What glamor, you say? Well, there are lots of lovely aspects of pregnancy of course. The glowing skin (that someone ELSE has), the perky little belly that looks like a basketball shoved under your just taut enough shirt (again, definitely someone else!), the rich, lustrous locks and long nails (do I really need to elaborate again? NOT ME!!!). Those pregnant women look FAB-U-LOUS. This preggo? Well, I've got it going on too!
1. Bags under my eyes from the perpetual anemia (unless it's the week after my iron infusion, and then I am like a bee on speed, buzzing from project to project).
2. Thinning, dull hair (again, lack of vitamins!)
3. Nubs for fingernails (being pregnant is STRESSFUL!)
4. Varicose veins that resemble those maps you use in high school with all the rivers and tributaries on them, and no, I totally don't remember what they are called! Topographical, maybe?
5. Incredibly hachi machi compression stockings for said veins. Putting them on actually required an instructional VIDEO. And special gloves, or else you rip all the skin from your fingertips, (which would be awesome if I was a cat burglar. I wouldn't have to worry about leaving prints behind!)
6. A belly that just won't stop morphing. It's round one day, and the next looks a lot more like a lopsided football. My kid's a mover, what can I say.
As if that isn't bad enough, twice a week I get a non-stress test, which is a lie. It's very stressful. You have to haul ass to labor and delivery after work, get hooked up to the monitors, and watch your babies heartbeat for at least twenty minutes. Plus you get to see a graphical representation of the Braxton-Hicks contractions you have every twelve seconds. Fun, hunh? They also check your blood pressure and stuff like that. I have an issue with blood pressure. I have it. And it's usually high but only at non stress tests. That is bad, especially when you are pretty damn pregnant. Pre-eclampsia, and a host of other issues can arise quickly, and are dangerous. So protocol is to admit the patient, draw labs, and if the labs are clear and the BP goes down, cut the mama loose onto the world.
I now know that routine all too well. I've done it countless times. I also know that my labs are fine EVERY TIME. And my pressure comes down EVERY TIME (to speed that along they have me call my mom, which is actually ironic. Most adult women have a BP spike after they talk to their mothers). Well, yesterday was different. It was a "traveling nurse" who didn't know me. They put me in room 1- not 8, which is my stomping ground! I'm very into routine. I was in room 1 once before, and that was the time the munchkin's heart rate was gonzo. Room 1 is bad. I had already hooked myself up to all the monitors, so they turned on the machine and away we went. (I am not your typical patient- yes, I hook myself up. Yes, I tell the "traveling nurse" where the sharps container is. I'm not looking for pampering, just yet) I did prompt her to check my pressure right away so we can see that it's high and start the drawing of labs right away so I could still make it out in time to pick up little dude from daycare. She did, but put the small cuff on my forearm. I was sort of confused, but she was lovely and a nurse for gods' sake. They know EVERYTHING. I did let her know that the PLUS-SIZE (I typically call it the fatty cuff and they get mad at me!) cuff was in room 8 if she wanted a more accurate read. She assured me we would be fine. Snort. WRONG. Astoundingly high blood pressure. Over and over again. My OB was away, my genius midwife covering the office, someone ELSE ON CALL. A travesty. This little man who really could have been Rocket Romano's twin from ER comes in and starts yackety yakking about BP. And he looks at the cuff. And says "Well, we clearly need a bigger cuff." To which I reply- "it's in ROOM EIGHT PEOPLE! HOW MANY TIMES DO I NEED TO TELL YOU THIS??????" And then my pressure is fine. My labs are fine. I get cut lose to come home. My kid gets picked up from daycare by a friend, which he thinks is the coolest thing since Team Umizoomi.
The tale does not end there. They give me a "collection kit". For what you say? Let's not forget how glamorous pregnancy is. It's for urine. PEE. They want me to pee in a bucket for twenty-four hours. And keep it refrigerated or on ice. And then drive it back to them. I'm ticked at this point because I just want my lovely midwife to appear and tell everyone to shove it, but she's covering the office. So I take my pee bucket and high tail it home. I'm a rule follower, I am going to pee in the bucket if they say pee in the bucket. This creates its' own challenges. Must be kept on ice (hello travel cooler!) and collected for twenty four hours. Thank god no one at work noticed me hauling a cooler to the bathroom every twelve seconds today- and it was starting to get heavy by the end of the day so I was tempted to have a student carry it for me but that's just wrong. Abuse of power, yadda yadda. Took my pee to the dentist, took it back home. Got my collection bucket all set up in the toilet for the evening (it's this little thing that attaches to the seat so it's easier to manage the whole thing, thank goodness!) and sat to talk to hubs for a split second. No more than twenty seconds later I hear "Mama, hat!" and see my little dude toddling into the kitchen wearing the pee bucket. On his head, of course. Thrilled as can be. Icing on the cake, my life is complete. My two year old son did a hat dance around the kitchen with (a thankfully CLEAN) pee collection bucket on his head, while I tried really hard not to pee my pants as I snorted with hysterical laughter.
Seriously, that was one pee that didn't make the bucket.
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