The Athlete

Maybe it’s too early to start bragging about our baby who hasn’t arrived yet, but in his 24th week of gestation I’m already convinced that he will be a fantastic athlete. Why? Because the little guy has the energy level of a marathon runner, and it seems he’s already training around the clock.

It all started while I was watching an episode of Glee, (don’t judge) and I felt powerful kicks every time the characters sang their own rendition of a Beatles song. I couldn’t tell if the kicks were in protest to the diminishment of music legends, or dance moves to a catchy beat. I tested the next morning with a real Beatles song and got the same response! Unfortunately, to mine and my husband’s disappointment, he did not react the same way to Michael Jackson. We’re still running periodic tests.

Ever since then, the activity level has sky-rocketed. Often times I wake up at 4a.m. to realize my belly is dancing, and not in the veil and jingly scarf sort of way. I have found a few things that seem to be triggers. So far, they are: going to sleep, waking up, eating, drinking, music, laughing, Max laying on my lap, attending important meetings, watching zombie movies, and prenatal appointments.

Drew and I had our second parenting class this week, which also includes checking our own vitals. We took my blood pressure, weight, and Drew gets to check the baby’s heartbeat with a Doppler (my favorite part!) As soon as he found the familiar “womwomwom” of the heartbeat, it was interrupted by a loud “WOMP!” and the biggest kick I think I’ve ever felt. The machine hadn’t had time to register the heart rate, so he tried again. “womwomwomWOMP!” And again.

Three big kick later, we finally registered a heart rate of 150bpm, and a baby with impressive aim!

A runner, a dancer, a soccer player? I guess we’ll have to wait a little while longer to find out.

Just Keep Swimming

Shortly after we found out we were expecting, Drew and I joined a gym. I have no idea why the timing worked out that way and I’m pretty sure I’m the only person so confused as to spend money on a membership to a gym while embarking on my first pregnancy, but the food in the cafe was good and the machines were so new and shiny and there was a water slide.

Unfortunately water slides are discouraged during pregnancy… but swimming is highly encouraged! That became my exercise of choice. Maybe it’s the low-impact, or the cool temperature, or the fact that gravity isn’t pushing a growing baby into the rest of my organs, but being in the pool feels great. As an added bonus, the bigger I get the more buoyant I become, so my swimming is actually easier and faster than it was in the beginning. I swim for about 30 minutes two or three times a week. I admit, I was feeling pretty proud of myself for just having the energy to get out of bed in the morning. Then, I met a woman swimming in the lane next to me who noticed I was pregnant.

“How far along? I’m three weeks from my due date!” she said.

I looked down and realized she was probably one good butterfly stroke away from going into labor in the pool, and as she told me about swimming an hour a day, my pride faded.

Then, she told me this was her seventh. Pride restored! She’s obviously a professional by now, on the same level as the women who compete in the Pregnant Olympics, and for all I know she could’ve been on performance-enhancing drugs. Those prenatal vitamins consist of a cocktail of substances with all sorts of interesting side-effects. I could develop fins and gills in the next few months too.

Either way, I’m proud to say our gym membership is not going to waste. And they have childcare, so eventually I’ll be able to take advantage of that water slide.

Pregnancy Brain

Though research has produced mixed results, I’m going to come right out on the side of those who support the theory that “pregnancy brain” is a legitimate scientific phenomenon, not only because its existence makes me feel better about my absent-mindedness, but also because it just took about 5 attempts for me to spell the word “phenomenon.”

In recent weeks, the ups and downs of emotional instability seemed to have leveled out, but they’ve been replaced with bouts of temporary amnesia and flat out IQ loss. I wake up in the morning and open the refrigerator to look for a box of cereal. On a good day I eat that cereal with milk rather than soaked in orange juice. A couple of weeks ago I tried playing it safe with some oatmeal, but the bowl didn’t make it out of the microwave before I forgot about it and drove to work.

I’m afraid in some cases, my work is suffering as well. I’ve forgotten assignments or finished them twice before realizing they were already done. I tried posting content to a website by typing it into the Google search bar, and went so far as to call a co-worker for assistance before realizing why that approach wouldn’t work. I spent 20 minutes designing an animated graphic that I promptly deleted without saving or exporting. At that point, I wasn’t even surprised or upset. It was almost time to go home, so I cut my losses and hoped that the part of my brain that knew how to operate a car would still be intact for at least the next 15 minutes.

I’m not sure how long this “pregnancy brain” is supposed to last, or how long I’ll be able to use it as an excuse for my recent hopeless inattention to detail. Earlier on in my pregnancy I tried to get into my gym using my Starbucks Gold Member card. Just the other day a restaurant server chased me down in the parking lot because I’d forgotten to sign my bill. I’m going to assume that this condition typically lasts the entire duration of pregnancy and perhaps a few months after the baby is born, at which point “pregnancy brain” will be re-termed “sleep deprivation.”

I started to consider hiring some sort of personal assistant to help me out. Someone to follow me around turning off ovens, locking doors and picking up my purse from the back of restaurant chairs, (or the counter of the hair salon where I almost left it yesterday.) Then, I realized this person already exists. His name is Drew.

Practice

When Drew and I adopted our dog Max from the shelter in February, friends and family members reacted with a smile, many commenting that he would be good practice for a baby. We’re certain Max will make an excellent older brother for our son, especially after seeing the way he interacts with our niece, who I’m sure Max knows in his head as “the wobbly one who drops food.” He loves people and children (probably because of their sticky fingers) and has a great temperament, but a bad habit of eating just about everything except his own dog food.

This habit got the best of him and us last week, when Drew and I had to make a late-night run to the store to buy more candy mix for the cake pops I was making for our gender reveal party. We made the mistake of leaving a bowl of bright pink melted candy on the counter. When we got home the bowl was shattered on the floor and our dog was throwing up a bright pink substance all over the house. Drew cleaned as I googled things like, “how to get red kool-aide stains out of a beige carpet.” The answer- you don’t.

Eventually, Max’s stomach calmed down and we assumed the worst was over. We were wrong.

More than a day and a half after he’d eaten what we thought was just candy, Max coughed up a chunk of the porcelain bowl about a half-inch long. I stared at the pool of vomit and broken bowl in the middle of my living room, shocked. I looked at my dog. He stared back, relieved. It was 6 a.m. I loaded him into the car with some blankets and drove to the emergency vet.

We waited for about a half hour next to a Golden Retriever who had transmission fluid for breakfast, and went in for X-rays. Luckily, the piece he coughed up was the largest piece of bowl in his bowel. The vet said the rest would pass, and we were told to keep a close eye on Max and everything that came out of him for the next several days. Seeing as how most of what came out of him required me to mop the floor, we had no choice but to bear witness to every aspect of my poor dog’s dysfunctional digestive system until it returned to normal. Thankfully, Max is all better now and my kitchen floors are sparkling from more mopping than I think I’ve done since we moved in.

I know when we have our baby boy, I’ll get used to cleaning just about everything. I’m sure there will be more early mornings, late nights, more mopping. He’ll get sick, he’ll eat things that aren’t food, he’ll probably even stick them up his nose. We’ll spend even more on him than a $400 vet bill. Maybe Max is doing us a favor, prepping us for what’s to come. Right now he’s sitting next to my desk chair playing with his stuffed bunny and I can tell you truthfully he’s so cute I won’t even remember all that mopping a few weeks from now. That’s what I’m taking away from this experience.

And if you’d like a $400 cake pop, there are still a couple of leftovers in the fridge. Max can tell you, they’re delicious.

It’s a….

We’re officially halfway to having our baby, and we are celebrating every milestone of this incredible journey. That’s why Drew and I decided to put our own impatience aside when it came time to learn the sex of the baby, and reveal the result with our friends and family at a gender reveal party!

Even though we had our anatomy ultrasound appointment Wednesday afternoon, one photo remained sealed in an envelope until Saturday morning. With the help of our poker-faced brother-in-law, we were able to let him hold onto the temptation and assist with the presentation, which we revealed at the party and live on the web for friends and family back East and overseas:

It’s going to be a baby boy!

We both had a feeling that the little one who recently started kicking me had the feet of a… soccer star, maybe? In terms of health, HE is still doing very well at 14oz with a heart rate of 148bpm. Here’s his latest photo:

And, we’re one more month along, so here’s my latest photo:

Miracles

While I am not good at science, I have always considered myself a scientific person. When encountered with a question I don’t know the answer to, I trust logic, do my research and ask the experts. I believe in things I can see and hear. In fact, the first words that came out of my mouth when I saw the first images of our baby and heard its heartbeat were, “Now it’s real.” It wasn’t until I could see hard evidence that I truly believed what was happening inside me.

But this morning as I was getting dressed, I looked down and realized something. I do not know where the spleen is located. I couldn’t point it out on a diagram. Nor could I tell you where the kidneys are, or why the left and right sides of the brain are different. To my mother’s dismay I never paid attention in biology, and learned most of what I know about anatomy from this guy:

Despite that, I have still managed to create tiny working replicas of every vital organ in the human body and put them exactly in the right place. Some may call it science, but to me right now it just feels like more. Today, I started believing in miracles.

I know this means every mother who ever existed has experienced a miracle. There are billions of them in the world, so that must make them less special. But does it? I think about all of the couples who struggle with infertility or for whatever reason simply can’t conceive. All of the people out there who have to wait so long or fight uphill battles or work so hard to be able to enjoy parenthood. Here I am, dumbfounded by the process, thankful that building a person doesn’t require an engineering degree.

I’m sure that most mothers think of their children as miracles. And I will be no different.

Babymoon

Ever since we officially started dating, Drew and I have tried to keep a tradition of taking a trip on Labor Day Weekend to celebrate our anniversary as a couple. Since this fell conveniently in the middle of my second trimester, it seemed the perfect time to explore San Francisco while we wait for the baby to come, and while I can still walk all over a city and its bridges and redwood forests.

Being the shutterbugs that we are, we equipped ourselves with cameras and toured the City by the Bay for the first time. Here’s a short video of some of our favorite highlights:

While at Fisherman’s Warf, Drew and I stumbled on an arcade full of vintage games dating back as far as the 1930’s. It was one of my favorite parts of our trip:

We’ve never been big on structured tours or heavy itineraries when it comes to our Labor Day Weekend trips. I love the simplicity of exploring a new place without knowing what to expect around the corner. A camera, a little cash, and comfortable shoes are all we need.

Cravings

If I were a restaurant owner, I’d target one demographic: pregnant women. I think if all marketing campaigns were geared toward pregnant women, they would be wildly successful. Why? Because right now I will pretty much eat anything I see, or picture in my mind. I see a Big Mac commercial, I’m in the car on my way to McDonald’s faster than you can suggest a healthy banana or protein bar for a snack instead. That’s right, snack.

In my “pre-pregnant” or “natural” state, I have a taste for seafood and Mediterranean food more than any other. Drew has always been the meat and potatoes guy. But now, I want nothing more than to ditch fish and eat burgers and steak all day long. Baby Bautista definitely has the Bautista stomach, and as the little one is poised to triple in weight this month, I’m hungrier than I’ve ever been in my life. In addition, it seems once I’ve got my mind on eating something in particular, I can’t think of anything else until I do.

One night, Drew and I tried the Friday night food truck court, and discovered a truck called “Liberty Biscuits” that sells nothing but variations of biscuits and gravy. I’d only eaten biscuits and gravy once before, when I first moved to Florida, but after trying it from this food truck with a fried egg on top, I was hooked. We set out the next week again to get just that, but this time when we arrived the truck driver or truck chef, (I guess he does both) stuck his head out of the window and said four of the saddest words I’d heard in a long time- “Sorry, we’re all out.”

Poor Drew must have had a flashback to that day in Jason’s Deli. We looked around at the other trucks, but I knew none could compete with biscuits and gravy. Then, we remembered this restaurant down the street:

Surely they would have the best biscuits and gravy in the world with a name like that! We were pleasantly surprised to see they were open (for 15 more minutes) but unpleasantly surprised to find that they were only open for a Friday Fish Fry Dinner special. I thought all hope was lost when Drew and I walked over to the hostess to let her know we were planning to leave and come back for breakfast, and then Drew blurted out, “She’s pregnant and really wants biscuits and gravy.” The hostess lit up and started reminiscing about her pregnancy cravings when she was carrying her daughter. She ran in the back and convinced the cook to revive some biscuits and gravy for me! It was delicious.

Nothing like finding some good old Southern hospitality and good old Southern biscuits and gravy in the heart of Arizona.

Getting Bigger

Baby Bautista is about the size of an avocado now, and though I only put on about 4lbs during the first trimester, I should start gaining a pound a week. The hardest part will be resisting the urge to gain that weight in ice cream and cookies.

I started noticing a tighter waistband a couple of weeks ago, and I just figured my pants were shrinking and there must be something wrong with our dryer. Eventually I admitted it probably wasn’t an appliance issue, and adjusted my wardrobe accordingly. However, I was surprised at my own reaction to my perfectly understandable changing shape. I don’t know if it’s an engrained pressure from society or my own insecurity, or the years I spent on television, or just the fact that I’ve always pretty much stayed the same and have been lucky enough to never struggle with my weight. Whatever the reason, the first day I failed at buttoning my pants, I told Drew I felt like a manatee. Cue the waterworks.

I found myself digging through my closet for clothes that covered the fact that I was changing. I’ve been wearing higher waistlines, looser shirts, and staring at the box of maternity wear that doesn’t yet fit quite right. Too big to be comfortable in normal clothes, and too small for belly bands and pregnancy tops, for the past few weeks I sported outfits and an expression that said, “Please don’t think I’m getting fat. I’m just pregnant.”

It’s upsetting to me that thought even crossed my mind, but I know there are probably multiple reasons for this gut feeling about my growing gut, and I’m probably not alone. The fact I have to remember is this: I’m going to get a whole lot bigger… but my big belly means a healthy baby. And that, is beautiful.

Here I am with a small but proud bump today, at 16 weeks:

The Bad Patient

I’ll admit, I’m not a very good patient. At twelve, I sat in a dentist’s chair crying and shaking at the sight of a Novocain needle, and my dentist actually told me I was his worst patient. At 20, it took four nurses to take my blood. I fear needles, I dislike doctors, and I hate almost everything about hospitals. It’s one of the reasons Drew and I chose a midwife practice for this baby adventure. But despite my efforts to be low-maintenance, I’m afraid this week I may have managed to secure my position as “that patient.” Let’s just say I probably won’t be getting any of the midwives’ cell phone numbers.

It all started Monday afternoon, when I opened my car door to load some video equipment into my Prius, and a crazy chemical smell spilled out. I searched for the source, but could only find an old plastic air freshener. Perhaps it melted? I tossed it, rolled my windows down, and continued on.

The next morning at a video shoot with a congressman, I unloaded the gear and moved an old car emergency kit that had been in my car for years, but this time it was soaking wet. I opened it up, and a can of “fix-a-flat” tire sealer had exploded from the heat. That must have been the smell. At the time, I didn’t think much of it. I tossed it, rolled my windows down, and continued on.

Later that day, however, I started thinking. I consulted Drew and we decided to call a nurse’s hotline just in case there was any cause for concern from the possibility of inhaling chemicals in my car. The stranger on the other end of the line asked a couple questions about symptoms I didn’t have, but what she said next was what really flipped me out. In a grave tone she responded, “Well, there’s nothing you can do about it now.”

For some reason, I envisioned her taking off her surgery cap and mask like they do on TV , hanging her head and walking away, triggering some Indie music montage. I know nurses probably don’t wear surgery masks while answering a hotline, but in my head this one did. I googled the product and the warning read, “Inhalation may cause sudden death. Do not puncture can. Do not store in heat above 120 degrees.”

My God, I did all of those things! What else could I do next but run into a restroom at work and panic, calling an emergency bathroom stall meeting with my boss?

She came in and asked what happened, so I just started verbally retracing my steps. Keep in mind my boss knew nothing about the reason I was upset, and it was taking me a bit longer than expected to get to the point. I described the chemical smell. I described the emergency kit. I told her I put it in the trash can outside the congressman’s office. Her expression immediately changed to match my panic.

“Wait, does the congressman think you planted a bomb?” she interjected.

After I cleared up the confusion and my boss admitted to watching too many episodes of Scandal, she started making calls to help. I had called my midwife’s office but they could only fit me in for a precautionary check-up the next day. Recognizing my stress level and concern, my boss urged me to try again. I called back, pleading. They told me if I could get there in the next 15 minutes they could squeeze me in. Using my beltway driving experience, I made it just in time to run to the reception desk with my phone in hand, pointing at the clock and proclaiming, “one minute to spare!”

“Head on back,” said the receptionist, hardly looking up from her computer.

A medical assistant checked my baby’s heartbeat with her handheld doppler and as I heard the familiar sound at 152 beats per minute, my whole body relaxed. Everything is fine. One of the midwives I hadn’t met before walked in for the follow-up and after I introduced myself saying, “I promise I’m not crazy,” she said the most comforting words I’d heard all day:

“I would have done the exact same thing.”

I’m 15 weeks pregnant today. I can tell I’m growing but I can’t feel the baby yet, and it’s scary when you can’t tell what’s going on inside. During this time, there are a few key things that really help:

1. The most awesome boss in the world. Who else would meet you in a bathroom and actually encourage you to leave work and see a doctor for peace of mind? Only a rockstar with two young kids at home who shares her trendy maternity wardrobe.

2. An understanding and supportive husband. He listened and endorsed my every decision, volunteering to pick up my car and get it detailed.

3. A medical practice that’s a perfect fit. In the middle of a busy schedule they took the time to ease my fears and didn’t even blame me for being a worrying mom.

It was my first worrying mom moment. I picture Baby Bautista in there, a cute little fetus, rolling it’s eyes.