Still growing this baby

22 weeks pregnant and holding the course. I’m doing what feels like an enormous amount of self care: therapy, pregnancy-after-loss support group, midwife appointments, acupuncture, chiropractic, pelvic floor physical therapy, yoga, walking, haircuts, book club and considering a prenatal massage.

I can’t control much of this baby making process, but I’m good at making appointments. 

This is short lived. As soon as this baby is on the outside my self care will be down to the occasional shower and walk. Or maybe just shower and nap if I tear my crotch to pieces again.

Overall I’d describe myself as NOT an anxious person, but of course that’s not doing me any good now. My therapist said that I can’t expect to have zero anxiety and she thinks I’m doing about as well as I can hope. So there’s that.

At my last ultrasound scan the doctor said,

“I have no concerns aside from your advanced maternal age.”

Perfect. I’ll be 37 in July. In general I feel great, healthy, strong, vibrant, full of life, optimistic, all that good stuff. But 36.9 and pregnant? I feel OLD. My hips are aching; my legs are throbbing and I’m leaking urine just thinking about it.

I see why 22 years old is physically a great age to give birth. Although the only thing I was prepared to give birth to at that time was this blog. That’s right, this blog was born in 2005. And yes I know where to find those posts and no they’re not public. They’d only reassure you that waiting to have kids in my thirties was the right decision.

I’m also in full blown nesting mode. I had this feeling when I was pregnant with BB, but we were in a one bedroom, so after we squeezed in a changing table, there wasn’t much else I could do.

Now I can decorate a whole nursery! The rational part of me says,

“BB didn’t sleep in her own room for a year. This kid is going to be in your bedroom for a long time, no rush to decorate her room now.”

The anxious, superstitious part of me says,

“Don’t you dare decorate that room, you have NO idea what’s going to happen.”

The hormonal, pregnant, nesting part of me says,

“But I really wanted to do this when I was pregnant with BB and I couldn’t. This is my chance!”

I’m going with the hormonal part of me. She’s the most insistent. Plus we already have all the big nursery furniture. The crib has been stored in that room for over a year. All I had to do was move it to the other side of the room.

I’m going with a rainbow theme considering sometimes people call the baby they have after a loss their rainbow baby. It may be overplayed, but I like it. And heaven forbid this kid doesn’t make it, if some kid makes it at some point, they’ll be our rainbow baby.

Captain painted the walls a light blue, so it’s ready for rainbows. BB slid her bare butt across the new cloud rug, so that’s broken in. And I’ve been making frequent trips to HomeGoods to keep an eye on the rainbow/cloud paraphernalia.

All that’s left to do is keep going. And whatever concerns I have about labor and delivery, I can let those go because the other day BB told me,

“Mom, when you push the baby out?”


“I’ll catch her.”

Self-care pregnancy

I can do this. I’ve got the rubber duckies, the letters and the bubbles, tear free!

Fetus’ first street harassment

Nothing like a 70 degree day in March to bring all the creepy, obnoxious men out of hibernation.

I’ve been walking around Boston all Winter without being approached by anybody besides the people in vests for various good causes. Yesterday broke that streak.

I head to the park.

“Hey pretty lady, can I walk with you?”

Ignore. A mile later I settle onto a bench and pull out my book. A guy shouts at me,

“Nice hair.”



NO. I do not need to thank you for your verbal harassment.

What part of my pregnant belly makes you think approaching me is a good idea? I have enough hormones coursing through my body right now to tear your head off with my bare hands.

An hour later a gaggle of guys saunters up.

“Hey girl, I like your Sew-KOE-Nees.”

What the heck is he talking about? I glance at my sneakers. Ah Saucony. Wrong pronunciation buddy. You should try not talking out loud.

street harassment

Still pregnant – 22 weeks

22 weeks pregnant. The weeks keep adding up. Before this, I had no idea pregnancy was counted in weeks. I had no idea about a lot of things. Supposedly the mole that’s growing on my tummy is normal. As long as it doesn’t start moving around like in Robin Hood: Men in Tights.

Counting weeks makes sense considering one week the Blurry Blob didn’t have ears and now she does. Or we hope so. This may be the one body part the ultrasound technician didn’t mention.

I should be focused on week 22, but my brain keeps jumping all over the place. I sent an urgent email to a friend inquiring about potty training. The good news is that none of my friends are still in diapers and the Blurry Blob doesn’t even need diapers yet.

Pregnancy books have sucked me in. The problem is that plenty of these books are for pregnancy and BEYOND. So one minute I’m reading about second trimester and next thing I know I’m reading about how to discipline your five-year-old. I may have skipped to the back of the book. I can’t handle the suspense.