A good portion of our revenue comes from business to business. Because of that, we have plenty of affiliate training material that we work with.
I have been working on a storyboard for a whiteboard animation that would be used in both our affiliate training and our social media marketing (lots of buzz words. Stay with me.)
Today, I finalized a deal with a vendor to create the whiteboard animation. We have been discussing the details via email for the last week or so. Today, I sent him our final proposal and submitted payment through his site. I then sent an email confirming payment and that he understood what I was expecting from him.
This was the response I got. From a professional. That I do not know. That I’ve never worked with before:
““Gotcha covered girlie! I’ll be in touch””
Um, excuse me?
To say that I’m irritated doesn’t reflect my anger. I apologize to The Husband, because I know I’ll fixate on this for days. If I wasn’t on a deadline, and out of the office tomorrow, I would have stopped payment then and there.
You can scream “gender equality in the workplace” all you want, but this is what it’s like for professional women in 2014. A Bachelor’s degree and seven years of experience and I’m still referred to as “girlie.”
If this first project turns out well, I have a substantial budget to go ahead and create more. Needless to say, I will not be working with this “boi” in the future.
The Husband and I were lucky. Before the little lady was born, we pretty much had the whole parenting thing figured out. We knew just where we stood on certain platforms, and, luckily, we had near identical parenting philosophies.
For instance, we knew that we didn’t want to give Amelia a pacifier/binky. While it’s fine for an infant, we both cringe when we see toddlers running around with one in their mouth.
We knew that we would not be co-sleepers. For starters, I’m super paranoid about everything. I was positive I’d smoosh her in my sleep and she’d be dead before we had a toddler running around who didn’t need a binky in her mouth.
We knew that parenting responsibilities would be split 50/50. Being the mom doesn’t mean that every problem should be automatically defaulted to me.
We were only going to give her medication when it was *absolutely* necessary.
Limited screen time. What business does an infant have watching tv?
Then Amelia was born.
And we were going on three days of no sleep. And she was crying. And we had a bunch of binkies from the baby shower. So we’d try it, just that once. Six months later:
Amelia goes to sleep every night in her crib. But guess what. Sometimes, she wakes up at 4 am. A sure-fire way to keep her awake? Take her downstairs or let her fool around in her crib. A sure-fire way to ensure she falls back to sleep in minutes, thus allowing us to get a couple extra hours of shut eye? Bring her in our bed and let her cozy up on my chest.
WE want to split parenting responsibilities 50/50. But, it turns out that Amelia didn’t get the memo, because, guess what. While she loooooooves her da, I’m Mom. She’s having trouble falling asleep? Only Mom can rock her. She’s grouchy she’s stuck in the car seat? Mom better reach back and hold her hand for a minute. She wakes up in the middle of the night? Well, if we want to have a midnight crinkle toy party (sounds filthy; is actually very innocent), dad is her man. But if we DON’T want her to get hyped up and we DO need her to go back to sleep? Better bring in mama. She’s not feeling well or she’s teething? Hope Mom doesn’t have plans for the next bajillion hours, because Amelia needs to be cuddled, played with and attended to and only the person who owns her previous place of residence will do.
Oh and speaking of medicine? Turns out that babies are hurting all the time. I suppose that’s what happens when teeth are slowly, slooooowlllyyy trying to rip apart your gums and make an appearance. So am I going to let my kid be in pain so I can stand on my high horse and not medicate her? Nope. Grab the Tylenol.
And in regards to screen time – Our daughter is IN LOVE with Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. If MMCH was a person, she’d marry it. (Boy or girl – in the state of NY, that’s legal. And we tell her we’ll be fine either way.) Also, this picture is a pretty solid indicator of what she does whenever she sees a phone near her.
So, turns out you can
read all the books do all the planning and committing to philosophies that you’d like, but when it’s 4 in the morning and you’ve already been up twice AND you have a meeting at 9 am, you’re popping in that binky and bringing the kid into your room.
I have to get on here to do a real update one of these days. The little lady is 6 months old and keeping me VERY busy. Also, let’s take a moment to recognize that we’ve kept her alive for HALF OF A YEAR. Woot Woot. Best parents ever.
Anyways, I was pretty excited when Baby Bjorn reached out to me and asked if I’d like to participate in a giveaway. Heck yeah, I would!
June was National Potty Training Month, and even though we’re now into July, that shouldn’t stop you from going strong with your potty training goals! The only thing worse than dealing with diapers is dealing with diapers on a 90* summer day.
BABYBJÖRN has put together a list of top potty training tips from Dr. Robyn Strosaker, a pediatrician at Rainbow Babies and Children’s Hospital.
- Most children can be ready to start potty training between 18-24 months. Children will train easier before 24 months; some can become willful after that point.
- Both the family and the child need to be ready. Review the signs of readiness and make a plan with your significant other.
- If your child is having trouble, stop for 2-4 weeks and then try to restart.
- Find a time when you can be around during the week to start potty training. Summer vacations or holidays are the best times.
- Sticker charts are great. If your child earns a certain number of stickers, they can earn a non-food reward.
- If your child still wants to go in their diaper, take them out of it. If they are wearing underwear, they will feel uncomfortable when they are wet. If you are concerned about the mess, you can put the underpants on under the diaper. For those kids who don’t like wearing underpants, encourage them to wear them for a short time and offer rewards when they keep them clean and dry.
- As a side note, there is nothing developmentally different between pull-ups and a diaper. Training will go quicker with underpants.
- If your child has a certain area of the house he/she prefers to go potty in, it might be a good idea to get a portable potty and let him/her try that.
- Put the portable potty in a room where the child typically plays to help them get used to the idea.
- Most kids aren’t ready to be dry at night until they start waking up dry from naps and some mornings.
- To help keep them dry at night, stop liquids 2-3 hours after dinner, depending on your child’s bedtime.
- When traveling: take a portable potty or potty seat with you, but you may need pull-ups for long car trips or plane rides.
At the rate Amelia is growing – too fast! – we’ll be potty training before I know it.
Here’s your chance to win a FREE special edition, gold BABYBJÖRN Smart Potty not available in stores or for purchase.
The potty perfectly combines functionality and comfort, making it ideal for smaller bathrooms. The minimalistic design and compact size mean that it takes up very little space, making it ideal for trips. There is a handle on the back of the potty so that you or your child can easily move the potty from room to room.
To win, comment below and give me your best potty training tip. Be sure to leave your email address, as that’s how I’ll contact the winner. For an extra entry, follow me on Twitter @HeatherLWheeler and leave another comment letting me know you followed and your Twitter handle.
A winner will be chosen using random.org on Friday July 25th!
Before having the baby, I was what some would call a “worry-wart.” And what my husband would call “bat-sh*t crazy neurotic.” Every day, I’m positive someone will die. I spend a lot of time making sure our pets are still breathing. They haven’t begged for food or got up to pee in an hour or so? Better call the vet. Something is definitely up.
Being a mother is pretty horrifying. Every day, your goal is to make sure that you don’t let your kid die. That’s pretty much it in a nutshell, right? That’s a lot of pressure. So, how do I know if I’m doing my job? Sure, she’s still breathing, but will she continue breathing for long?
Enter my Google search history. It’s the search history of a maniac. An utter maniac. I Google everything. Some legit, real, live, no exaggeration searches I have performed in the last month:
- Can my baby breathe?
- Is my baby going to suffocate?
- Blankets on a newborn
- Newborn poop
- Yellow newborn poop
- Watery newborn poop
- Is my newborn latching correctly?
- Poor latch examples
- Can I drink coffee while breastfeeding?
- How much coffee can you drink while breastfeeding?
- How long should my baby breastfeed?
- Is my newborn getting enough milk
- Am I giving my newborn too much milk?
- Cradle cap
- Worries about foremilk
- normal newborn poop color
- how often does a one month old sleep
- Is my baby sleeping too much
- Is my newborn sleeping too little
- Newborn gas
- General Hospital recasting Jason (gots to stay up to date on my stories)
- When can I take my baby out into public
- Newborn spitting bubbles
- How to help my baby fart
- Why is my baby sticking out her tongue
- Why is my newborn wheezing
- Noises baby makes when breastfeeding correctly
- noises babies make
I’d like to think that I’ll calm down on the Googling her certain impending death in the near future, but I’m sure the terms will just change to things like “death stats of children riding tricycles” and “Can a 9-year-old chew gum or will they choke?”
I think that when they discharge a new mom and her baby from the hospital, they should give the mom a prescription for Xanax.
** This is such a self-indulgent post. The reason — although I don’t owe you one because it’s my blog and I can blog if I want to — is because I wanted to put this down in words to put in her baby book. However, handwriting it out? Well, ain’t nobody got time for that.
When we went in for our appointment at 32 weeks, my blood pressure was elevated. My legs and feet swelled up over night and I went from gaining a steady .5lb a week to 8lbs in two weeks. The next week, things were just as bad. While the situation wasn’t horrible, it wasn’t great. The baby’s heartbeat was strong and she was very active. I, on the other hand, had borderline pre-eclampsia.
When my blood pressure continued to climb, I was put on modified bed rest. That turned into “just go to work and go home and rest” rest, which turned into “Seriously, Heather. Stop doing laundry and going to Target and lay on your couch, on your left side, feet elevated and only get up to pee” rest. They wanted to get me to 36 weeks, which was Christmas day. In order to go to my parents’ for Christmas, I had to promise Jason that I’d relax the whole time we were there.
I was scared. Scared we’d have a premie. Scared I was doing something that was hurting her. Scared we were going to have a baby nearly two months earlier than anticipated.
Fast forward to week 38 – Tuesday January 7th. I had been pulled out of work by that point and we were at the doctor’s twice a week. That Tuesday, my blood pressure was higher than it had ever been. Bed rest wasn’t helping. I was sent to spend the night at the hospital to be monitored. Our doctor warned us that he wasn’t sending us there to have the baby, but that he wasn’t saying we wouldn’t have her either. If my blood pressure didn’t go down, he was going to have to induce me Wednesday morning.
I was upset. I didn’t want to spend the night at the hospital. I didn’t want to be induced, but I also didn’t want to keep going the way we were going. I felt like there were no options that made me feel good about the outcome.
So I spent all day and night Tuesday in a bed at the hospital, with Jason in a chair beside me. My blood pressure started going down. Our doctor came in Wednesday morning, at 7am and told us that my blood pressure was down, he was sending me home but that I needed to go back to the office the next day to be checked again. I was irritated. I was sooo done with the every other day at the doctors. I was done with all the “You’re not horrible, but you’re not great either” and the “Let’s just get you one more week.” Done done done.
Our doctor walked out of our room and literally two minutes later, I thought I had a contraction. Naturally, nobody believed me. I was not at all dialated, and I hadn’t been having contractions before that. Jason and I watched the monitor and exactly five minutes later, I had another contraction. Five minutes after that, another contraction. A resident came in to check me and assured me that it was most likely Braxton Hicks. He checked me and I was 1cm dialated. Nothing, he told me. But they’d keep an eye on it. The contractions continued to get stronger and continued to be exactly 5 minutes apart. He came in an hour later and I was 2 cm dilated. An hour after that, I was 3cm dialated. “Ok then,” he said. “You’re now in active labor. At this point, you’re not going home without your baby.”
Um, what? Three hours earlier, they were sending me home because I was fine. Now I was in active labor?
“You’re so stubborn. You LITERALLY just made your body go into labor because you didn’t like what they told you,” Jason said.
The contractions began getting stronger. They started to hurt. Really hurt. I changed my mind. I didn’t want to do this anymore. Not today. Maybe tomorrow, or a in a few days.
“I want to go home now, ok?” I asked Jason.
He laughed and told me that’s not how it worked.
“But when you don’t feel good, you go home and you feel better. I don’t feel good. I want to feel better. We should just go home.”
Needless to say, that didn’t fly with him.
I couldn’t get comfortable. I was in my bed. I was out of it. I was walking around. I was sitting. Bent over. Standing. Guys, contractions suck.
They moved us from our room into labor and delivery. When I get in there, I was immediately hooked up to an iv and asked if I wanted something to “take the edge off.” Um, yuh. I want the edge GONE. I want a damn circle. No edges. Give me all the things. They pumped me full of something and, I blame cinema for this one, I expected immediate relief … which did not come. But, the drugs. Why weren’t they working? Why was I still feeling this pain? Should they give me more? I thought they should. They told me they couldn’t. Well, that was some bullshit. By that point, I was 5cm and it was recommended that if I wanted the epidural (more drugs! no edge!) we should get ready for that.
I was ready.
The epidural was something I had been very scared about. Naturally, I wanted it because I don’t do well with pain and, also, hey, if they’re handing out drugs, I’m all about soothing via medication. If I have a cold, I open up our medicine cabinet and make a cocktail of things that are in there — NyQuil, Sudafed, some Rolaids. I don’t care. Something will work. So naturally, I wanted something to control my pain during child birth.
The worst part of the epidural was that Jason had to leave the room. He pretty much hadn’t left my side in over 24 hours and now I had to face this big, scary, possibly paralyzing needle without him. But I was brave and kept reminding myself that the braver I was, the quicker I’d be free from pain. The procedure was actually fairly painless and soon, the contraction pain was subsiding. It didn’t go away totally, but it was a million times better than it was. I finally felt like I could breathe for a minute.
Relief that should have lasted hours lasted about an hour and a half until I started having back labor – which, apparently, science has not created drugs for. Say what?! Why can you stop the pain in my stomach but not the pain in my back? Science is a man.
The good news was that I was still dialating close to 1cm an hour, which the exception of a couple status-quo hours. The doctor came in and told me that pretty soon we’d be pushing, which is when I had a mini panic attack. She was going to be coming out of me. I had to get her out. I did NOT want to do that. I wanted the whole thing to be over, and I was being reassured that it WAS almost over. But what the nurses and my husband didn’t understand was that I wanted it to be over without actually having to push.
I have heard horror stories about women actively pushing for hours. I couldn’t deal with that. At that point – around 10 pm on Wednesday – I had only had 3-4 hours of sleep in the last 48 hours. My body was now my newest enemy and I couldn’t fathom actively pushing for hours. It wasn’t going to happen. I laid there with my eyes closed, breathing through contractions and telling myself that it wouldn’t last longer than half an hour. I’d do a great job, the baby would do a great job and it would NOT take hours.
The doctor told me I’d know when it was time to push and I was skeptical. Guess what. Turns out this wasn’t his first rodeo. I most definitely knew when it was time to push. After the first push, I started hyperventilating. I couldn’t do this. This was the only time Jason yelled at me. My breathing was affecting the baby’s heartbeat. Slow, deep breaths kept her heartbeat strong. Quick, shallow breaths caused it to drop pretty dramatically. When I started hyperventilating, it went down and quick. He put the oxygen mask on me and pretty much told me to cut my shit and focus on breathing. Right after this, the doctor pretty much informed me that I could be doing a better job pushing (this also had to do with my breathing.)
At this point, I realized that I had two choices. I could continue to half-ass this situation, but that would mean being in pain for literally the rest of my life (which is literally how it felt). Or I could put every ounce of energy into this thing, fighting through the pain and reminding myself that the harder I worked, the quicker it would be over and our girl would be here.
According to Jason, my doctor and the nurse, I was “doing great.” Sure didn’t feel that way. And it felt like it was taking forever. I tried to keep my eyes closed and not look at the clock, but I was sure I could feel the hour passing. But then the doctor saw her head. And then she was almost out. And then she WAS out! A quick smack on her back (our doctor was kicking it old school) and our lady was crying.
“Is she born?” I asked Jason through tears.
He kissed my head and told me that yes, she sure was born. Ten fingers. Ten toes. After he cut her cord, she had to be taken away for a minute because she wasn’t having the easiest time breathing, which was quickly taken care of by one of our amazing delivery room nurses.
Before I knew it, she was putting my baby on my chest. My baby who was just inside of me. My baby who had spent countless hours squirming and kicking inside of me, was now out here, in the world, with her mama and daddy.
What a beautiful, bizarre moment.
We had a couple of names picked out, but one strong front-runner.
“So, what do you think?” Jason asked. And I nodded, knowing what he was talking about without him having to say it.
“Hello, Amelia Jean,” he said.
Fifteen or so minutes after she arrived (at 11:19 pm on Wednesday January 8th), one of our nurses came into our room. She had been with us all day and left five minutes before we began pushing to help deliver another baby. When she came in, she was disappointed she missed it.
“How long did you push for?” she asked me. I wasn’t sure. “Like an hour, I think. Maybe a little longer?” I answered.
Nearly in unison, Jason, our doctor and the other nurse all said something along the lines of “Um, no. Not even close. Like fifteen minutes. Twenty, tops.”
Could have fooled me.
And just like that, I was the mother to a 5lb 9oz, 19 inch little human.
Welcome to the world, our little Amelia. It’s not always happy and it’s not always easy. In fact, there aren’t a lot of things that are “always” in this life, but I can promise you one — your daddy and I will always love you.
Remember that time I said that this wouldn’t turn into just a pregnancy blog and then I went ahead and used all of my wit and funny and creative insight into life for my freelancing gigs and then left this poor guy just flailing in the wind, only touched when I wanted to document my pregnancy? Yeah. Me too. Oh well. Thems the breaks.
Guess what, guys. I’m 30 weeks. 7.5 months, fool. That means I’m almost done — or so they tell me. Frankly, I don’t believe anything I hear about pregnancy. Although, I suppose they’re right in saying that she HAS to come out at some point.
Food cravings and aversions: I’m having an issue with chicken again. I was over it for awhile, but it’s back in action. Other than my run with Friendly’s in the beginning, I haven’t had a strong craving for anything — up until a few days ago. I would have sold this baby to the first person to bring me hot, buttered rolls. But these were very specific rolls I was looking for — the kind from Ponderosa. Which was sort of an inconvenient craving, considering there isn’t a Ponderosa remotely close to us. My husband tried to help by stopping at the grocery store and coming home with two different types of rolls that he hoped would cure my fever. It didn’t, but they were close enough.
Baby items purchased/received: Our house now runneth-over with baby items. I still need to post about the shower at some point. This week in particular, we started hanging up her clothes and organizing her closet, so lots of baskets and bins were purchased.
Favorite moment: I’m not sure it’s scientifically possible yet, but I think this little lady is already a daddy’s girl. She’s in a pretty good groove of when she’s active (10 – 11, 2 – 4, 7:30 and then again around 10 at night). But if Jason is around during one of her “off hours”, she starts kicking up a storm. I assume that she gets very excited to hear a voice that’s not mine. Whenever she does that, I pretend she’s Buddy the Elf – “I KNOW him!”
Another favorite moment was on Sunday, when we really started to put away all of her prizes from the shower. She has her own little closet with her own little wardrobe. Weird!
Thoughts: I believe they call it “nesting”. Our house is a mess. Always a mess. Even if it’s clean. I’ve been throwing away and giving away stuff like it’s my job. We just have too many things — all the things need to go. I’m also actively concerned about labor and delivery. Anyone who would like to add their two cents of “It’ll all be ok. It’s not as bad as you think.” can just keep those two cents for their next rainy day shopping trip, because I don’t want them. I have a human being who sleeps and grows inside of me and pretty soon, she has to come out of me. Nothing will cure my anxiety on this one. I’m just hoping that it sort of gets pushed to the back of my mind while I
thrust myself head first wobble into the holiday season.
Everyone gives their pets a voice and a personality, correct? Correct. Well, Bumble thinks that the baby is named Bumblina. He also thinks that he’s pregnant, just like me, and his baby is named Bumblina 2. What can I say? He’s lucky he’s handsome.
I’ve been a slacker. I know. I DO plan on writing about and posting pictures of our amazing baby shower, which was on Saturday. Until then, help yourself to this post, which I shared on HerDaily.com
Well, that headline is misleading. I did read Belly Laughs by Jenny McCarthy in one day. And, although that was more “anecdotes” than “helpful information,” it was still about a woman being pregnant and it still counts.
A few days after finding out I was pregnant, I promptly ordered What To Expect When You’re Expecting off of Amazon. It’s like a law that you need to read that when you’re pregnant, right? It explains all the triumphs and tribulations of pregnancy. It’ll tell you what is happening to your body and why. It will help you explain to your husband that science is the reason you’re crying all the time.
When we got it in the mail, The Husband and I both started reading it. It stayed on the coffee table in the living room, ready to teach me about ovaries and fallopian tubes at my beck and call. My husband ended up a couple of chapters ahead of me. He pointed out a section which was Q&As between mothers-to-be and the author.
This is when we stopped reading the book.
I’m paraphrasing here, but this is a pretty accurate account of most of the questions:
“I just found out I’m four weeks pregnant and I did ecstasy last weekend. Is the baby ok?”
“I’m only three weeks pregnant and I’m going out this weekend. Last weekend I did cocaine. Can I do that again this weekend?”
“How long into pregnancy can I keep drinking?”
Since that chapter, the book has been collecting dust.
Our thoughts are that:
A: A woman who needs to ask those questions is probably not taking the time to read up on pregnancy.
B: Women have babies every day. For all of time, every day – babies. Far less qualified women than me. Far less fortunate women than me. And they survive. We should be ok.
C: Why do people push the pregnancy books? Shouldn’t we be reading about parenting? It’s like spending all your time consumed with the wedding when it’s the marriage you should be worried about. I have a general jist of what’s happening to my body — it’s getting bigger. Not much I can do there. Take my prenatals. Limit caffeine. Got it. But what do I do if the baby doesn’t want to breastfeed or if she’s colicky or when we are really very tired but she wants to party? I need tricks for these things.
And, until I have to worry about that, I’ll continue following the sage advice I’ve learned from three chapters of What To Expect …
Try to lay off the recreational drugs.
Here’s my weekly pregnancy post, which you can find at http://herdaily.com/parenting/
Today, I’m six months pregnant. I have something the size of an ear of corn living inside of me. That is a very big size of something to be living inside of you. We had a check-up yesterday and got to see our little lady, who always plays shy for the camera. I love her. And I’m really ready for her to be out here and not in there.
I’m almost done with my second trimester and I’ve never reached the promise lands.
For those of you unfamiliar with the different phases of pregnancy, there is an urban legend out there that the second trimester of pregnancy is a glorious place, full of unicorns and no morning sickness (and an increased appetite for, um, “attention’ from your spouse). During the second trimester, you are rich with energy and spend your days giving off the most heavenly glow of pregnancy. You have a perfect bump and your feet aren’t swollen. Your pre-pregnancy jeans fit with the help of a belly band and your t-shirts are snug, but look precious covering up that stomach of yours. Everything is glorious, perfect. You are woman, creating life. Things couldn’t possibly be better.
I’ve labeled that rumor as an urban legend because I have yet to experience it. I doubt I will.
I will even go a step further and admit something that I haven’t heard many say — being pregnant sort of sucks.
Now, before you go ahead and rip me a new one as you lecture me on what a precious gift I am about to receive — trust me. I get it. And I started this post saying I already love little Lady S., correct? I’d puke every day for nine months (which I may end up doing anyways) if it meant bringing our happy, healthy daughter into this world.
But that’s where I want her — here.
I haven’t yet had a glorious day of pregnancy. I had a wicked first trimester. I woke up the morning of my second trimester with the hopes that things worked like a Disney movie. Perhaps a little blue bird was going to come to my window and sing away all my pregnancy troubles.
No such luck.
I’m tired. I’m so damn tired. And I know — I’ll be tired after I have the baby, too. But here’s the thing — at least there is a reason to justify that tired. You’re caring for an infant. You’re chasing a toddler around all day. Right now, I spend much of my time sitting at a desk. But I leave work every day craving a three hour nap.
And food? We’re frenemies nowadays. I spend nearly all of my waking hours despising it — the smells, the textures. Everything turns me off. Then, around 9:00 every night, I want to eat everything. Except nothing ever sounds good. Do you even understand that frustration?! (But if you’re my husband, don’t answer that. It may frustrate you more than it frustrates me.)
I wake up 3 – 5 times a night to pee.
I’ve gained weight and my pre-pregnancy pants have been relegated to a bottom drawer because they no longer fit my pudgey (NOT bump-tastic) stomach. But maternity pants? They don’t fit yet either! I feel like Goldilocks, except nothing ever fits just right.
I’m grouchy. I’m moody. I cry over everything.
They say the best things in life are worth waiting for, right? Gosh, that’s a lot of pressure to put on an infant.
(She better not let me down.)
(Not really kidding.)
My latest pregnancy post on HerDaily.com, in case you missed it –
We were simply sitting on the couch, watching TV. The Husband turned to me, smiled and said “I love you.”
Tearing up, I told him I loved him too.
He started to laugh. “Are you going to cry? Why are you crying?”
“I don’t know. Because I’m happy. I don’t know. I’m having a rough week.”
“Buddy, you’re having a rough pregnancy,” he said as he gave me a hug.
He was right. I knew that my hormones would be all over the place while pregnant. And I’m a pretty emotional person to begin with. But I just never made the connection; never assumed that I’d be one of those pregnant ladies, crying several times a day. Crying ateverything.
I’ve cried because I told the dog he smelled but then felt sad that I hurt his feelings.
I’ve cried while watching a woman deliver her surrogate baby (which was really hers) on a soap opera.
I’ve cried because the sheets didn’t fit our bed the right way.
I’ve cried because I wanted to eat a red apple and all we had were green apples.
I’ve cried because I was happy to see my husband come home after a long day at work.
I’ve cried because raw chicken now makes me throw up and so I felt guilty that I couldn’t cook dinner.
I’ve cried because, while at a festival, a woman told me that fresh lemonade was $4 — which was the exact amount of cash I had on me. But then I found out that it was really $5, so no lemonade for me.
I’ve cried because I wanted to have Pizza Hut breadsticks and salad bar for dinner, but ours was closed. To settle me down, The Husband drove to another Pizza Hut — but that one was closed, too. (Plan = backfired.)
I’ve cried as I was unpacking groceries because I realized that the mini-muffins I just bought had an expiration date of two weeks and I thought that the grocery store was trying to pull a fast one on me.
There are times when I suddenly feel a surge of emotion — either sorrow or elation, and begin to cry. Nothing has prompted these moments. They simply are. And that’s hard to explain to my husband, who is very proactive. If I’m crying because I want a red apple and we only have green, he’ll offer to go out and buy me a red apple. He’ll drive to all of the Pizza Huts in a fifty mile radius. But when there’s nothing to fix, he feels a bit lost. Luckily, we’ve both realized that all I need is a long hug and the tears will soon pass.
I hope that same tactic can be used on our daughter.
Did you miss the 21 week update I posted on HerDaily.com last week? If so:
Before we were even pregnant, The Husband had a very strong stance on finding out whether or not he was going to have a boy or a girl — and his stance was absolutely not. Ever. Never, ever.
I, on the other hand, am one with little patience. I had ventured into the unknown, unprepared. However, I decided that if not knowing was that important to him, then I would get on board with it. Eventually, I did.
So, naturally, approximately ten minutes after telling The Husband I was pregnant, he responded with, “Ok, so we’ll definitely find out what it is as soon as we can so that it’ll be easier to plan…”
He didn’t have to twist my arm. I was quickly on board.
We spent weeks throwing out names and debating the gender. Right away, The Husband was Team Girl. On the other hand, I was absolutely positive it was a boy. Usually, I have great intuition, so I was confident that I was correct. The problem was our name selections. We came up with our girl name the night we found out we were pregnant. I threw out a first name, he threw out a middle name and we were in love. We came up with a couple of runners-up, but our first name was pretty solid. It was a boy’s name that was giving us trouble.
Right away, we both knew we didn’t want anything trendy. No Aidens, Braydens or Caydens in this family. We wanted something strong and traditional. The problem was that idea was that no name really jumped out at us. Every other day, it seemed, one of us would look at the other and randomly announce “OK, this week “X” is my top boy name. What about you?”
While we tried hard to wittle down our list of names, we became anxious waiting to find out for sure if we even needed to bother thinking of a boy name. One evening, we Googled old wives’ pregnancy gender tales. And then proceeded to try/answer them all.
Craving sweets? It’s a girl. Salty? It’s a boy: Sweets – girl
Chinese astrology chart, taking into considertaion my age and the month baby was conceived: Girl
Clear skin? A boy. Breaking out (stealing mom’s beauty)? A girl: Girl
If dad is having weird cravings, too, then it’s a girl: Yes, he is. Girl
If you have morning sickness, it’s a girl: Horrible morning sickness. Girl
A heartbeat above 140 is a girl: Heartbeat always hovering around 160. Girl
If you’re moody, it’s a girl. If you’re happy, it’s a boy: Mood swings like you wouldn’t believe. Girl.
The baking soda test: No fizzing. Girl.
At this point, I started to waver in my faith that it was a boy. Other than my insistance, nothing pointed to boy. I started daydreaming of a precious little girl, with our perfect name. If we went into that ultrasound and found out that the baby had the same anatomy as its daddy, I planned on suing all the old wives — all of them — for misleading a consumer.
It turned out no lawsuits were necessary.
We’re having a little girl.
We’re going to have a daughter.
Turns out those old ladies knew what they’re talking about.