, duh but I just couldn't do it.  I was laughing.  I held out my arms and he leaned down to give me a hug and said, "You know I'm kidding, right?  I'm not even remotely angry.  I know the baby's making you do it."

And then I started crying.  I mean, straight up bawling my eyes out.  He's still hugging me, and he starts laughing.  He thinks this shit is hilarious.  I'm sobbing.  My 2-year-old comes up and starts pushing his dad away, incredibly concerned about me.  "I'm so sorry, I'm awful, I'm sorry I'm such a bitch!" is all I'm saying, over and over, while my husband is cracking the fuck up over the whole situation.

I eventually calmed down and sweet husband went off to get me some Skittles from the gas station.

Then he told me that it is my duty to share my mood swing crazies with the internet, because (to quote him), this shit is hilarious.

And it kind of is.  Now that I'm over the moment, anyway.

Pregnancy is so not a social event.

Now, bear with me.

I know there are hordes and masses out there ready to scream about their right to rub the bellies of pregnant women everywhere, but just stand still for a second and hear me out.

How many times have we heard how pregnancy turns us into short-tempered, illogically angry, protected-by-the-halo-of-hormones crazy people?  I can't even count.  I refuse to even pretend to try.

The hormones of early pregnancy drive us absolutely bonkers.  We're upset if you try to help us pick up the trash, because you're doing it wrong.  We're upset if you don't help us pick up trash around the house because why the hell are you so lazy.  We're upset if you eat the dinner we made and leave no seconds for us, because hello who is the pregnant one here?!  We're upset if you don't eat our food because I slaved for hours over that dinner.  I mean seriously, you just can't freaking win.

If a stranger looks at you with a knowing smile and asks, "How far along are you?", you want to tear their head off for implying you are fat.  Then again, you're pissed when nobody can tell you're pregnant because you're DAMN well PERFECTLY aware of how pregnant you are, and people need to know so they can give you a wide freaking berth and shut their traps.

And God forbid someone forgot to get the Skittles you asked for.  It's on, then.

Husbands have the worst of it, of course.  They have no idea that we lay there in bed, listening to them snore peacefully, and plot their demise.  They have no idea that we slowly go through all items within arm's length in our minds, trying to figure what item would hurt their special place the worst.  They have no idea how close they've come to being smothered with pillows.

Basically... pregnant women are scary.  My advice is this:  If you see a pregnant woman, do your best to casually stay out of her way.  I would say about 10 feet is the absolute closest you ever want to get to a pregnant woman.  Never make eye contact.  Don't speak to her.  Treat her like she has the plague, and you just might get out of the meeting unscathed.  But there's no guarantee, because she might decide you're being incredibly rude and cut you off at the knees anyway.

Who am I kidding?  There's no safe way to handle a pregnant woman.  Approach with caution.

Internet strangers tend to know the most about me.

Okay; this isn't technically true.

For example, the internet at large is not necessarily aware that I snore, or have a love affair with dresses paired with leggings (found during my third trimester of my first pregnancy; they're comfortable, okay?).  The internet does not necessarily know that I am the kind of person who will buy red polka dot heels I will never wear, just to stare at them and wish I could be one of those girls that could dress fashionably and have style.  The internet does not know that I like to bite the bottom of my ice cream cone when most of the ice cream is gone and suck the liquid mess out of the bottom like a straw, which I've done since I was a child.  The internet does not know that I sometimes give my husband a dirty look when he just wants some affection or attention when I'm too busy being on the internet.

But there are strangers on the internet who know every detail of my pregnancy.  Who know that I'm pregnant, at all.  Who know my fears.  Who know if I have been spotting or not.  Who know if I'm in a grouchy mood, or a great one.  Who know what I'm craving... or eating for lunch that day.

My family doesn't know this about me.  Hell, they don't even know I'm pregnant.  The reason for this is simple; I don't want to have to explain about losing the baby.  We're waiting until after the first trimester to announce, which is pretty much the exact opposite of what we did with our first -- naive to the reality of life and how harshly it can punch you in the face.

So why, if I can't even fess up to my family -- the people who should be first on the list of people I would want to comfort me through a loss -- do I tell the internet, strangers who don't even know me?

Because it's easier to tell your story to strangers you don't have to face.  Who don't have to see your tears as you write out your story.  Who don't have to watch you explain a loss so intimate, so poignant, so personal.  It's almost a violation of my privacy to have to tell someone about something that hurts so deeply inside.  Nobody wants to go through that more than they have to.

But I can type it out.  I can put down words, write down raw emotion, but still hold something back.  I can hide how many tears it makes me shed.  I can hide my face.  I can hide my voice, which shivers and breaks.  I can hide my heart, that tiny little part of it that I don't want anyone to see.

Words are a window into my life.  My soul.  I write, and a part of me is there in my words, my stories.  But only as much as I let out.  It's a control that I don't have when I speak.

My husband is gently bemused at the fact that I can tell my "mom groups" -- small groups of women that I've become incredibly close to over the past few years -- and a huge group of over ten thousand strangers -- but I simply refuse to tell our family.  It's hard for him to understand, though he supports my decision.

But it's just different.  Honestly, I don't want my family to be the ones nursing me through the grieving process.  It is one thing to tell them it happened -- after the processing has occurred in my heart.  It is another for me to have to tell them, and have them think I want them around to help me get through it.  No matter how much I love them, they aren't who I want to be by my side.

My closest girlfriends?  Yes.  My husband?  Absolutely.  A group of internet strangers?  Oddly enough, yes.  Because that group of internet strangers has been going through what I am going through.  That group of internet strangers has been through it all.  And most importantly, I can get out my words in a healing way for myself, without giving up the privacy that I need during the process.

Thankfully, we are on track with a healthy pregnancy, which will -- in time -- render all these thoughts and precautions rather moot.

It is also amazing the amount of introspection that occurs after midnight.  I think it's time for a more lighthearted mood, don't you?

Need to be alone? Don't do this.

I went to the grocery store today.  It's a pretty simple thing, and I do it more or less every day.  It's not super exciting.  It's not super amazing.  It's not super fun.  It's just going to the grocery store.

But, it's precious time alone.

The funny thing is, though, that I don't even need that much time alone.  We don't find the need for date nights and sending our kid off to a babysitter.  We bring him with us.  It's fun.  We like it.  It works for us.  But for 30 minutes here and there -- sure.  I'd like to be alone sometimes.  So, I go to the grocery store!

But when you accidentally drop a case of soda onto your keys and close the door while putting your shopping cart away and walk back only to find your doors locked with your keys, phone, purse, and coat inside, alone time seems pretty sucky-suck-suck indeed.

I stand there for a while going, did I really just do this to myself?  I try all the doors because obviously one of them will magically open, right?  I jiggle the trunk.  I walk around the car three or four times, even though I can see my keys peeking out from under the case of soda.  Maybe somehow the car key itself disassociated from the keyring and is just hanging out on the ground like a cool pebble.  Who knows.

Nope.  No such luck.

Eventually I trudge back into the grocery store and flag down the first person I saw -- a manager.  He apologizes, as neither he or his employees can break into my car for me (totally understandable), but does manage to find a wire coat hanger for me and tries to explain what I need to do in order to break into my car.

Got it.  I'm a smart girl.  I've seen people do this to my old car a few times.  I can do it, right?

Wrong.

I'm out there, in the dark, in the cold, in the wind, struggling to shove a coat hanger through my car door.  Not happening.  I try, and try, and try.  I mutter horrible things under my breath and I cry a little.  And then a sweet lady, who just happens to pull into the parking space in front of my car, walks over and says, "Are you okay?"

Thank God.

Seriously.

After we both struggle to break into my car (FYI -- not happening with two women who have no idea what they're doing), we end up chatting about our ridiculous locked-out-of-car experiences and she reminds me about Roadside Assistance.  I have that!  Of course, my phone is in my car and I have no idea what the direct number to dial is, but I have it!  And it turns out, we have the same phone provider.  Ding ding ding!  We have a winner.

Sweet Lady Samaritan hung out with me for the 30 minutes it took on hold for them to answer, and a tow truck came by and saved me 15 minutes after that.

So, hey.  Awesome people are awesome.  Using the roadside assistance that I've been paying for monthly for over 2 years and never had to use is also awesome (and more expensive in the long run, but whatever).  However, I would have totally traded the entire experience for a cranky toddler and a warm living room.

Totally not worth the "alone time".  Not today, anyway.