Bloated? 10 Tips for a Flat Belly

WebMD just sent my pregnant a$$ this email, "Bloated? 10 Tips for a Flat Belly." Here are my tips for myself:

1. Stop getting pregnant.
2. Stop having sex so you don't get pregnant.
3. Stop eating ice cream and candy after every meal.
4. Sugar-coated cereal is not a food group.
5. Eat a vegetable. Just one. I swear it won't kill you.
6. Chocolate-covered strawberries don't count as fruit.
7. Walking two miles doesn't make up for eating a whole cake.
8. Salad is not the enemy.
9. Beef is not always what's for dinner. Chicken is nice, too.
10. Listen to Michelle Obama. She is a nice lady.  

Mother Goose, we need to talk.

MG, we need to talk. Some of your nursery rhymes are just downright f'ed up. I mean, come on. You are dropping babies from the tops of trees, sending some dude to my house name Wee Willie to check if my kids are in bed, breaking open a poor kid named Jack's head, and don't even get me started on what you did to that poor Humpty fellow. One of my favorites is Goosey Goosey Gander. Not because it brings back joyful childhood memories, but because it is super f'ed. For those of you who don't remember, here is how Goosey Goosey Gander goes:

Goosey goosey gander,
Whither shall I wander?
Upstairs and downstairs
And in my lady's chamber.

There I met an old man
Who wouldn't say his prayers,
So I took him by his left leg
And threw him down the stairs.

First off, Lady, who is this random old dude that is up in your bedroom? SCANDAL! Second off, he is not only some random old dude, but also an atheist? Nice. I love that you employ a psychotic goose to eliminate your anti-religious bedfellows. Who better to weed out your sexual riffraff than a superhuman goose who can throw grown men down a flight of stairs. Genius. Where do I obtain such a righteous goose?

Preggo my Eggo Update: 22 weeks down, 18 to go.

OK, the cleaning ladies at work have to stop commenting on my trash can contents. Yes, I eat a lot of candy. No, I don't want to discuss all of the empty wrappers in my trash. Coconut M&Ms are delicious. End of story.

Also, someone in my office has been messing with my food. A box of animal crackers was stolen from my desk, then moved to a place in my office where I would never find see it. A few weeks later, I found them, high on top of a cabinet and way in the back. Seriously? Does someone have a death wish? Don't touch a pregnant lady's food! Especially their cookies. Phalanges have been chopped off for lesser offenses.

One more non-food complaint: people that get on my case about running really annoy me. I call these people drive-by gynecologists. You know the type: the naysayers that have an opinion on everything you do/eat/say when you are pregnant but have no actual medical education whatsoever and often haven't even pushed a watermelon out of their vag boxes--if they even have one.

Are you my OB? Have you spoken to them? No? Than please shut your monkey pie hole. And, no, I am not shaking the baby when I run, moron. I actually rock him to sleep like he is surfing on a tiny baby waterbed filled with kittens.

A lady I work with just accosted me on the way back from the bathroom to ask (accuse) me about my running while with child. When common sense was getting me nowhere, I told her I am trying to beat my personal best pushing-the-baby-out-of-me time of 15 minutes and running really helps with that. She immediately ended the conversation.

I love running. I don't do it to be thin or show people up. I don't run marathons or participate in Ironman competitions, I run 5Ks and maybe a half marathon every 20 years or so. I do it because it is the only real time I get for me. And while I can still do it, why not? My Dr. all but wrote me a prescription to do it as long as possible, so what's the problem? Besides the whole shaken baby syndrome thing, apparently. But who doesn't like their baby a little shaken, anyway?

Sorry, I am no longer cleaning my office for pictures and, yes, I am covered in Fatty hair.

My Morning

So this is how my morning went:

• Wake up to find bloody cat pee in the bathroom.
• Decide to take cat to vet.
• Load cat in cat carrier.
• Violently loud cat screaming commences.
• Violently loud kid screaming commences because the cat is hurt.
• Kid will not leave cat’s side.
• Kid being near cat makes cat angrier.
• Cat screams louder.
• Get kid and cat strapped in car.
• Drop kid off at school and hope the Humane Society is not called because the cat can be heard screaming all the way from the car.
• Arrive at vet.
• Start up conversation with lady who seems normal.
• She’s not.
• She starts talking about dog rape, child abuse and disabled kids being beheaded.
• Stop talking to lady.
• New guy walks in with clear plastic bag of wet dog poo.
• Start gagging and have to leave the room.
• See vet.
• Vet says cat has another UTI and weighs half of what my 21-month-old does.
• Give vet $75 for pee medicine.
• Strap cat back in car.
• Drive cat home.
• Take cat inside where she immediately pees on the floor.

Excellent.

My pee-hole hurts.

10 Signs You Shouldn't Have Sex During Pregnancy

I recently got a Pregnancy Bulletin email from BabyCenter titled, "10 signs you shouldn't have sex during pregnancy‏". I figured these were the 10 signs:

1. You're pregnant, which is the result of sex, and you don't want to get any more pregnant.
2. Your idea of hitting the sheets involves 14 body pillows, a sleep mask, a fan and ear plugs.
3. You have gas so bad that you make the entire country of Mexico cringe.
4. You can no longer see the hedges in order to trim them, and who wants to venture into uncharted territory, anyway?
5. The mere sight of the bastard that got you into this whole mess makes you want to punch a kitten.
6. Your idea of foreplay is ordering cheese sticks before the pizza comes.
7. The Dr. told you not to lay on your back after the first trimester, and there is no way this cowgirl is saddling up.
8. One tiny penis inside of you is enough, who needs another?
9. Your idea of putting on "something sexy" is listening to Barry White while eating an Oreo Blizzard on the couch in your PJs.
10. You're awake.

If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram. 

Preggo my Eggo Update: 21 weeks down, 19 to go.

21 weeks and counting...

I have made it over the pregnancy hump. I have less time to go than I have behind me. Yay! I am off today for a much-needed-time-away-from-family girls trip. I plan to eat myself silly, talk about boys and drink my weight in Busch N.A. (don't even go there, ladies). None of the lovely women I am going with have kids, so I won't have to hear any my-kid-is-cuter/smarter/sweeter-than-yours stories. Really looking forward to that.

I look forward to this trip every year. It is just a chance to let loose and have fun. This year I don't get to let loose as much as last year (let's just say last year featured me donning a Captain's hat all weekend and being dubbed Captain Seaman--not as dirty as it sounds), but it will still be great to get away.

Also looking forward to showing off my bump and cellulite booty in a bikini to all of the trashy peeps on the river while drinking a "beer" (this is an annual float trip, sans float due to my preggo eggo). Never is there a more accepting group of men for women who don't look perfect in a swimsuit than on a floating river. I have never once worried about my gut hanging over my swimsuit bottoms while steering my canoe. It is refreshing to be somewhere where you can be so comfortable with yourself when you are so exposed. And the beer goggles help. A lot.

If you have never had the chance to take a float trip, I highly recommend it. I am too old and cranky for the tent camping part, but we have found some swanky cabins that feature all the amenities for when you drag your sunburnt and exhausted butt back from the river.

I hope all of you lovely ladies (and gentlemen) have a lovely weekend and get to have at least half as much fun as I do.

Cheers!

Julie

Preggo my Eggo Update: 20 weeks down, 20 to go.

I am halfway there. I feel good, am still able to see at least part of my feet, am really enjoying running again and am not so exhausted I fall asleep on the toilet on a daily basis. Right now I am just basking in the wonder that is the second trimester and eating myself silly. I love it. I love food.

Without the presence of sweet, sweet, alcohol, food has become my crutch. Hard day at work? Eat three bowls of cereal. Somebody in the checkout line said you were really big for no farther along than you are? Pass the Ding Dongs. Vending machine out of Twizzlers? Head out for ice cream. I just love being pregnant and having a good excuse to eat the way I do normally.

I am getting more used to the idea of having another penis in my life. Trying to figure out what to do with said penis once it arrives: circumcision care, frequent pee outburst, etc. Since The Quiet Contemplator is more or an independent, lone wolf, I am hoping My Sponsor will be a mama’s boy who will call me from college to ask just how it is that you make Macaroni ‘n’ Cheese…again.

Overall, things are looking up. It seems since I hit the 12-week mark, the weeks have been flying by. This is somewhat scary as I have really done nothing to prepare, but I will worry about that once I hit 40 weeks or so. What’s the rush?

Any Barney comments about the purple dress and you get punched in the neck.

 

There’s a tiny* penis inside of me.

No, this post title is not just a good, “That’s what she said” joke. There really is a tiny* penis inside of me right now. The best way to sum up how I felt when I found out?

“Surprised Eddie? If I woke up tomorrow with my head sewn to the carpet, I wouldn't be more surprised than I am now.”


I have thought it was going to be a boy all along, but once ultrasound Anne confirmed it, I was flabbergasted. I am wavering between being ecstatic and scared out of my mind. Isn’t one penis enough for a girl to deal with? Now, not only do I have another penis in my life, but I also have to look forward to cleaning poop off of a tiny pair of balls. I kid, of course, I am just still so shocked and excited. Bring on the blue!

*Dear baby boy, I am sure your penis is completely adequate for your baby size. I am in no way insinuating that your in utero peen is anything less than spectacular.

How to identify a fellow mommy.

 As we women become mommies, a few things change in our appearance. These things may be subtle, but they can help you easily identify a fellow mommy when you are out in public and need to borrow a diaper, wet wipes, juice box or shoulder to lose your schmidt on.

The Hair: A mommy’s hair comes in many forms, from perfectly coiffed and colored ‘dos, to ponytails with three-inch long roots. The tie that binds all mommies together is the sticky quotient. Somehow, every mommy’s hair has a certain There’s-Something-About-Mary factor that is unexplainable. A goo that once was a child-induced slime somehow makes its way into mommy’s hair and hardens into a stiff style. Is that yogurt, applesauce, finger paint, glue, snot? How did it get here and why won’t it comb out, no matter what you do?

The Makeup: As hard as a mommy tries, it is impossible to get her makeup perfect after having children. Many culprits can lead to the end problem, including:

1. Not noticing the mascara that has smeared all the way to your top lid/lipstick on your teeth because you applied it while trying to brush your kid’s teeth, comb your hair and do your taxes, all at the same time.
2. Refusing to apply powder in the morning because your toddler decided that your makeup brush was the perfect thing to use to fish her Cheerios out of the toilet (why on earth where there Cheerios in the toilet in the first place?)
3. Running out of the house and forgetting makeup altogether after a morning filled with spilled cereal, hissy fits, diaper explosions and debauchery.

The Clothes (Fit): Most mommies can usually be seen wearing clothes that are either too small or too big for them. This isn’t out of laziness. There are many phases of mommyhood that necessitate these fashion faux pas, including:

1. I just had a baby and haven’t lost the weight yet. (Too small)
2. I had a baby a year ago and haven’t realized I lost the weight yet. (Too Big)
3. I am between babies and know I will blow up like tank again, so I am not buying new clothes until I am done having kids. (Too small/too big)
4. I am pregnant with my second baby and not ready to face the hell that is maternity fashion again yet. (Too small)
5. I chase after a fire-breathing toddler all day and do not give a schmidt what my clothes fit like. What the f*ck is it to you?
6. Rinse, repeat until childbearing years are over/your kids leave the house and you finally have the time/money to care about your looks again. Warning: by then, everything will have moved south and you will need a new plan of action.

The Clothes (Look): Try as us mommies might, we just aren’t the fashion horses we once were. Whether we are stuck donning last decade’s styles because we would rather our kid rock the latest looks than ourselves, or we are sporting a white snot stain on the hem/neckline of our new black dress, we are just not cut out for the fashion big leagues anymore. Add to that the chicken wings and donut belly that often linger after pregnancy, and you have a recipe for mopey mommy looks. But, I have noticed moms of today seem to be giving the big finger to mom jeans and rocking the best looks they can while toting a drooling, screaming, poop machine. Carry on, sexy mamas, carry on!

The Purse: Mommy purses are the motherload of all purses. No tiny clutch or wristlet can haul the heavy load a mommy must carry. Diaper wipes, pacifiers, baby aspirin, snacks, juice boxes, you name it, and it is in there. The purse of a mommy is large and in charge. You non-mommies mock until you spill coffee on your new blouse. Then who do you come running to in search of a wet wipe? That’s right. Mommy. That’s who. Would you also like some goldfish crackers with that? You are acting a little crabby so you must be hungry.

The Shoes: Mommy shoes are often more utilitarian than high fashion. You try chasing a screaming 20-month-old through Target in four-inch Manolos. Yeah, who is laughing at my Chuck Taylors now? I didn’t think so.

Preggo my Eggo Update: 19 weeks down, 21 to go.

Weight gain: Well, the skinniness that the stomach flu afforded me for the first part of my pregnancy has officially subsided. At 18 weeks, BabyCenter said, “Hungry? An increase in appetite is pretty common about now.” Yeah, that is like the biggest understatement in the world. I could eat four Mexicans, an Italian and a cheesecake. Now, don’t get me wrong, I am not a girl who cares about her weight. I eat like a linebacker most of the time and then run to help even it out. I am never below double digits in size and I have always been happy with that. I was concernicus my first 16 weeks because I just. couldn’t. gain. weight. Boo hoo, right? Don’t worry, by the end of this pregnancy I will be well over 200 pounds and give Jenny McCarthy a run for her money.

Mood swings: I want to rip my husband’s face off. No reason, really, he is just near me the most and is a really nice person, which makes me want to smother him to death with my leftover Almond Joy wrappers. He will ask me a simple question like, “What would you like for me to pick up for dinner?” And I want to respond, “Why don’t you decide what the f*ck we are having for dinner? Maybe for once there can be food on the table and I don’t have to be the deciding force of how it magically got there.” Really, he just wants to know what I want because he knows if he chooses himself I will snap his neck for getting McDonald’s when I wanted Taco Bell. Poor guy.

The worst part is that he is so nice he probably reads this blog to show genuine interest in what I am doing. Oops. Hi, honey. I love you. I promise not to kill you in your sleep for snoring with your mouth open, again.

19-week bump

Oh, Coco.

So, after my A Helpful Hint post featuring Ice-T's wife, Coco, I noticed a flurry of new hits to the site via Google search. Yeah! Right? Wrong.

What had, in fact, happened was a bunch of pervs looking to oogle Mr. T's (Not that Mr. T, fool) wife in an unsavory way were Googling her name, along with some other...um, let's just say disgusting...terms, in hopes of finding racy pics of the curvaceous cutie. Well, said dirty searches landed said pervs on my baby blog. SHIVERS!

When I told my husband about this, he replied, "Gross. I bet fat old dudes are beating it to your blog." SHUT UP!

Well, Mr. T, I am sorry that you bagged such a righteous babe that men all over the world seek her out to do their ungodly duty to. Though, come on. It isn't exactly like she is Snow White or anything. Rather than draw more pervs to my blog by posting what her usual ensemble entails, I will let you all Google her for yourself if you want to see the wonder that is Coco. Beware: Coco ain't suitable for work.

The Quiet Contemplator's Birth Story Part 2

So now that you all hate me for basically having an immaculate birth experience, I will share the rest of our birth story.

When they took The Quiet Contemplator from me to clean her up and check her out, everyone started to get a little antsy. Voices started raising and going faster and faster. The last real thing I heard was, “She needs to go to the NICU now. Daddy, come with us.” Um? What? I kid you not, they ran over, told me her lungs were “dusky” and that they needed to rush her to the NICU. Dusky? WTF does dusky mean? I didn’t know what to do. 

Then everyone left. Seriously. Everyone. Here I was paralyzed from the waist down covered in blood in a hospital room, completely alone. The baby I had just had five minutes ago was rushed away from me to go to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. I can’t describe how I felt. It wasn’t sad or scared or mad or anything. It was just blank. I had been erased. 

At first I just sat in the room completely still and silent. Then I started to panic. We hadn’t even told my parents, who were still in the waiting room, that we had even had the baby. No one even knew she existed and now she was in the NICU? I didn’t even know what to do. I just sat there, motionless. 

I was alone in my room for almost an hour. The only person who came in during that time was a Mexican cleaning man to get the afterbirth, bloody sheets, etc. He didn’t speak any English. 

Right when I was starting to lose it, my husband walked in and started crying. We both just lost it. Then a NICU nurse came in to tell me it could be pneumonia, or a hole in her heart, or just fluid trapped in her lungs because she came out so fast. Seriously? How can she be broken? I hadn’t even had a chance to break her yet. 

ADD Daddy and The Quiet Contemplator in the NICU.

After the nurses got me cleaned up and in a wheelchair, they led me up to the NICU. There was my perfect baby in a plastic cage, surrounded by bright lights and noisy machines while covered in tubes and monitors. Not what we had planned for. We were told we couldn’t hold her until at least the next day, so we just sat and stared at her from the outside of the incubator, stroking her little feet.

They make some stylin' hats in the NICU.

To break the suspense, The Quiet Contemplator was ok. The Drs think that since she didn’t take long to travel through the birth canal (thanks, Pitocin) that she didn’t have the fluid pushed from her lungs like nature intended. Instead of being wrapped in my arms, The Quiet Contemplator spent the first two days of her life like a science experiment.

But, in the long run, everything was OK. The first time I walked out of my room to see her in the “real nursery”, I cried.

Finally tube- and wire-free and in mama's arms.

The Quiet Contemplator's Birth Story Part 1

I know people just LOVE to read birth stories, so I decided I would finally share mine. Sorry these are all long and you guys will probably get stabbity with me toward the end of part 1, but stick with it, it isn’t all butterflies and rainbows (see part 2).

It all started the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving, 2009. We were watching The Biggest Loser and I was having what I thought were Braxton Hicks contractions. A lot of them. They weren’t really uncomfortable, just persistent. I figured it was just us getting closer to the end and I went to bed.

The next day, Thanksgiving, I was still having contractions, but again, not a big deal. Since I was too pregnant to travel to my parents’ house, which is tradition, I decided to get a Boston Market Thanksgiving dinner and have my brother-in-law, father-in-law and a couple of friends over for dinner. That’s right, I was almost 40 weeks pregnant and cooked-ish a full Thanksgiving dinner for six people while having contractions.

As I would put a course in the oven, I would sometimes bend over with a more intense contraction. Again, nothing big and I just thought it was all in my head, so we carried on with dinner. Everyone stuck around until 6 p.m. or so drinking (bastards) and eating. My husband and I settled to the couch for some tv time and more contractions. I started timing them just for fun and thought it was a little odd when they were all around 7 to 10 minutes apart. Weird. Again, they weren’t painful, so it couldn’t be labor. Right?

I had friends coming in the next day to visit from out of town. My friend texted me to see if we were still available and I said yes, and joked he might have to help me count contractions while they were there. He asked why, so I told him and he called his sister, who is an OB nurse. She told him they were not Braxton Hicks and that I was in pre-labor. Psssshhhhh. Whatever. I told them to still come.

We settled into bed around 11 p.m. and I tried to get some sleep—a little hard when you are having contractions every 10 minutes. Around 12, I got out of bed and decided to pack our stuff and get ready so we could go to the hospital and they could give me something to help me sleep through all of the contractions. I woke soon-to-be ADD Daddy up and we headed to the hospital around 1 a.m.

In the car, my contractions got a little stronger, but still no biggie. After over 24 hours of them, I think I had just tuned them out. We arrived at the labor and delivery unit of the hospital and I told the nurses I was having a lot of contractions and just needed something to help me sleep. They gowned me up and “checked me” (AKA fisted me). They told me I was at 3 cm. They asked me to walk around the halls for an hour to see what happened, then to come back.

Soon-to-be ADD Daddy and I walked around the labor and delivery unit for an hour then headed back to the room so I could be fisted again. The lady said I was at a 4. I figured that wasn’t much, so I started taking off my gown and went to ask her what she could prescribe to help me sleep. She then asked me if wanted an epidural now or if I wanted to wait a bit. Wait. What? Epidural? I just need some sleeping pills. I asked her what she meant and she told me I was in full-blown labor. She informed me that they were going to break my water and that it was going to hurt like a b*tch so she recommended that if I was going to get an epidural, I do so now.

Sure, I will take an epi, with a side of Bud Light.

I was in shock. I guess I sort of felt like a big fat cheater. I hadn’t doubled over in pain and screamed so loud half the hospital looked, or had my water break in the cookie aisle at Wal-Mart, or tried to rip my husband’s jugular out, or anything. Was it OK to give up this easily? Being that I wholeheartedly agreed with the use of drugs in birth, I said yes.

Cue me an hour later hopped up on an epi, listening to Nick Drake and drifting in and out of sleep. It was now around 3 a.m. and we just didn’t know what to do with ourselves. In between occasional fistings, we watched tv, checked our email, chatted, listened to music and did a whole lot of nothing for the next nine or so hours.

Around 12:30 p.m., the delivery nurse came in and said we were going to start pushing soon. Again, excuse me, what? Pushing? I don’t even feel anything. Well around 1 p.m., my Dr. came in and we started pushing. It didn’t hurt. At all. Fifteen minutes later—I kid you not—The Quiet Contemplator was born.

Tada! I'm here, b*tches!

I know, I know. You want to punch me in the face right now and tell me your grueling 24-hours-of-bloody-and-disgusting-painful-labor stories, some of which still sadly ended in an unplanned C-section. I am sure that sucked all to hell and back. I feel your pain, sister. But this is just my story. I didn’t see the need to emphasize the sh*tty IV part or add any drama and flare. This is just kind of how it went for us and it was awesomeness.

That being said, when they handed my daughter to me, it was like I wasn’t prepared. We hadn’t gone through enough during our birth experience to feel like she should be here and I kind of didn’t know what to do with her. Everyone was all smiles and goos and giggles and I was just looking at her hammer thumbs (a lovely trait, thanks to ADD Daddy) and thinking I had to pay for her college. Then, things got sh*tty…