Over the years I’ve had plenty of time to think about how or if Facebook will play a role in my pregnancy. I’ve gone from loathing any thought of allowing FB into my womb, to desiring more than anything to reclaim some normalcy in this process, even if that “normalcy” is defined as blathering on about bumps on FB. Initially my hesitations about FB announcements were twofold.
- I feared I’d hurt someone like me. Someone that simply wanted to mind their business, stalk casual high school acquaintances, and blow off a few minutes of the work day with FB. That someone that logs in happy and logs out crying after yet another “my baby is the size of a kumquat” post from a 20-year old cousin that got married two minutes ago.
- I was wary of the stupid comments. The “About damn times!” The “I told you it would happen if you just relaxed!” The “All in God’s time!” I’ve gotten enough of those face-to-face over the past 4 years, I didn’t want a digital jab hunting me down and hurting me in the comfort of my own home or office. I also didn’t want to explain to great aunt so-and-so why I deleted her comment and encouraged Mr. But IF to go ahead and chug down the fifth of whisky for the both of us.
But, as the years drew on, as we proudly came out of the IF closet on FB, total radio silence about any fluke pregnancy we’d managed to trick long enough to stick around until announcement time seemed unrealistic. And, frankly, I’ve sat through enough cutesy announcements by this point that it’s about damn time that I spew some (admittedly bitter) joy back into their
smug fertile faces newsfeeds. So, we did it. We made it FB official. I feel funny…
Because brevity isn’t really my forte, my initial plan of a simple photo collage quickly went out the window and was replaced with a full-on video montage. Oh, and can I just say, I had FAR to much fun sticking stickers all over this thing to anonymize the personally identifiable content. Enjoy!
Yesterday, a co-worker told me I was glowing. People really fucking say that? <Scratches head>
In case I haven’t already stated this enough, I don’t really know how to write happy posts. It’s just so out of the norm. But, for the most part, this is a happy post. Like imagine rainbows and glitter bombs shooting out of my fingers as they tippy-type post. I feel sick already…. So we don’t have to belabor this, let’s roll with the bullets.
Reasons ButIF’s happy:
- Yep, still pregnant. 11 weeks, 2 days. Not that I’m counting or anything…
- Last Tuesday (10 weeks, 1 day) we had our first success with the doppler. A faint but steady 180 beats per minute. Of course, I’ve failed to find the heart beat twice since (leading to immeasurable grief on the part of the Mr.), but I’m not worried. I found it once, I’ll find it again.
- That nasty, mean, no-good OB I was complaining about last week? HE’S AMAZEBALLS! Or, more specifically, the MFM he referred me to is. Yea, sure, he took us back over 45 minutes late for our appointment (leading the Mr. to turn a not-so-pleasant shade of red and huff and puff through the hallways looking for an explanation), but when he did take us back (you know, right after the Mr. went looking for answers?) he was top notch. We had a lovely two-way conversation that lasted for nearly an hour during which he treated us as intellectual equals and literally nailed every zinger question I threw at him. When he said, “I prefer to treat based on Free T4 as TSH is a poor indicator of thyroid function” I about jumped over the desk and kissed him. After he stated that, “In your case it is best that we follow you closely with serial ultrasounds,” I thought the Mr. was going to give him a lap dance. Totally freaking happy….
- When we were ushered from the MFM over to the OB we had few questions left to ask. So, the OB started, “How are you doing?” and I responded, “Physically, well, mentally, not so hot.” He again repeated, “With your history you won’t believe this is real until you are tucking this baby into the car seat to take them home.” (I actually don’t mind that he’s now said this catch phrase to me at least 3 times. Yea, it’s repetitive, but at least it means he’s consistent.) Then, the words I wanted to hear, “Would it help or hurt to have an ultrasound today?” HELP!!!
- So, we saw the blob again last Wednesday. I really must come up with another nickname as he/she’s soo beyond a blob. The OB’s ultrasound machine totally kicks the ass of my RE’s (you’d think the folks you’re paying cash down out of pocket would have better shit, eh?). The blob has legs. And arms. And fingers. And toes. Just as I was taking that all in, just as I was reassuring myself (as I always do) that yes, indeed, I do see a flicker of something near the center of the chest, the damn thing started waving. There is a thing… with arms… that move… inside of me! Gah!
- We drove straight from the OB/MFM appointment to the inlaws for Thanksgiving, successfully avoiding the winter storm that had the Mr. in a tizzy as we sat waiting for the MFM to take us back. The Mr.’s grandma asked for a copy of our ultrasound. It’s on her dining room buffet. Right next to the countless pictures of the 3 little darling great-grandchildren the Mr.’s cousin’s wife has already provided her. You know how people get excited to be moved from the kiddie table to the adult table for holiday meals? Well, yea, this was my own graduation moment. I’ve made it to the fertile table.
- As we hovered over our turkey, the Mr. his parents, his sister and fiance, his great aunt and uncle, his grandmother, my mother-in-law bent her head to pray. As I shut my eyes and clasped my hands to give thanks for the meal and the family I was sharing it with, I heard tears from across the table. I looked up, she looked back, and simply said, “I can’t… I just can’t. I’m too thankful.” My father-in-law came to the rescue and had us go around the table each sharing what we were thankful for. The Mr. mustered a simple, “Babies!”, the born-again great aunt thanked Jesus, my hungry sister-in-law zeroed in on, “Home cooked food!”, and my mother-in-law whimpered just a little more…
Two years ago I was actively miscarrying at the Thanksgiving table. I had entered maternity triage for the methotrexate injection that would end my failing pregnancy on November 18, I had returned two days later after passing out in our bathroom from contractions and blood loss, and less than a week after that I was welcoming 25 people (including above mentioned cousin’s two small children and pregnant wife) into our home for a Thanksgiving feast I’d been preparing for days. I never thought I’d reclaim the peace of Thanksgiving from that memory. And, to be honest, I’m sure I never entirely will. But last week’s doppler success, ultrasound pictures, and mother-in-law sobs have gone a long way to softening the pain. This year, no matter what the future brings, I was thankful on Thanksgiving.