Does being pregnant mean you lose your sense of style or perhaps it means that you adopt a one? I prefer the latter as opposed to the former and while I’ve never been the most fashionable woman around, I do believe that my sense of style hasn’t been atrocious. What I have noticed; however, since my pregnancy is that I’ve taken more of a laid back approach to my clothing. Whether that be because I’m super frugal with my money and I have no desire to spend hundreds of dollars on a wardrobe I can’t wear that often or because I just want to be comfortable. I’m not really sure what’s driving my current fashion sense.

This week, my husband and I have been on vacation at the beach. Normally I pack summer outfits that will show off my sunk-kissed and toned body (something I don’t have this year). Instead I packed, shorts, t-shirts, sneakers and wait for it…Old Navy flip-flops. What was I thinking? Our first day at the beach, it was overcast and rainy so we took the opportunity to do some shopping. It used to be that when we would go shopping, I would try to dress cute, with little dresses and tank tops, along with matching sandals. Wednesday, I defied all rules of dressing for shopping when I threw on a pair of shorts, my Yankees t-shirt and sneakers. I didn’t even bother to bring a blow dryer with me to the beach, but instead decided to let my hair go with the natural waves. All of these are attitudes I never really had before getting pregnant. I can’t help but wonder if it’s a new set of hormones perhaps taking over my body and actions.

Let me give you another example of how things have changed. The first day of shopping, I avoided all outlet shops that have always been my favorites in the past: Banana Repulic, Ann Taylor, Calvin Klein, DKNY. I’m sure a portion of that avoidance has to do with the fact that it’s a colossal waste of my time to look at the clothing in any of these stores considering the fact that I can’t even try any of it on! That creates a certain level of disappointment within me. So, the first day of shopping the only thing I bought for myself was two pairs of hiking shorts, in the size that I wore BEFORE getting pregnant. My husband and I plan to take Davey into our backyard, aka Paris Mountain, when he gets older. And here’s the strange thing, I actually bought hiking shorts! They’re not even all that stylish and my old self would probably turn her nose up at such things.

The next day, we went shopping again and this time I bought two pairs of shoes…..FLATS! I never wear flats, at least not until I got pregnant. I have my fair share of Converse sneakers that I’ll wear, but for the most part my dressier shoes are usually heels, not flats. And here was my rationale, or at least the one I gave my husband (he really didn’t care), I wanted something more practical when Davey is born. Practical and stylish go together, right? As I explained to my husband, I don’t want to try to carry Davey while wearing heels. I’m not exactly the most graceful person in the world, actually I’m pretty clumsy, so mixing heels with a baby doesn’t blend well.

Yesterday, we hit up another set of outlets and I actually spent money on clothing that I could wear pregnant and post-pregnant. You see, the joy with being tall like myself, is that I carry my pregnancy weight pretty well. I can wear a lot of the dresses, such as the maxi-dresses and little sun-dresses, that I have in my closet from previous summers, even while I’m pregnant. I haven’t spent as much money on maternity clothing as some women have, which is a plus. But when I look ahead to the future and my role as a mother, my fashion-sense takes a backseat and all I can think about is fitting into my pre-pregnancy jeans and even *gasp* my long-sleeve t-shirts! What has happened to me? How has my mentality about fashion changed so much?

I guess, much like everything else, when you have a child, things change…fashion is no longer my priority. I can’t believe I just said that!

I do my best to not have any regrets in life. When I look back on past experiences, whether they are good or bad, I try not to think about what could have been, what should have been, or what if. I’m finding myself in this same mindset these days especially with the sweltering hot days of summer rolling along. I suppose the first thing that triggered this mentality of me reminding myself that the past is the past and the future is a new adventure, has to do with my satellite radio, more specifically the station known as “Margaritaville”.

Last week as I drove to work, I heard one of my all time favorite songs. It’s a song I always play at the start of Spring and when I’m in the mood for a beach trip with a nice little rum punch on the side. That song is Bob Marley’s “No Woman, No Cry”. It must be the rthymic rolling of the reggae and steel drums mixed with my memories of summers when I was footloose and fancy-free. I admit that unfortunately these last few weeks I’ve started to feel a few pangs of regret at becoming a mother. It’s a selfish thought and I’m well aware of how it sounds for me to say these things. Trust me, I berate myself on a regular basis when these nastiest little thoughts enter my brain.

This week my husband and I are enjoying our last vacation as “just the two of us” by spending the week at my parent’s place at the beach. I spoke with him this morning about my thoughts and feelings, about how I miss the fact that he and I can’t just hop on a plane and go down to the islands anymore. I told him I feel so guilty about missing the ability to sit out on the beach, with a fruity concoction in my hand as I bask in the glorious rays of the sun. I told him I feel down because I can’t lie out in the sun like I used to and that this summer is the whitest I’ve seen myself ever. All of these small, perhaps minute little things that I’ve been able to do for so many years, things I took for granted and didn’t enjoy totally in the past, well, they’re now a part of the past. It makes me a little sad.

Then of course, I’m watching all the families out on the beach, the children playing in the sand, screaming as waves crash on shore and I get a new level of excitement coarsing through my body. I posted on my Facebook page before leaving that I was excited to be on vacation, but was more excited thinking about the one next year when this twosome becomes a threesome. One of my friends told me to enjoy my last solo vacation, because things will change next year. I’m sure they will and to what level I can’t know right now, but the more I’ve thought about it and focused on the new adventures awaiting next year, the faster my pangs of guilt and disappointment of longing for a past life seem to dissipate.

I’m still totally selfish and I don’t enjoy that about myself, and hopefully it’s not something I pass on to my son. I know my life is altering forever and that I can’t cling to the past as if it’s the only enjoyment I’ve ever had. Maybe it’s just my fears rolling in with the tide of change. Who knows? I have; however, been reassured that my thoughts and feelings are justified and that most if not all first time mothers have at least one point where they think about regrets and past lives. Unfortunately, it’s only slightly reassuring to me. I just have to continue looking ahead to the exciting and I’m sure far from mundane life that is awaiting me.

I don’t want to speak for all other mothers to be, but I’m afraid that the fathers-to-be are under appreciated. I’m afraid to say my baby’s daddy perhaps hasn’t been feeling the gratification he deserves.

With each day comes a new revelation, a new experience with my pregnancy. One of the wonderful and amazing things about my pregnancy is that I get to share it with my husband. I’m never alone with each new adventure with Davey. I have my best friend, my hero, and my saviour walking down this same highway with me and I couldn’t be happier.

Yesterday, I had my 31 week check up and along with everything else, my wonderful and doting husband was with me. He has been with me from the start, buying 3 home pregnancy tests just to squelch my doubting of each previous test I took. He has been my encouragement especially on the days when I felt like I couldn’t make it, the early days when Davey was draining me of all of my energy. He has held my hand during my emotional breakdowns, hugged me within the safety of his arms when I would break down. He’s bought my prenatal vitamins every month, changed up his diet to accomodate mine, and even makes my breakfast for me every morning and packs my lunches. He has truly been my saviour and my hero, but I have to admit that up until yesterday I never thought of it as my husband showing actual concern for my health. I always felt the underlying reason was because of Davey. Yesteray changed all of that.

We found out that my iron levels were low. Much like everything else I’ve experienced, this is new. I’ve always been healthy. As a matter of fact, I’ve had more prescriptions during my pregnancy than I’ve had in my entire life! It’s been absolutely insane. Yesterday news of the low iron levels is really nothing to cause a lot of damage or insight worry, but my husband made a comment to his mother, a comment that made me love him more and appreciate him more. It was a comment that brought a realization to my eyes that even after over 4 years of marriage and 8 total years together, I never really felt before. He told his mother that Davey wasn’t his worry at this point, that Davey would take whatever he needed from me. His worry was me and the fact that Davey would take everything from me and leave me with nothing. He showed a genuine concern for my life and I have to say that my husband has become the sexiest and greatest man in my life. I am fortunate to have him as my partner, my lover, my friend, and the father of my child. He is a role model for our son greater than any in this world and I can’t wait until Davey can see and learn.

“So, there’s 13 women in this class. The over/under on bathroom trips is 6. What are you taking?” And so starts our first “Getting Ready for Baby” class.

My husband loves to take bets. He loves to evaluate situations, especially those than can be boring and mundane at times, and try to find ways to turn them into something fun. Judging by the looks of the participants in last night’s “Getting Ready for Baby Class”, I was glad that I have a husband like him.

Like many first time parents, we’re eager to learn all we can about bringing home Davey. The class started with a brief introduction and then a side bar to let us all know where we could locate the restrooms as the class was two hours long, right after dinner, and most every mother (with the exception of me) was drinking a bottle of water.

Within minutes of the class starting, my husband takes our fake baby, who seems to be going through a severe state of rigor mortis, and tries to make him stand. He comes very close to this feat and exclaims that perhaps it will be this easy with Davey. I roll my eyes and smile, happy to just have someone with me who’s not the frantic hot mess like all the other fathers.

Our baby falls, since he’s not firmly planted on the table and really able to stand plus he’s fake, and my husband catches him. Then he repositions the baby into a sitting position and smiles at me as if to say “look at how awesome our kid is.” I roll my eyes again and think to myself, hopefully my husband doesn’t really think it’s this easy.

During the introduction of the course, my husband then proceeds to take our fake baby and with instructions from the sheet in our folder, he demonstrates a football hold for me. I nervously look around wondering if anyone is watching us, but everyone else seems to be engrossed in the teacher, something I suppose we should have been focusing on. A part of me wanted to tell my husband to quit being a clown, but then I saw the frightened and often constipated looks of the other fathers and decided I had the better end of the deal.

As the class progressed, and my husband learned how to change diapers (something he did like a pro, the true engineer that he is), we found ourselves in the question and answer period. First off, I have to say that I’m not much of a debater in class. I don’t ask questions. I don’t try to brown nose and pretend to know more than the instructor. I sit there. I take notes. I digest, and I learn. Unfortunately, a part of me became slightly nervous at the fact that we seemed to be the only couple not asking questions. I have to admit, that I frantically read through my notes and the brochure folder chocked full of useful information, just to find something, anything that I could possibly ask or discuss in class. I came up empty. And here’s where my concern comes into play….will my husband and I be able to handle this or are we too laid back in our approach? I thought and still feel that we are taking this seriously, but based upon the interaction and questions of so many others in class, I have to wonder how good at this we’ll actually be.

For the most part, I’m feeling pretty confident (not as confident as the one father who wanted to discuss the in depth scientific effects have a ceiling fan in the nursery has on the affect of the child’s emotional stability….please don’t ask), but our lack of questions raises some level of worry. I suppose we’ll learn it as we go along and as I’ve been told by so many, you can’t read a book to raise a child.

And oh, by the way, in my husband’s bet I chose the over and there were 4 mothers who went to the bathroom and 1 father. I argued that the 1 father should count as it was obvious he was the “Mary” in that relationship.

Above is a picture of my husband as he learns to change a diaper.

And so it begins…..

There once was a young woman, well by most standards she was middle-aged, who had fortunately been blessed with the good genes of being tall, slender and athletic. As the years moved on, and the maternity clock continued to tick on by, at times a bit more obnoxiously than others, this young woman decided to put her vanity aside and seek something more fulfilling in life.

She spent days praying and nights playing (wink wink) before finally deciding that it just wasn’t meant to be. She was to be one of those women who were to be career focused and interested in trudging forward with the mindset of women in the workplace and not in the kitchen. She accepted the card that had been dealt her, but secretly still hoped that one day her reality might change.

Then one cold December night, only a week before Christmas, she and her husband decided to partake in a little playing by night and praying by day. After all, it would be God’s will in the end and His will be done. No ifs, ands, or buts about it and no way of moving around it.

Weeks later, all hope lost, she decided to take a home pregnancy test. It came back positive, but wait! Was this a positive-positive, a false-positive, a positive-false, or something else? The instructions were a bit on the sketchy, and the pink line wasn’t clear. So, she made her husband buy two more home pregnancy tests, just to be on the safe side. There’s no sense getting one’s hopes up, especially if it were a false-positive. This time the tests came back more definitive. No dash or pluses, only the clear words “PREGNANT” showing on the strip, almost looking like a Vegas marquee sign.

Months passed by, doctor’s appointments came and went. She had ultrasound upon ultrasound. She shed tears at the sound of the beating heart within her womb. She began planning and designing a nursery. She put the needs of her unborn child first and daydreamed of a romantic life ahead of sleepless nights and exhausting days. Slowly She began to succumb to the daily effects of pregnancy. No longer a toned and fit body, she was beginning to metamorphosize into something she never thought possible. And only now, with a mere nine weeks more left on her journey, this middle-aged woman finds herself becoming nothing more than a weeble-wobble who will fall down and a once stylish woman, now wearing shoes that may not match because she can no longer see her feet. Alas, it’s a tragic but heartwarming story, definitely entertaining to say the least. It’s only a matter of time before this middle-something woman becomes a mother and I can’t help but wonder, how will she handle the poops and the vomits? What about the 2 am feedings? The cries of distress and frustration? Is she nervous? Not one bit, but I do have it on good authority that she can’t wait until she no longer waddles along like a penguin. And perhaps it would be best to invest in a full length mirror, just to be sure those shoes not only match each other, but also the outfit.

It’s an age old story of a woman transforming and becoming more than she ever thought possible. Stay tuned as this story continues to unfold. And like wine and cheese, it will only get better with age.

I’m really relishing these last few weeks of my pregnancy. My belly has started growing and fortunately for me that’s the only place where I seem to be packing on the extra pounds. Hopefully this means, I will be able to shed them pretty quickly. And right now I’m wearing my pregnant belly proudly, almost trying to find ways to accessorize and draw attention to it. I can’t help myself. No longer do I have to tell people that I’m pregnant, because now they can see it. I must admit that I do love the attention I get especially from strangers. Occassionally a few of them will feel sorry for me as I’m pregnant in this miserable southern heat. Others want to offer up unsolicited advice on things I should do for myself and for my child. No matter what it is, I’m relishing the attention.

Davey has become more and more active as the days pass as well. He keeps me company at work, on my rides home, while I’m writing or reading at night. If I’m feeling sad, he seems to notice this and gives me a little nudge to let me know that he’s with me. My tears usually dry up at that point and I can’t help but smile as I caress my belly and dream of the day when I’ll get to hold him in my arms. And I suppose part of the selfishness I feel is also because at this moment, during these nine months, Davey is all mine. I don’t share him with anyone. I don’t get to leave him or drop him off at day care. He is literally with me 24/7 and it’s the greatest thing in the world. And while there are times I want to share him with others, in the end, I’m really glad he’s all mine, because once he comes into this world, he will have the attention of so many people.

A part of me does; however, feel guilty about not even wanting to share him with my husband. Some days I wake up and I smile knowing that this is mine and Davey’s time. We’ll have our special times when he’s born, I’m sure of it, but nothing will compare to what we have right now. Each day will create a new memory between the two of us, but in most cases those memories will be shared with others. Right now, these memories are of me and him. It’s selfish of me to be like this, I’m fully aware, but I can’t help myself.

So as I begin the countdown of 10 weeks left until he’s welcomed into this world, I plan to relish our time together. A time when he’s still in my womb. A time when he’s so tied to me and in tune with my feelings that he’s the only thing that can pick me up on a day when I’m feeling down. This is a time for me to experience a truly magical gift, one that unfortunately not every woman will experience. And I plan to continue to be as selfish with my son as possible. Is this wrong of me?

With approximately 10 weeks to go, Davey has become extremely active. As a matter of fact, he keeps me company at work and even at times can manage to calm and de-stress me. I’m already a proud mommy, as I excitedly talk about him with my customers, co-workers, and pretty much anyone who will listen to me. I love to tell my stories and my experiences and I love for everyone to experience the little nudges and kicks that Davey gives me daily.

Originally, I thought I would be one of those women who couldn’t stand for strangers to come up to me and touch my belly. For the most part, I’m pretty protective of my personal space, which is an imaginary box I have around myself at all times. I don’t like to be encroached upon especially by strangers, and I can sense when someone has stepped into that space even if I’m not looking directly at them. This; however, has changed as most of my normal pre-dispositions seemed to have been taken away.

Unfortunately, I don’t think my son enjoys this level of attention, which is a bit disconcerting considering the fact that I love being the center of attention and my husband is pretty outgoing as well. I don’t think either one of us have ever suffered from stage fright or have even been shy one moment in our lives. Our son doesn’t seem to follow those same traits. The only person I can get him to really kick for is my husband. If I invite another stranger into the fold, he freezes up. I can look at my belly while at work and watch him move around. My stomach contouring with his movements. It’s very strange to see the activity that comes from my belly, almost an abnormality of sorts and I want to share it with so many. I just don’t think Davey wants to have all the attention. I know he can hear my requests as I plead for him to give me a kick, to perform for my friends and co-workers, but he refuses.

Last night was the first time that he did it to his own daddy. Davey kicked me, and it was one of the strongest kicks I’ve had thus far. I’m almost convinced I saw his heel coming out of my belly. When I tried to get my husband to see it as well, Davey stopped. And as strange as this may sound, I think he scurried away at the sound of my husband’s voice when he pleaded for a good kick. Hopefully, this is not indicative of how Davey’s personality will be, but in the end I don’t really care about his possible introverted personality, his stage fright, or shyness, because he’s already close enough to perfection for me.

Six and a half months ago I would have come home from my absolutely dismal day of work, and poured myself a glass of wine or cracked open a beer. Perhaps I would even mix a “pick-me-up” cocktail before dinner. Unfortunately, these days I no longer get this luxury, which means that my old fail safe crutch of a little bit of alcohol getting me through the night, no longer exists. I would be lying to you if I said that it didn’t depress me a little to know that this option is no longer available to me.

I’m not a huge drinker, especially not for liquor, but much like everything else in life that you can’t have you want it even more. So is the story of my life lately. Instead of using alcohol to now de-stress, a sorry excuse for a crutch I know, I am now forced to find an alternative that is healthy for me and safe for my baby. Stress is what I feed off of. I’m a high-strung, stressed-out, OCD personality. My younger brother used to call me “Drama Queen” and it fit quite well. I gladly wore that crown with pride. Unfortunately that crown is quickly becoming tarnished and I’m afraid that I now need to store it away.

My job is a job, not a career and something that I may find shelving in the near future especially considering the fact that I don’t want to fret about days like this when my child is born. My husband, being the wonderful and eager to please person that he is, offered to mix a cranberry juice with club soda and a lime to simulate the taste of the cranberry/vodkas that I love. I don’t want the taste of the drink, I told him. I want to experience the numbing effects of the euphoric state that alochol used to put me in. And I feel ashamed to say that’s what I want now even though I’m with child. So instead of my drink or a replacement for it, I went upstairs and worked out for 45 minutes until my stress was gone.

Here’s my fear, though, especially where my job is concerned and the stress level I force upon myself, I don’t want to leave work and say “it’s a brown liquor night” while I’m on my way to pick up my son and spend my few hours with him in a downward spiral of depression. I’m hoping this is just my current frame of mind, and that things will change. So, long story short I’ve told my husband when I call on my way home from work now and say “it’s a brown liquor night” that’s code for give me at least 45 minutes to work out some of this stress.

I decided to take some time and reflect. It concerns me that I have perhaps scared off a few women from becoming mothers. I have a tendency to write more about the bad things that have occurred during my pregnancy as opposed to giving the full picture and the true beauty of it all. For that, I’m extremely disappointed in myself.

My writing is usually driven by emotions and in most cases, it’s the sad emotions that become more prevalent. Tonight I want to set the record straight about being pregnant, and while it may not always be a bed of roses, the experience is beautiful, magical, and capitvating. In spite of every little ailment, discomfort, and painful twist and turn through the day, I wouldn’t trade this time in for all the money in the world.

One of the things I’ve noticed about myself, is the fact that I not so discreetly steal glances of my profile in mirrors, picture frames, and doors as I’m walking by. There is a hallway full of pictures hanging in my office as you walk towards the restroom. There’s not a day that goes by when I don’t look at my growing belly from the side, half the time getting busted in the act. I’m not embarrassed and I’m not sorry. And while I may have felt unattractive at the onset of pregnancy, the further along I have progressed, the more gorgeous I feel. I don’t know if it’s the fact that I am someone’s protector or that there is someone who’s life is dependent on mine that makes me feel so beautiful. Either way, I’m relishing the growing belly.

As the days are progressing, Davey is becoming more and more active within my belly. There are days when I feel like he’s performing a circus act of gymnastics in my womb. My rib cage; however, is feeling a bit of pain from that as I’m convinced he has bruised me already. But in the end, there’s something overly magical about feeling his movements. My husband asked me this weekend how it felt when Davey kicked or punched me. He asked me if it hurt, and truthfully while there may be some level of discomfort, my son hasn’t hurt me. As a matter of fact, while I’m anxious to hold him in my arms, I’m also sad to think about how I won’t wake up to his gentle nudges soon.

And the even greater thing about being pregnant is how it looks on my husband. He is my protector, my guardian, and the greatest love I could ever have. My pregnancy has brought about a softer yet harder side of my husband. He’s a gentle manly man, if that makes sense and isn’t a contradiction. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I literally get a lump in my throat and my heart sighs when my husband reads to Davey or when he’s leaving for work in the morning, he kisses my belly and tells his son how much he loves him. If I could write a love story as beautiful as mine and my husband’s right now, it would be a best seller.

So, for those of you who have perhaps become intimidated by some of my writings, please understand there is nothing more beautiful and more awe-inspiring than becoming a mother. I’m torn right now, as I’m only 11 weeks away from giving birth, and while I’m excited and counting down to the day when Davey is welcomed into this world, I’m also heart broken over some of the experiences that will become no more. For those of you who are pregnant now, savor it, savor every single moment of it. And for those of you who are considering the idea, but are a little nervous much like I was before, don’t worry. Being a mother is a true blessing and the greatest gift that can ever be bestowed upon a woman. While women, including myself, may joke about men needing to go through nine months of pregnancy, I wouldn’t want my husband to experience this. Not because he couldn’t handle it, but because I would be much to envious of him. After all, my son is with me 24/7 right now and I don’t think I could really handle it any other way.

It’s not really just because it’s Sunday that I’m sleepless. It’s starting to become a norm with me. I’m tired and exhausted by 9. I climb into the bed, read a book, or watch some repeat of Law & Order (the best show for insomniacs, it’s the echoing sound of the gavel/jail door closing). Most nights, I’m out like a light by 10, but the problem is that I’m usually wide awake again by 3. This morning isn’t much different, except for the fact that my body decided to wake me up a half an hour earlier. So, hello 230 Sunday morning!

My doctor told me to take over the counter Tylenonl PM at night to help sleep. Most every night I do this, but I think I’m becoming immune to its effects. I didn’t take one last night, but I really don’t believe it would have helped as every other night I’ve had one and no luck. Before I became pregnant, I don’t think I slept a lot anyways. I usually stayed up at night and would write, rise by 5 am to get in my morning workout and make it through my day with as much energy as if I’d had 8 hours of interrupted sleep. These days, I sleep about the same, possibly a bit more (or at least I did during the first trimester), but I’m exhausted during the day and eager to find a place to crawl off to nap. It’s becoming frustrating.

I attribute a part of my sleepless to the vivid dreams I’ve had since becoming pregnant. My husband comments that he doesn’t think my dreams are any different than they were before. He’s just jealous because I’ve always been able to remember my dreams. Last night, or I should say this morning, only a few hours ago, I awoke in a bit of a cold sweat spurred on by the worst dream I’ve had since becoming pregnant. First I should say, that pregnancy does have an effect on your subconscious and that dreaming happens a lot more frequently. My dreams before never really focused on one certain subject or time frame or anything like that. Now that has changed. Every night my dreams involve one of two subjects….babies and my brother.

Last night I awoke with a dream that I had been bleeding profusely and my husband rushed me to the hospital where Davey was born 2 and a half months early. I woke up and walked into his bedroom and sat for a few moments with a sense of worry and dread that I haven’t had before. Never once have I had the thought that something to this magnitude would go wrong. My fear took over this morning and since that point, I haven’t been able to fall back to sleep. So, I decided to leave my sleeping husband in bed and come downstairs.

Here’s the problem, though. In most cases, I’ll wake and fall back to sleep within a matter of minutes sometimes up to a half an hour. This morning, my mind is so active, that I can’t bring myself to even lie down and attempt sleep again. On the plus side, at least this is happening on a holiday weekend so I have time to possibly get caught back up before the start of my work week. And I guess the other reason I’m not allowing myself to fall back to sleep or even attempt it is because of fear. I’m afraid of my dreams now. I use to look forward to sleep and my dreams, but not anymore. I can’t wait until this passes as well.