Uberstrain

"Do you need help with that?" asks a co-worker. I'm preparing to move a projector cart from one conference room to another. As a network administrator, I'm pretty confident I can re-attach all the necessary cordage myself, so I decline the help.

"Okay, I just don't want you to strain yourself," my co-worker says, "You're not supposed to strain too much in your condition, right?"

In the last two days, I've dragged a step ladder in one hand and 200 feet of rolled up sap tubing in another while hiking through knee deep snow through our sugar bush, then climbing up said ladder to attach said sap tubing to a bunch of varying size maples, plus helped haul timber from one area to another to make a work bench for our sugar house, and at one point carried my almost three year old daughter on my shoulders whilst hoisting a dining room chair a quarter mile through said woods to said sugar house, so I think I can handle a &^%$%$#@ projector cart on &^%$%$#@ wheels all the way down the f-king hallway.

And here they come

At lunch with colleagues: The clueless VP of Finance, always one to stick her foot in it, interrupts my conversation with my other colleagues to ask:
"How are you feeling?"
"Great," I say, in that tone I hope conveys matter of fact and disinterest. Not to be dissuaded, her next question is:
"Really? No morning sickness?"
I let a pointed silence pass until we're all feeling uncomfortable and then I say, clearly annoyed, "No." (Office-speak for: If I wish to discuss my medical issues with you, at lunchtime, I'll let you know.)
At the water cooler: "There's a rumor about you."
"Oh yeah?"
"Should I say congratulations?"
"If you like."
"Do you know what you're having?"
"Yes."
"Are you telling?"
"Nope."
At lunchtime again: (My officemate who ought to know better): "Are you having any cravings?"
"Other than to bite your head off? No."
At home, with friends: "Let the pregnant lady go first!"
"Where is she?" I say, looking around.
At work talking about parking: "Well, you'll be getting premium parking soon, right?"
"No."
"You're pregnant, you know. You deserve it."
"Yes, I'm pregnant. I'm not disabled."

I've got three months to go. Anyone else I can alienate?

Out of the Mouth of Babes

Last time, I was able to clearly deifne parameters of what I would and would not discuss with my fellow humans about my life by purposely leaving out details, even when directly questioned, eg:
"So, do you know what you're having?"
"Yes...we're having a baby!"

"How are you feeling?"
"Great. You?"

Eventually the general public around me got the message, though I would still have to navigate around outstretched hands heading toward my middle or unfunny remarks by perfect strangers. However this time around there's another factor involved--I was pregnant before and produced a child, who is now about 2 and 1/2 and is eagerly exploring her world with her mouth wide, wide open.

So far the private observations we have as a family haven't made it out into the world yet, but I suspect it is only a matter of time. A few months ago, Sydney asked me what a bra was for. I explained it to her absentmindedly. But apparently she then noticed that Daddy didn't wear one, and that Grandma wore a bigger one than Mommy, and this information was so overwhelming that she got the actual word for the body parts in question mixed up, to the point where she blurted out to Grandma and me:

"Grandma has big hips!.... and Mommy has little ones!!"

Over the weekend we ended up talking about how one feeds a baby. I explained the baby couldn't eat cookies or crackers because it wouldn't have any teeth at first, and somehow stumbled onto the subject of breastfeeding. We've also, over the course of the month, discussed several times why Mommy now wears a bra to bed. At one point I tried to correct her understanding of the actual word, resulting in a confusing mishmash of a word which isn't "hips" and isn't "nipples" but may be something resembling "hippos". And finally this morning the whole thing came to a head when Daddy came upstairs to explain that Sydney wanted to wear her blue bra because she was going to make milk for the baby and her hippos were sensitive. The "blue bra" was actually a tank top of mine, so we temporized by putting a toddler size tank top on her and calling it a bra.

Why is this so important? Well, she was on her way to pre-school, and I'm sure the fact that she's wearing a bra on her hippos will come out at some point during the day.

All the work I've done, undone by a cute two year old!

Out of the Bag

I reluctantly revealed my miraculous news to coworkers this week, recognizing that the extended bump on my frontside really couldn't be explained by weight gain alone any longer. Fortunately, the particular co-workers I talked to remember my last pregnancy, and know better than to ask for more details than I am willing to give them. I joked about not telling them at all and seeing how long any one of them could hold out until they finally asked, and then took my leave of them peacefully.

So far, so good.

There is, however, the Downstairs Contigent, a group of homebodies with nothing better to do who will be watching my belly with some delight and will not hesitate to ask me whether I am pregnant, when I am due, how I am feeling, what I am having, how much weight have I gained and whether or not I'll be coming back to work(most likely while I am in the middle of some work-related, concentration-requiring task). These are the people I am dreading. Not only are these irrelevant questions that are none of their business and set my teeth on edge, but they interfere with me doing my job. And I hate things which interfere with me doing my job.

In other news, the clinic that I go to continues to be disorganized and ditzy, with the result that at my last appointment the nurse took the urine sample, my weight, and blood pressure and only then made it apparent that she had no idea why I was there. "There's a pre-natal questionnaire attached to your paperwork," she said, "do you know why its there?"

I informed her that I had no idea how their forms worked and was unaware of the inner workings of the bureaucracy which would place them in certain places, but that I was here for my prenatal appointment as the forms under the questionnaire probably indicated. Mercifully, she left and the rest of the appointment went without incident.

As long as I don't get to the point where they're about to do the c-section but forget how to do it or what my due date actually is, we're probably alright.

Dressing is a Snap

During my last pregnancy, I stacked wood, hiked through the woods, shoveled snow, slogged through knee deep snow to string up sap tubing during sugaring season, and plowed our driveway using our John Deere tractor all the way up to the point of delivery (literally-- there was a snow storm the night we went to the hospital). In short you could say I was moderately active during the entire thing and I had no problems whatsoever except one--my pants kept falling down.

This is actually a common issue with what passes for clothes for women these days with the apparently persistent fad of having your pants come up to about your mid thigh but stopping short of covering your nether regions without extra help. I've begun avoiding this fashion for my professional appearance by shopping at used clothing stores, where old fashioned slacks meant to stay up have been abandoned by fashion-conscious women in favor of the butt-crack version. And for the outside work, which requires rugged, warm clothes, I usually just turn to the men's section.

Alas, it turns out they don't make maternity clothes for men. Nor do they make outdoor women's clothing for pregnant women. So what is a pregnant tomboy-farmer to do?

I posed this question to google and was heartened to find that I was not the only who noticed that maternity pants do not stay on. But the solutions ran short of the mark:

1) Wear work out pants. Fine for grocery shopping, lounging, power-walking, entertaining friends and family, doing dishes and sleeping in. Not so fine for trudging through snow, protecting legs from splintering wood or scratchy briars. Verdict: Not Tomboy Certified.

2) Wear a sundress. Fine for summer, if you're hosting cocktail parties, which you probably aren't since you're not drinking. Not so good for winter, dirt, hiking, or anything else. Verdict: Not Tomboy Certified.

3) It's only for 9 months. Fine for those who think pregnancy is God's Gift to Womankind. Not so good for those of us who realize that 9 months is only 3 months shy of a year. Verdict: Not Tomboy Certified.

I did finally come upon one woman who mourned the fact that they don't make suspenders for pregnant women. For a while I wondered what a pregnant woman's pair of suspenders would look like, and then realized that the only people who ever wear suspenders are beer bellied men, and that actually therefore they are made for pregnant women.

So: My husband found me a nice pair of black suspenders which I am even now wearing under my shirt to prevent my pants from falling down, and fully intend to wear them whenever I need to venture outside. This year when I plow the snow, it won't fall down into my underwear, and I will be able to walk through the woods without stopping every two seconds to hitch my pants up. Maybe, if I start wearing them like my beer-bellied fellows, people won't even realize I'm pregnant. They'll just think I'm a long haired Santa Claus. Verdict: Tomboy Approved.

Babies R' Us

The lobby of the Women's Health center contains tons of magazines for the patient who may be waiting awhile. In fact all the doctor and dental offices I've ever been have ample supply of reading material. Usually there's a healthy mix of junk (People), "women's" (Good Housekeeping, Fitness, etc), "men's" (Sports Illustrated) and general interest (NewsWeek, Time, National Geographic).

Women's Health? Well, they're dealing with Women, right? So clearly Sports Illustrated is out. But you'd expect to still find magazines which fit all interests and mental levels; a good mix of Good Housekeeping, a few Fit Pregnancies maybe, and a plethora of NewsWeek, Time, National Geographic; heck, a local newspaper would do.

Today, during my 45 minute wait for my 5 minute appointment, I sat in the lobby with nothing to read because the only concession the Women's Health Center lobby made to the mantra "Women are People with Brains Too" was a bland, badly edited edition of Skiing Magazine. The rest of the scattered reading material was on babies, more babies, having more babies, or trying to have more babies all the while keeping your house clean and your body thin and sexy after you have your babies so you can have even more babies. Don't worry about politics or current events, dear. We all know what stress does to the baby.

Being bored out my skull is much much better.

The appointment? This is what they did:

1. took a urine sample
2. weighed me
3. took my blood pressure
4. asked if I was okay
5. listened to the baby's heartbeat

On Number Five, my husband made the mistake of trying to engage the doctor in the health care debate and so, while the sonogram dutifully recorded the baby's heartbeat, neither the doctor nor my husband were listening to it. These two would be the only interested parties, since I happen to know the baby is in there.

I cancelled a meeting for this?

Next time I'll mail them my weight, blood pressure, a urine sample and a recording of a baby's heartbeat, and skip the appointment altogether. I won't interrupt my workday, they can see more patients, and I can read Benjamin Franklin's biography in peace without feeling like a heterosexual tomboy freak of nature.

When the Pig Flu

It's quite a novelty for me to be in the "risk factor" group for anything. I normally don't bother with the seasonal flu shot at all, let alone special supplementary flu shots of particularly virulent strains such as H1N1. But I'm not the only one deciding things like this these days. No, I don't mean the little 2.5 ounce fetus. I mean my husband.

So when the center called up and asked if I wanted to be one of the lucky few with a sore arm, I said sure. I even made an appointment for the next day.

A little while later, they called me back and said actually they didn't have any vaccine. Then they called back and said they might have some, so did I still want to come?

In my first pregnancy the OBGYN nurse emphatically urged me to get the seasonal flu shot. So I agreed and signed up at my work's flu shot clinic, only to be told that pregnant women couldn't get flu shots. I wish they'd get their story straight.

Anyway; the upshot is that I am still "unprotected" aside from my robust health and strong immune system, from swine flu, even though I am in the vaunted Top Four, even though the news media is pushing out stories daily of women and children breathing their last, and even though the hospital has some vaccine but maybe doesn't, they're not sure. I asked them to call me if they ever figure it out.