Life is Butter Dream

My nephew is now interpreting lyrics. Leif was belting out at the top of his little lungs “Row Row Row Your Boat” as we walked to the food store to buy him strawberry ice cream for dessert, much to the delight/annoyance of onlookers (the singing also involved a special dance-walk that I think Leif choreographed himself). The sugar anticipation got him in a singing/dancing/chereographing kind of mood. Bt when he got to the end, he just repeated that sweetly-mangled refrain over and over again, in this bizarre little barbershop-quartet-esque voice. It was very cute. But after hearing “Life is butter dream” for the fifth time, I wondered if there was some sort of message in his little song. Perhaps even a double entendre? I’m sure I could take this to existential dimensions, but right now I am too tired to do that.

Today I felt an teensy bit pregnant because my stomach is distended in a not-very-flattering way. I still think it is my constant need to eat (and then eating with wild abandon) that is causing this change. Where does fat end and pregnancy begin?

And I also experienced a moment of pregnancy excitement today when I saw a woman at Borders with a small stack of pregnancy books. I wanted to rush up to her and say “That’s me, too!” and swap war stories (assuming she has one, which chances are she doesn’t) and ask all sorts of Exclusive Pregnant Society questions that I now so amazingly have a right to ask. Is she worried that her baby is dead too? Probably not. Is she concerned that even if she does go full term that the baby will be still born? Doubt it. even after the baby is born and appears healthy, is she worried that some chromosomal abnormality will manifest itself a year down the road? My morbid mutterings might likely cause her to call over a manger and get me barred from the store. Bottom line is I still feel like I don’t fit in with the Exclusive Pregnant Society, and maybe I never will.

This is only the beginning of my pregnancy woes, but I feel like I don’t have the right to complain. This is what I wanted; and I am so grateful to be here. But there is only so much gratefulness I can exude when my clothes are uncomfortably tight, I am exhausted beyond belief, and the nausea that I though was supposed to go away a couple of weeks ago still lingers, and sometimes with a vengeance, and I am constantly worried about the well-being of these tiny beings.

And I am dizzy. At least I have an excuse: low blood pressure. Make that extremely low blood pressure. My blood pressure measured at 80/50 for the second appointment in a row. At first, I thought this was something to be proud of: My faulty logic was high blood pressure is bad, so the lower the blood pressure, the better. Not so. My doctor says that I don’t have to worry unless I am symptomatic. I felt fast relief, as I am not suffering from anything other than typical pregnancy ailments. But I asked her just to be safe what symptoms could she possible mean? Dizzy? Check. Blackouts? Check. Cold? Check check check. Did I mention I also run into walls and even lose my balance while I am sitting sometimes? Turns out I am symptomatic. What does this mean right now? Nothing. Another thing we are going to “keep an eye on.” When do all of these things we are Keeping An Eye On become Something To Be Concerned About?

Today, my body reminded me that it was in charge (most definitely a benevolent dictator). It wanted salt and vinegar chips, so I got them. I think my body craved it because it knew it had to bring up my blood pressure to something on the other end of the near-coma scale and it figured salt was the way to go. I steadily ate through most of the bag (the big bag, not the snack-size, .99 cents bag), even though there were clear “Stop! Enough!” signals being sent to my brain. I even tried to show moderation: I ate one bowlful at a time, making the trek into the kitchen to replenish the bowl instead of just eating it out of the bag (my first instinct). Yet I finished three bowls, which equates to let’s just say a lot of the bag. The result is more nausea and queasiness and a general feeling of yuck. I felt too sick to eat anything else all day, which only made things worse. Hopefully, the babies were able to live off my various fat stores today. At night, I toyed with the idea of making a Billy’s Cupcake run for a dozen delicious cupcakes and a slice of Icebox Cake (more healthy foods). But in the battle of hunger/cravings vs. lethargy, lethargy always wins. I haven’t ruled out a morning run, though.

Right now the babies are about the size of a sign language “C”, which, conveniently, is formed by forming your thumb and pointer finger into the letter “C”. It’s a nice, rounded curve with the fingers (about three inches), not a wide, stretched-out version. I find it hard to believe—almost impossible—that there are two of these little babies inside of me, with hearts beating and teeth forming and intestines pushing through umbilical cords to their tiny tummies. Thinking about it too much almost hurts because I am convinced it will all be taken away from me. As much as you protect yourself and swear that you are not going to get attached, you do. Let’s face it, I fell in love with the embryo picture. It was all downhill from there.