Confession #4

Confession #4

My husband and I have a bet going on the sex of the baby.

The stakes are high my friends. Technically, we each have a 50/50 chance of being right, but of course, we both believe we have a little more on our side. That's why, when the idea came up to make a bet, we were both all in. 

The stakes? One week's worth of diaper changes. The rules? You may pawn off diaper changes during work hours, but after-work hours are all up to you. We made this rule because while my husband is at work all day, if--I mean when-- he loses, I have to change the diapers. Depending on who wins, *cough cough* me *cough cough* it wouldn't be fair that I would have to change the diapers during the day and he wouldn't. So, if I lose, which of course won't happen, I can pawn off during the day to make it fair. This is assuming that there is someone here to pawn off on, of course. One of the many downsides of having family far away is that they won't be there to help as much. 

So, why are both of us so confident? 

I guess you could say my husband has genetics on his side. He thinks this baby is a boy. I'm no statistician (but my brother is... Perhaps I should ask him?) but, the probability of this baby being a boy is probably higher than 50%. This is because the sex of the baby is determined by the father, and the men in this family have a lot of boys. My father-in-law is the oldest of three boys. His brother (one of those three boys) has two sons. My husband has two brothers and only one sister. That's a lot of boys. My husband is very confident that this baby is a boy, and logically, that makes sense, but I have a secret weapon: mommy's intuition.

When I first found out I was pregnant (you remember my staring contest with the pee stick), I realized that I had no preference when it came to the gender of my baby. I know that a lot of people say that but don't mean it, but honestly, I didn't care either way. I just wanted a happy, healthy baby. Of course, I did have one concern with having a girl. Endometriosis runs in my family, and, of course, only in the women. With each generation, the disease seems to get worse. If I had a girl, I would most definitely pass this painful disease on to her, and that just doesn't seem fair. Still, I would be just as happy with a girl as a boy.

But here's the thing: I am almost certain this baby is a girl.

As I said before, I didn't have a preference, and as soon as I discovered the little jelly bean growing inside me, I started to imagine the baby being born and growing up. Here's the weird thing: No matter how hard I try, I cannot imagine a boy. Trust me, I have tried. I have tried imagining him playing soccer and doing his homework. I tried imagining him driving me crazy (no doubt taught the art by my husband), but I simply could not. It seems nuts, I know. I should be able to imagine this baby as a boy but I can't. The only way I can imagine this child is as a girl. The only way I can get a picture in my head of this baby growing up is as my daughter. So...Jaden may have genetics backing him, but I have my imagination, so I'm totally gonna be right....right? Whatever, call it what you will, mother's intuition, I guess, but I am convinced this baby is a girl.

We find out next week. Game on.

Confession #3

Confession #3

I often wonder if my dog will like the baby....or not.

Those who know me personally are aware of my relationship with my dog. Yes, relationship. Bruno, my long-haired dachshund, is my current baby. I treat him like he is my child, which is probably good news for my human child, because that means I'm gonna take really good care of that kid. Anyway, I spend lots of time with my little  Baby Bruno, my puppernickle, my cuddlebutt, my teddy bear. I often take him with me when I go places, and we frequent the dog park several times a week. He sleeps in our bed (to my husband's discontent) and cuddles with me all night. I often stay in bed just a little longer in the morning for a little cuddle time. Bruno usually stays in bed a lot longer, he's not much of a morning person. 

Yes, person. Because that's how I regard my dog. 

You might think I'm a little bit crazy: the dog equivalent of a cat lady. You might be right, but you're not gonna see me care. My little dog makes me very happy. He takes care of me when no one else is home. In fact, we acquired Bruno in the first place because I needed to care for something, and something needed to care for me. 

AND flashback...

We had been married for only four or so months. I was in that weird place between graduating college and "graduating" college. You know, that point in between finishing all your classes and being all done and the university acknowledging your success. The school district wouldn't let me start working until I had an actual copy of my degree. As I'm sure you know, universities take a little while to get those out to you, especially when you are living 2,000 miles from the school. The school promised to rush my degree to me, but, as you might have guessed, it still took a few months. 

During this down time, I was bored out of my mind. I was stuck in a tiny studio apartment in Upstate New York during the middle of winter. Every one I knew was at school or work during the day. My husband was finishing up his last year at school also, so he was quite busy. Being stuck in a tiny apartment with nothing to occupy your time and with snow up to your knees outside is a recipe for unhappiness and slight insanity. 

The cure? Well, you get a dog. Obviously. 

I love dogs. We had dogs growing up, and when I was in middle school, we rescued a little miniature dachshund named Daisy. Some people would call her our family dog, but come on, let's be real; she was my dog. When we got Daisy she was 7. We had 7 more good years with her before she died. So, when we started looking for a dog and trying to decide what breed, miniature dachshund shot to the top of my list. 

Of course we tried several shelters before finding Bruno. The shelters had some great dogs, but the dogs we liked were all a little too big for our tiny studio, and the small dogs were....well, they were annoying. 

I finally found a family in the middle-of-nowhere, New York that had dachshunds. They had a new litter of short-hairs, and a slightly older long-hair that we could have at a discount. My husband and I discussed names and finally settled on Pike for a boy. When we went to visit the puppies and saw the long-hair, we knew that name was just not going to work. The long-hair was a little bigger than the 6 week old puppies, and he played rough with them. We knew he was the one we wanted, and the only name that could possibly fit that little long-haired brute was Bruno. 

We brought him home and the rest is history, except for the fact that a new member of the family might disrupt the order of our household. Scratch that, definitely will disrupt the order of our household. I mean, its a baby, so obviously. I think in time Bruno will love our little addition, but the question remains, how will he act when there is another tiny one stealing all his attention? 

Don't worry readers. I'll let you know. 

And now for your enjoyment, pictures of Baby Bruno. I seriously take way too many pictures of him. Its weird. 

 Baby Bruno as a little puppy, just out of the bath (he's now about a year and a half old)

 

Baby Bruno trying to look innocent....    

                             Baby Bruno laying in bed an hour after I had gotten up.

                          Baby Bruno shaking off the water in Letchworth, New York

Confession #2

Confession #2

The whole home pregnancy test thing was a very awkward experience for me.

Besides the awkward notion that you have to pee on a magic stick that reveals whether or not your entire life is about to change, my experience, from start to finish, with my home pregnancy test was, for lack of a better word, awkward.

My naturally awkward personality probably had something to do with this necessary  action taking a turn for and speeding down Awkward Highway, but I cannot be the only person that felt that a home pregnancy test made for a weird experience.

First things first: They never tell you how awkward it is to actually go and buy the home pregnancy test. If you thought buying tampons when you were fourteen was embarrassing, this is that shot up to a whole different level. 

We had just started trying and I had not been showing any symptoms of pregnancy yet, and I figured it was still a little too early, but hey, I couldn't help myself. I went to the store to buy my first pregnancy test. I turned down the aisle to see the tests and had to squat to look at them all. Suddenly something I like to call "pregnancy test paranoia" set in. "Pregnancy test paranoia" is my term for that feeling you get that everyone that sees you looking at pregnancy tests is thinking something about you; probably mostly, "Is that girl pregnant?" Makes sense, right? Well, I just so happen to look like I'm still a teenager. In fact, a year or so ago, when attending a middle school play for a friend's daughter, I was asked if I was a student at the school. So yeah, I kind of look younger than I am. This trait, which I am sure I will appreciate someday, made me all the more paranoid. Perhaps they were thinking, "Is she a teen mom? Does the boy know? Will she tell her parents? Will she keep the baby? She is ruining her future. What will happen to college? Its the end of the world!!!" Or you know, something like that. 

I finally picked a test and headed to the register, sort of trying to hide the fact that I was carrying a HPT, in order to avoid make believe thoughts from strangers. What happened next is the peak of the awkwardness, although, don't worry, there was more to come.

I think most of us can agree that there is an unwritten rule that there are some things that you just don't comment on. For example, when we newly married couple leaves the reception and heads off to that fancy hotel on their wedding night, we all know what's about to happen. However, we don't comment on it. We don't slap the groom on the butt as he passes through the bubbles we're blowing or the sparklers we're holding and say "Go get'em tiger!" Why? Because you just don't. 

I thought that someone buying a pregnancy test would fall into that category of "you just don't comment." At least, I was sure hoping it did. 

I arrived at the counter to find a nice elderly lady as my cashier. For some reason this seemed to calm my paranoid little nerves and I gave her one of those weird pursed lip smiles that indicate "Hi, let's not talk about this." She didn't get the message.

"SO ARE YOU HOPING?" she asked as loud as could be. I kind of just looked at her and all that I could think was, "You are my drunk groomsman that yells 'GET SOME' as we drive away on our wedding night." 

After a moment, I tried quickly to formulate my answer. I'm not big on lying, even if its socially acceptable to lie. Kind of like in the case of someone asking how you are and you're supposed to say good even if you're not. I usually tell them how I really feel, even though I'm sure they weren't actually asking. On one hand, yes, I was hoping because I wan't to have a kid and a family and be all happy and whatever, but on the other hand, I'm very nervous and almost hoping (I know this is terrible. Don't judge me.) that it will say no because as we covered before, I was totally not ready for this. So I quickly gave my answer, realizing that I had waited longer than comfortable to talk. "Um," I said, "I don't know yet." I then picked up my semi clear bag (awkward) and went out the door. 

So, yeah, that happened.

When I got home, I wanted to take the test right away. So I did. 

The people who make HPTs must know that in reality it is a rather sadistic form of torture. You are supposed to take the test and put it on the counter and leave it undisturbed for 3-5 minutes before checking it to see what the magical stick oracle has said about your future. Well, I sort of sucked at that part. Instead of leaving it and all that jazz like you're supposed to, I stood over that sucker and watched it like if I blinked it would change and say something else. I still didn't know how I felt, whether I wanted it or not, and I'm sure I looked like a lunatic standing there staring at it. But whatever. If awkward silence means anything to you, it was like that, for 3 full minutes, just me and the stick. 

One line appeared.... 

and then...

nothing. 

I waited a few more minutes, maybe it takes longer right? The test was clear: I was not pregnant. 

That was about the time I knew how I felt. And I felt disappointed. 

Well, a couple weeks passed and something weird started happening. My period was wicked late. I had just gotten off of birth control, so I figured that was what was messing up my little monthly guest from hell. I mean, I took the test and it said no, so I should be having a period right? 

The next day, I made the ever-so-fun trip back to the pregnancy test aisle to be judged by random people that probably weren't judging me. This time, when I checked out (with a different cashier this time), there were no awkward comments or overly awkward pauses. This made it all just a little bit better. I got home and peed on the magic stick again, which, I don't care how many times you do it, is still weird. This time, since I was convinced it would say no, I went about my business and returned to the bathroom 5 minutes later to see my future. 

Two lines had appeared. 

Woah now, what?! This test had to be defective. And this time, I had been wise enough to get a three pack in order to hopefully avoid having to go back to paranoia-ville again. I took out the other two tests and took them right there and then. I set them both on the counter next to magic stick #1 and once again began my staring contest with the inanimate objects. 

All three were positive. 

My next awkward moment? My own voice in my head screaming, "What the crap do I do now?!"

Confession #1

Confession #1

I am SO not ready for this. 

Let me paint a pretty little picture for you. A little girl grows up playing with dolls and dressing them up, pretending that the American Girl Doll or Cabbage Patch Doll is her baby. When she hits that certain age, she starts babysitting and she loves it. She's good with the kids and all the parents in the neighborhood hire her for date night so that they don't have to worry about their little ones all night. The little girl grows up and goes off to college and, in order to make some extra money, works as a nanny for a nice little family with three kids. The girl meets the boy of her dreams, they fall in love, and get married. Soon after, the girl and her husband decide that it is time to start their family. They are both giddy and excited about what is to come, especially when that home pregnancy test comes back positive. The pregnancy goes well with some nausea, but no complications. Before they know it, this sweet young couple has a sweet little baby that never cries and poops rainbows. 

Yeah cause that happens. 

I am not that little girl. 

I was a pretty normal little girl, I guess. As if "normal" is even ever an applicable term when it comes to childhood. Yes, I had dolls that I loved and played with often, I worked as a nanny, and I married the man of my dreams, but I am by no means good with kids.

Babysitting was never something that I really enjoyed. In fact, I am not a big fan of most little kids. Of course, there are exceptions. For the most part, though, small humans scare me. Especially in large groups. (I went to college for secondary education. Any kind of elementary education was completely out of the question. There is no way I would be able to handle that. Older children, however, I am very good with.) I did some babysitting, usually for close family friends or when a parent volunteered me. On a select few occasions, I babysat for others when I decided I really needed the money for something. As I got older, in high school, I babysat very rarely and only for people who's kids I enjoyed. This was a very limited group, as by that time I had learned very well how to say no. 

Instead of earning money through child care, I took to fast food in high school to make money for college. I loved my job, except for when I had to clean the play area and deal with the aftermath of children that day (I kid you not, on more than one occasion, I cleaned a pile of poop out of that thing, and often found clothing articles that I was astonished a parent had not noticed were left behind--like pants. Their kids went in with pants, and out with no pants, and no one noticed.) The play area experiences did not help the case for liking small children. 

In college I worked as a teaching assistant and writing tutor. Those were jobs I adored. They didn't pay much, but I learned so much and was so fulfilled from them. When I was off from school, I would go back to working at the restaurant. And, one break, I took up work as a part-time nanny. The nanny job probably made the best case for having kids in my eyes. The family was amazing and I adored the children. I watched their two-year-old son, and their six-month-old daughter. There have been few times where I have liked small children more than those two. At that point, I got to thinking, maybe little kids aren't that bad. 

I finished up at school and married my high school sweetheart, Jaden, and happiness ensued. On our first anniversary, we took the train into New York City to stay in a fancy hotel, see a show, and eat overpriced food. It was the best first anniversary I could have asked for--hands down. On the train home, my husband and I discussed when we thought we wanted to have kids and were both relieved when "at least another two years" was our mutual answer. I was not ready to give up my current way of life for another human being. Straight up, I decided I was not ready to be selfless. I liked being selfish. 

My first anniversary was this past August 2013. It is now May 2014, and I'm 18 weeks pregnant. Obviously, something changed.

My health, actually, is what changed. I had undergone one surgery during college for Endometriosis. To learn more about this disease, read about it here. The pain was so bad by September 2013, that my doctor and I decided it was time for another surgery. At the wise prompting of my mom, I asked my doctor to check my tubes while she was in there. She agreed. 

Unfortunately, when I awoke from surgery, I was told that they were not able to remove any of the Endometriosis because of it's location. Removing it would have done too much damage. Also, my fallopian tubes were blocked. Having children would be difficult for me, and would probably require some extra fertility help. 

I was surprised at how devastated I was. Suddenly, all I wanted was a baby. Probably some side effect of "we all want what we can't have." But still, I always knew that I eventually wanted a family, and I assumed I would like my own children. This news was a secret fear confirmed: I might not be able to have children. 

But let me tell you something, readers: Miracles happen. 

I went in for a procedure to see where exactly my tubes were blocked. My doctor told me that every now and then they can unblock to the tubes, but that it was unlikely. During this procedure, she unblocked my tubes. I call that, miracle #1. 

Following miracle #1, I began to pray about what to do next. I wanted to know if two years was too long and if we should start sooner. I didn't want my miracle to go away by waiting too long. Endometriosis, by the way, also progresses and gets worse, making it more difficult to conceive. I got the feeling that we needed to start sooner.

At my next appointment with my doctor I asked her to tell me straight up, no sugarcoating, if waiting two years was a bad idea. Her answer was that if I wanted kids, I should start now and not wait. 

That was all the confirmation I needed. 

My dear husband was just as terrified as I was. We talked and prayed about it and we both knew that it was what we needed to do, but neither of us were close to ready. I think maybe that maternal instinct that had yet to make an appearance kicked in because although I was terrified and very much not ready, I felt comfortable and peaceful about starting. My poor husband though, took a little longer to feel comfortable and peaceful. We are young people. My husband is 23 and I will be 23 next month. Although we married young and were very okay with that, we didn't expect to have a baby so young. I knew exactly where he was coming from. 

Nevertheless, we moved forward. We decided to start trying in January, and guess what, Miracle #2 took place. I got pregnant right away. The rest of this story will have to wait for my next confession about how pregnancy is.....well, you'll see. But now you know, I am 22, married for less than two years, 18 weeks pregnant, and SO incredibly not ready for this. But, here I am, stepping onto this ride called Motherhood, that never stops.