Irrational Pregnancy Fears, Installment #1

Lucky creature than I am, both of my pregnancies have been planned, more or less as hoped.  With my first, my pregnancy overlapped with a professional phase so demanding and hectic that I barely had time to think about the baby, much less worry.

This time around, I am at leisure to fret.  Over the past seven months, I have been convinced that:

• I am going to miscarry;
• I am going to gain too much weight;
• I am going to test positive for gestational diabetes;
• The ultrasound will suggest Down’s Syndrome;
• My blood work will suggest that I have a life-threatening disease, somehow missed by my thorough physical and gynecological exams in the months before trying to conceive, that will threaten my pregnancy.

And that’s only a partial list.  So far, I’m having a Perfectly Healthy Pregnancy, free of most complications.  The only tiny hiccup was testing positive for Group B strep – trifling if properly diagnosed, potentially life-threatening if overlooked.  But having tested positive, it’s a fairly minor issue to address.

Still, I am plagued by fears that my daughter will be Not Healthy.  Damaged.  She will suffer.  They can’t see it, but it’s there – lurking beneath the surface.  Some flaw, some weakness that I can’t prevent or treat or help.

I get what this is.  When my son came home, I hadn’t a clue how very fragile a newborn seems.  Now that he’s a hale and hearty toddler who bounces off the sidewalks and leaps off benches, it’s hard to imagine protecting a vulnerable little bean again.  And, of course, I’m an optimistic worrywart – sunshine on the outside, class 8 hurricanes brewing beneath the surface.  Unless you know me well, you won’t see a tremor of panic, but oh baby, is it there!  Earlier in my pregnancy, I had nightmares of fleeing invading armies with two small children in tow.  And worse.

The reality of parenting two small people can be overwhelming, and it seems more sane to freak about things medical than those related to widespread global catastrophe.  I know people, after all, who have endured difficult pregnancies and faced uncertain diagnoses with their children.  It’s more real – and more realistic a fear – than rioting in the streets.

I think.

And so while I worry about where we’ll put the crib, whether we’ll have the right number of size newborn onesies, whether to cloth diaper or use slightly-less-dreadful Seventh Generation disposables, I also try to block out the darkest shadows.  But they’re there, ghosting through the corners of my mind, waiting for a quiet moment to strike.

 

Crushed

I have a dear friend, a woman whose intelligence, humor and raw nerve I admire.  But as it happens, we fell out of touch for a few months.  I’d moved four hours away, and we were both busy, blah blah blah.

But she dropped me a line today, just a quick one, and I responded with a chatty message, including the news of my pregnancy and a frank admission that I’d been struggling with depression since our move.

She wrote back immediately and admitted that she’d been having a tough time of it, too.  After trying to conceive a second child for some time, she’d miscarried a few months earlier.

I did the math quickly.  Our children would’ve been the same age.

 

This is Only a Test

I confessed to my doctor today that I’d been feeling nervous and on edge.  During my first pregnancy, I was the picture of calm.  Or at least, my flailing was more of the “how the hell am I going to manage all of this and a baby” variety.

The maiden voyage to Storkville was all about me.  Trip number two?  I’m obsessed with the Stranger Within.

My doctor gently reminded me that it wasn’t too late for genetic testing – but if I skipped the blood work this time, we’d have missed our window.

I took a deep breath and confirmed that no, we still weren’t interested.

 

Yoga Mat, $15; Inner Peace, Out of Stock

I occasionally suffer from delusions.  Some recurring ones:  that there’s a marathon runner within.  That I’ll master the preparation of an elaborate dessert.  That I’m really good at DIY projects.

Over the years, I’ve come to accept that these are lies that I tell myself.  But a grey area remains – things that I wish to master, that seem slightly contrary to my restless, aggressive, impatient nature.  Things that seem like they’d help me grow.  Maybe even, wonder of wonders, relax.

So yeah, I signed up for prenatal yoga and donned my stretchy pants this afternoon for the first time in months.

 

Elastic Fantastic

Some women insist that maternity clothing is a waste of time.  I’m puzzled by this perspective.  While yes, some non-knocked up wear fits all through your pregnancy, there comes a time when something’s gotta give.

And for me, it’s the waistband.

 

Motherhood the Store

Earlier this week, I found myself in my local shopping plaza.  It’s a gritty urban affair, no Starbucks or tot-play area.  But hey, a girl’s gotta buy toilet paper and OJ.

As I made my way to the Target, I remembered that there was a Motherhood Maternity tucked in between the Dippin’ Depot and Payless.  At 14 weeks, I don’t need maternity clothing – but my regular kit is starting to strain.  And I couldn’t resist strapping on that faux-belly pillow and imagining what I’ll look like come July.  A sneak preview, of sorts.  Sounds like a lark, right?

Yeah.  Right.

 

Ten

Women ask about losing the baby weight.  It’s nearly an obsession.  How long did it take?  Did breastfeeding help?  Have you taken a strollercize class?  Will I ever look the same again?

For me, losing the baby weight wasn’t impossible.  Looking at old snapshots, there I am holding a six-week old baby, in my size 12 jeans.  Maybe I was a bit flabbier, but I didn’t feel all that much heavier.

Then I went back to work full-time.  And in the whirl and swirl of 50-hour and more weeks, midnight feedings and life, the pounds piled on.  No sleep, no time to eat sensibly – heck, sometimes no time to eat – certainly no time for the gym.  

In two years, I gained back everything I’d lost.

 

What the Lemony Wants

I haven’t written much about being pregnant.  While I like to play practical and no-nonsense, I’ve got a superstitious streak.  Talking about the baby-to-be, I fret, could jinx it.

But here I am, 14 weeks today.  That means I’m officially in my second trimester.  Yippee!  Baby Center tells me that my unborn child is now the size of a lemon – or, in my 3 y.o.’s parlance, a lemony.  And I am starving.

Starving!

 

About a Fig

Why is it that pregnancy sites describe the size of your fetus in relation to food stuffs?  A kidney bean, a small kumquat, a fig.

Let’s be honest – I’m not positive I could identify a fig if it were in my refrigerator.  And while I have a sense that a kumquat is a small citrus fruit, I’d have no clue if the kumquat in question were of the extra large or petite variety.

Maybe it is because it’s still unbelievable that there’s a creature growing within.  It’s almost possible to imagine that I’ve accidentally swallowed whole some random exotic bit of produce.  But that’s not what’s happened.  There’s a life inside me – a life that demands, tonight, mashed potatoes and Smartfood.

Eleven weeks.  208 days to go.  And, God willing, I’ll have a whole new person in my arms.

Until then, I’m left to marvel at what type of nutrient the child will be compared to next week.