For nine (ten) months, a woman (and ONLY a woman Mr. "I'm a pregnant man"... no, you were a woman once. You don't count.) and her body endure quite possibly the most amazing journey known to man, ordained by God, starting with some good (albeit meticulously planned) lovin' at just the right time. I mean, that in and of itself is a miracle.
You find out you're pregnant and start rejoicing at the growing embryo (blob) in your belly. And then for many, you get sick. I mean, really sick. And not always "puke your guts out" sick, though that is known to happen in the oddest places- like the side of the road you just turned on, or the restaurant with NO ONE in it so ALL the staff hears you losing the lunch they just prepared. I digress. You get sick. Some (like me) couldn't look at a cracker in the face and end up LOSING weight. After nights of queasy-ness, eating saltines in bed with your (my) dog, being told you (I) look "green... pale... not good"... you wake up one day AND IT JUST STOPS. Medical miracle.
So then it's on to better days- perhaps you are waiting for that precious bump to start showing... not the, "I just ate a cheeseburger and have been eating donuts every morning for the past three weeks" bump... no, the tell-tale bump that screams "She MUST be with child!" People still don't necessarily ask about it as it's generally considered poor taste to comment on a woman's growing mid-section... but they know. You know. There is a BABY in there.
Then the countdown begins to find out what the sex will be (if you are so forward thinking as to find out). Some wait. I don't understand these people. I need to prepare, and I hate yellow, so the whole "Surprise!" thing is just not fun for me.
Anyway, so the appointment arrives, sometime around 20 weeks (because seriously, who measures in months? Come on people, get with the program). You arrive at your OB's office with husband, Mom (Grandma) and Dad (Grandpa) in tow, and they tell you you are not on the schedule. "I'm sorry, I must have misunderstood you. I AM finding out if I'm having a BOY or a GIRL today. Check again." About 3 nurses, 5 minutes, the threat of tears and one understanding ultrasound tech later, at last your are being gooped up with the blue ultrasound squishy gel.
Thankfully, your (my) child obliges and presents his man parts the second the radar-thingy lands on the belly (well, uterus). There is much celebrating, hugging, laughing, etc. as we come to terms with the fact our particular baby is a "Max".
The day has been set aside for celebrating, so after a nice brunch with the fam, you and your baby-Daddy embark on what is quite possibly the most overwhelming event of pregnancy- registering at baby stores. Ben was quite a trooper. I was a freak- running around with that little scanner gun like a pissed-off cowboy, shooting at everything I knew we HAD to have. Or else, you know, my child may cease to exist.
Around this time, you also experience what everyone describes as "flutters"... those first, precious movements that once again prove you are not just growing fruit in your belly. I have no idea why people say it's like flutters- it felt nothing like that. For me, it was more of a rolling-ish type feeling, like he was doing laps and kick-flipping each time he hit the edge of his "home". As time went on, these movements went from a soft, almost gurgling feeling, to full on jabs, kicks and punches most commonly felt in my ribs and bladder. At one point I was convinced he was playing a full drum set with my ribs as the bass drum, my general innards as the floor and rack tom, my liver as the snare drum, and my bladder and kidneys as the crash and ride cymbals, respectively.
Sometime during weeks 25-35 (or so), many women are blessed with a baby shower; a party where people show up to oooh and ahhh at tiny baby things, ask about your "symptoms" and discuss their own personal birth experiences. It is generally not a man-friendly experience. But there is lots of good food... a growing priority for this particular human-grower.
Towards the end of pregnancy, I have been fascinated with the ailments pregnant women are just expected to "put up with"... I have never experienced back or sciatic nerve pain like I am presently enduring. I could be the spokeswoman for overactive bladder syndrome. While they subsided briefly during my second trimester, my headaches and migraines have been some of the worst I've had in years. And lately, my Barbie-sockets (you know, the place where your leg meets your torso... where, on a Barbie, you can rip her legs off) hurt all the time, especially when I'm peeing (?!?!). Under normal circumstances, these ailments would be cause for general concern, medical intervention and even being sent to a specialist. During pregnancy, you are advised to take Tylenol, which I'm pretty sure has the pain-killing equivalent of a grape.
All that said, one gets to the point of no return- about 36 weeks- when you must come face to face with the reality of expelling a small watermelon from your now disfigured, strangely formed and aching body. Super. I get that women have been doing it since the beginning of time. But when one thinks about all of the fluids, blood, and humans that leave the body in mere hours after having accumulated for nine (ten) months, it is a bit baffling.
So here I sit, 3 weeks away from when the little circle chart thingy says I'm supposed to have this child. And after a couple days of observation, I will be sent home with a tiny, perfect HUMAN. He presently (finally!) has bedroom furniture, and some sort of decor in a room he won't use until he's at least a few months old. His clothes have been washed in the gentlest of detergents, his closet is impeccably organized, and his bassinet ready for his arrival in our room (much to our dogs dismay).
In three-ish weeks, I will have a child. A son. A Max. Reflections on such are, of course, forthcoming.
For now, I must pee for the 5th time while creating this memoir and prepare some waffles with peanut butter for my ever-demanding son's growth. I must battle with the razor in the shower as bending over is no longer an option; I must decide what to wear (especially on my lower half) as nothing is comfortable. I must nap in a position conducive to fetal health. And then I will probably pee again. Because I am having a baby. And I can't wait.
