Cravings

DSC_0033, originally uploaded by jshannon331.

Everyone loves to know what a pregnant woman craves. In fact, my husband considered it a rite of passage when he had to make a late night run to find shrimp cocktail and Italian Wedding Soup. Don't ask me how he found them both at 9 at night but upon returning home you would have thought he had won the World Series, brandishing shopping bag proudly in hand. I am, probably, one of the most boring people to ask this question. I loved both ice cream and pickles (separately, of course) long before a little Shannon was in the works. But, since it seems to be a much anticipated inquiry, I thought I'd outline food preferences that have risen to the occasion during the incubation of said child.

1. Before Ellie, I did not eat red meat and if I did, it would have to be burned and gray and completely unappetizing looking without a trace of pink. Now, you could probably serve it raw and you might have to fight me to lick the plate. Totally weird.

2. Before Ellie, I hated bananas. Banana bread, banana muffins, banana pancakes, banana smoothies- even the fake banana flavored candy was cause for disdain. Now, I eat one with breakfast. Every day. And if I don't have one, I get really cranky. Trust me.

3. I, currently, put strawberries in/on everything. In my salads, in my yogurt, on my ice cream- everything. Very odd considering that the strawberry was my least favorite berry.

4. I have always loved dark chocolate- being pregnant just seems to have accelerated this taste. Unfortunately.

5. All icy confections anywhere from italian ice to ice cream to ice pops are high in demand- even in the middle of winter. Waddling all the time makes you so thirsty.

That's really about it- aside from the occasional turkey sub or mozzarella stick craving, I'm a fairly boring pregnant lady. However, if I start putting hot sauce on my chocolate cake or rolling my pickles in powdered sugar, you'll be the first to know.

Mrs. Shannon

DSC_0532, originally uploaded by jshannon331.

I've been writing "Mrs. J. Shannon" on the insides of notebooks, the backs of books and on crumpled, diner napkins for approximately eleven years. When I first fell in love with Rich Shannon he had bleach blonde hair, a fabulous 90's goatee, a tie-dyed Beatles tee-shirt and Birkenstocks. I was solidly in the pink tank top, jean short, tons of bracelets and sweatshirts with local band names camp. Still, we somehow managed to rise above our fashion differences and culture clashes and see something in one another that we had yet to find anywhere else.

Many phone calls after baseball practice, visits to the ice cream store his parents owned, our first date to see "Gladiator" in the theater (he swears it wasn't a date, but it was-he paid, picked me up and tried to hold my hand. Clearly a date) moves to different states, different significant others, different lives planned later, when I sat down at the end of the day, it was still Mrs. Shannon on my notebook. God ordained it from the beginning.

Being a high school English teacher can occasionally make me sick of hearing my name over and over again. "Mrs. Shannon....Mrs. Shannon...." I hate that it's sometimes so easy for me to forget how much I longed for someone to call me by that name.

I am more than proud to be Mrs. Shannon. To have married the man who coached more than 50 young boys dedicatedly, tenderly and fatherly over the course of 4 years and loved it so much he did it for free. The one who has made me my morning coffee every day for the last five and half years just the right way- cream, no sugar. Who does all my laundry. And folds it. And doesn't shrink anything. Who goes to a job everyday that he less than loves so that he can provide for the life we've built together. Who sings to me and our daughter and teaches the both of us what worship really means. Who is a constant encourager, a support and a reminder of God's faithfulness.

I love being Mrs. Shannon.

D-Day

Around this time in one's pregnancy (Helllllloooooooo week 31, we're getting closer!), the most common topic of chatter amongst the women surrounding you is the big D-day.

Delivery.

People love to share their horror stories, philosophies, beliefs and opinions concerning the matter.  I have sat through an in-depth description of a 36 hour labor resulting in 50 stitches that not even a sitz bath with the healing powers of the Jordan River could soothe- by a complete stranger.  Thanks, lady.  That's so encouraging. I've listened attentively and interested to the outline of a difficult, but rewardingly natural home birth surrounded by family and friends.  I've nodded appreciatively when a woman told me that a c-section was the best decision of her life because it saved her son- and to another, who believed it was the most unnecessary, horrific experience she's ever had.  I was told sex was so much better/worse after delivery, that I will lose the weight quickly if only I breastfed or ate nothing but strawberries and yogurt or meditated an hour a day.  Or that I had better get used to the love handles because they'll never go away unless I make an appointment with a plastic surgeon- would I like his number, by the way? That I will never sleep again.  Ever.

And after all of that unsolicited (but genuine and well-meaning) information, their testimonies are always followed by the question,

"And, what's your birth plan?"

Then, I calmly take a deep breath, smile, and explain.  I don't have one.

No, I'm not crazy.  I'm not naive- well, being a first time mom you certainly can't help a bit of naivety since it's an experience I've never had before, but I am not uninformed, I should say.  Rich and I have experienced much in the last year, in which God has taught us lessons in epic proportions- the most important one being, we are not in control.  Losing a baby and gaining a baby all in the same year makes it very clear that in the long run, my "plan" doesn't really matter.  I can be as prepared as possible, of course, and I can have preferences- but as for a plan? Not me.  I don't do that anymore.

The truth is,  this child is a gift.  Not one that I had planned at all.  Which leads me to believe, that God really does know and plan the best after all. Why mess with that?

 Would I like to be able to have a safe, short, natural birth? Yes.  Am I planning on it? No.  Ultimately, the only elements I want present on the day of Ellie's arrival is the calm, peace, and joy that come from knowing that I have a God who has everything under control.  How she enters the world much like how she was conceived, is entirely up to Him.

This little piggy...

I have a pair of red, worn leather ballet flats with a lovely, little knobby plum colored button at the top held together by adorable stitching.  They are my "bad day"shoes.  If I knew a day was going to be particularly awful, I'd don those shoes and trudge half- heartedly through the rain/snow/dirty puddles by curbs with the knowledge that at least my feet were prepared to rise to the occasion.    Can I tell you that if pregnancy doesn't teach you the truest meanings of humility and sacrifice, you're made of different stuff than I.

Over the years from my freshman year in college to before I got pregnant, I have gained and lost about 20-25 pounds approximately three times, at least.  However, no amount of waffles and ice cream ever prevented me from wearing those shoes.  My appendages remained the same, tiny size no matter how my waistline expanded or contracted.  Until now.

My feet have suddenly unearthed and proclaimed their Fred Flintstone ancestry.  My toes are so swollen with fluid, I'm sure if ever I were shipwrecked I'd have no need to "grab the cushion that acts as a floatation device".

I. Have. Cankles.

Cankles, for goodness sake.

My doctor was so gracious today in telling me that I might want to be a little more careful about what I ate without exactly telling me how much I weigh ( he finally learned), and I couldn't even flash my red shoes at him in denial.  I can't get them on past my piggy toe.

Sigh.  I know my shoes will be there after the swellings gone down, waiting for me.  I know that when I hold my girl, and she's pink and screaming and wonderful I will not care that I was unable to wear my favorite shoes for the last 2 months that I carried her.  I know.

But after a day of arguing with teenagers, figuring out maternity leave paperwork, breaking up fights, eating a terrible salad for lunch (which obviously does nothing so I'm going to stop torturing myself), being weighed in like cattle and watching numbers climb into the "where no woman has gone before" territory, I really could have used a little red shoe boost instead of this little piggy crying all the way home.  

Air Supply

I rolled out of bed this bed this morning (since I can't really "sit up" any longer) and stood in front of the closet to pick out my clothes for the day when I noticed this heinous, panting noise emanating from somewhere terribly close by.  

Oh, it's me.  

It's apparently not enough to waddle, but I must now wheeze like a bulldog.  Pregnancy is beautiful.

Nesting

Pregnant woman apparently don't have enough to be compared with, and thus, this last phase of pregnancy seems to fall underneath the avian category.  Unbeknownst to myself, this latest obsession with finally purchasing curtains for the dining room, replacing our duvet cover that's had an equator-sized tear for the last 6 months and hounding my husband to fix up the basement that I am never in to begin with have all been sure signs of the "nesting" disease that hits around the third trimester.  I spend more time on www.westelm.com than I do planning out our meals for the week- and most of you know how much I really love planning dinner and hate shopping.  However, I feel like these desires are more than just mere pregnant emotional compulsions as I will outline defensively for the you in the following paragraphs.

We are blessed enough to live near ALL of Ellie's grandparents and aunts and uncles, so there is plenty of help to go around.  Ordinarily, this would make me cringe in embarrassment at the thought that other people will now know that I can't do everything myself- but after this past week of not sleeping due to back pain and the gymnastic feats performed every 20 minutes in my uterus I am aware of how little energy and sleep I will have for the next two months.  I am more than grateful the Grandparents want to help- so grateful, in fact, I want everything neatly arranged and organized so that when they have Ellie duty for an hour or so, I can take a nap or a shower without having to tell anyone once where the bottles/diapers/ear plugs are. Ahhhh.  In fact, if any want to start getting into the swing of things early, I have a list...:)

My paychecks are coming to an end.  Yes, I'll still get paid something or other as a reminder that America is not completely heartless when it comes to newly born children, but it won't be as much as when I was working.  Which means, buy those curtains now or live through another Thanksgiving with our neighbors watching us carve the turkey.

I have four weeks off before my due date.  Yes, I know.  Due dates aren't sanctioned or certain.  However, going with the odds of this being my first, chances are she'll wait around until the 40th week (Oh, say it isn't so) to show her pretty, little face.  I've already promised her a puppy if makes a grand entrance at the 38th.  Here's hoping.  However, that does leave me some time to "prepare".  Since sleeping is hardly an option even now, I can't truly take advantage when I'm bound to be even more uncomfortable then than I am now.  Hence, "nesting" it is!  Washing all of her clothes and sheets and swaddling blankets, cleaning out from underneath the kitchen sink ( I'm fairly certain something other-worldly lives down there), making lists and spreadsheets of bills and budgets so that I don't even have to think about money for at least a few weeks after her birth, adding to her collection of children's books that I'm sure she'll be reading on her own by 6 months and other things I've been putting off for, oh, I don't know, the last year or so.

Alright, after re-reading, none of these defenses hold.  I am the typical, third trimester woman.  I accept.  I nest.  Bring on the Excel sheets.

Final Countdown

No, no.  I'm not jumping the gun.  I am fully aware that there are several weeks left in which to carry/incubate/lug heavily this child before she makes her grand entrance into the world.  However, I feel like the art of celebrating small mile stones has been lost, and it may be solely up to me in order to reclaim it.  I have officially entered the 30 week bench mark, and there is no turning back.  I only have a few, short weeks left of having the unique experience of another creature using my bladder as her pillow and since I haven't been terribly faithful in documenting this momentous occasion, I will do my best to explain briefly what life at 30 weeks pregnant looks and feels like for this soon to be Mama.

1.  Naps are my best friend, though, I'm sure the relationship is purely one sided.  I take advantage of them.  Abuse them, even.  And still, they are always there- albeit, at different times of the day-patiently waiting.

2.  Naps are so necessary because sleeping at night has proven to be a laughable suggestion, let alone practice.  My back aches when I lie on my side, but my lungs are crushed if I lie on my back.  And if I do manage to get comfortable enough to close my eyes, I'm assaulted by a barrage of: " Oh my gosh I have to get curtain rods for the nursery!"and, "Will this kid ever stop moving? She stopped! Is she ok?" and, "What the hell am I going to do if I go into labor while Rich is at work? LABOR?!?!?!"  AHHHHH.  And the anxiety commences.

3. There are now, two men in my bed.  My husband, of course, and the newest addition, Howard.  Howard is the name we gave the body pillow purchased to assist in sleeping, but just manages to create a giant Berlin-wall sized obstacle down the center of the bed and provide a soft place to rest my sleepless head.  I'm hoping in the near future to see Rich again at some point.

4.  I waddle.  Like a penguin.  Or one who's been out riding all day.  Or like a bow-legged old man.  Or a duck.  Choose a comparison.  None of them are entirely encompass the fact that waddling is both uncomfortable and unattractive.

5.  There are some women who display their stretch marks proudly, proclaiming them to be a visible sign of their entrance into motherhood.  There are others who wail and bemoan the despicable, pink lines and invest an obscene amount of money in over-the-counter topical remedies that falsely promise radical results in 3 weeks or less.  I fall somewhere in the middle, on any given day.  Or hour.  I'm not a fan.  I don't think they represent anything other than the fact that my hips, apparently, actually did get wider.  I thought that was impossible. But I'm not going to cry about how I'll never look good in a bikini again.  Not today, anyway.

6.  I'm so stoked to be over the 6 month long, " Will I or won't I puke today?" phase, that I almost don't mind the back pain.

7.  My girl seems to have inherited the most dominant trait of both of her parents.  She dances when her Daddy sings to her, and snuggles as close to the surface as possible when Mama plays the piano.  She's a musician.  I knew she would be.  I'd be lying if I said I wasn't excited about that.

8.  I have kindly advised my doctor to stop informing me how much weight I've gained.  My blood pressure's great.  I tested negatively for gestational diabetes.  All other signs point to a healthy pregnancy and a healthy daughter.  So, with all due respect, shut up.  I am very much aware that the amount of weight I gain, I must lose after the baby's born.  You needn't remind me. Even after weeks of abstaining from anything remotely white sugared or floured, I still gained.  I'm over it.  Thank you, have a nice day.  And when all is said and done, and I have a healthy child instead of a bad back that keeps me up at night, eventually I will fit into my favorite black skirt again.  Until then, talk to me about the appropriate weight window again and I can't promise to behave like a sane human being.

9.  I, officially, have 5 weeks remaining of going to work.  That makes me smile.  And makes me nervous.  All at the same time.  I'm told I should get used to that.

10.  Ellie's no longer a distant thought but an actual, close reality.  She's not a fetus, she's a person.  A person that might have my eyes, or Rich's chin- and hopefully my sister's build and my sister-in-law's nose.  She's going to sleep in the room her Daddy painted green before we knew she was a girl.  She'll eat breakfast at the table that's often covered with mail and toast crumbs.  She's going to try to put her fingers in sockets and push the basement door open and eat inedible objects and she's going to be ours.  And make us a family.  The Shannon family.  And she better hurry up.