by Ms. Myg on September 15, 2008
I will tell you with a straight face, celebrity culture pisses me off. When I see Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie, Jennifer Aniston, Oprah, Cher, whoever staring slack jawed at me from the cover of some cheap mag in the grocery store, I seeth. And not quietly, either.
But…but…but…something about famous women over 35 giving birth makes me go, “Ha! See! Being pregnant over 35 = AWESOME.” There’s scant logic to it. If der media says it’s worthwhile to put a celebrity on the cover who’s pregnant in her later 30s, 40s or whenever then there’s some “Hey, if she can do it so can I” that ensues.
Today’s famous mom is Minnie Driver. At 38 years old, she gave birth to a little boy on September 5th.
Ever since Good Will Hunting I’ve thought she was plenty cool, so I’m happy to see she’s also a new mom. Good luck Minnie!
by Ms. Myg on September 9, 2008
My, it seems like just yesterday we were only at week 14! They’re not kidding when they say it goes fast. Indeed, nearly as fast as my feet trot me to the john in the middle of the night.
This week was fairly different because it was also vacation week. We went to Maine with our closest friends, which was super ultra nice. I can’t rightly tell what new experiences were a direct result of Week Fifteenness, and what might have been simply vacation head. But here’s how it went.
We had an 8 hour car trip up to Maine from where we live in NJ. We borrowed a…a…a… MINIVAN so we could travel with our friends (who are childless) and our exceedingly adorable and wonderful dog, Mason (see gratuitous adorable dog pic here.) My husband says “No, we are NOT getting a minivan.” And he’s said this for several weeks now with good reasons (gas prices and desire for a hybrid among them). As for me, I love cars, I love to drive and the idea of even craving a minivan makes me die a little inside. But the roomy interior! The cargo space! My God!
I have to tell you, 8 hours north is a much more pleasant drive than even two hours south of here. When you’re pregnant you’ve got to stop every two hours or so and walk around to reduce the risk of blood clots. Blood clots! Can they make riding in a car a bit more ominous sounding? (Does this mean I have to get off my ass every two hours at work too?) With a dog in tow, stopping every so often isn’t such a bad idea anyway, so while it us slowed down a bit it also helped break up the ride and make it seem fairly pleasant.
I do pass each Wednesday as a milestone, much like when you have your first boyfriend in junior high you celebrate every month as an anniversary. So when last Wednesday came, in celebration I poured over my Mayo Clinic book and some other places and found out that the little tomatoes inside of me were:
- about 4 inches long
- doing Tai Chi or something in there, though I can’t really feel them yet. Unless maybe I’m not that gassy afterall…
- covered in fine hair, I imgaine kind of like little gorillas
- just starting to develop their hearing, which prompted me to start jacking up Mogwai as loud as I could in the car, just to help them out
- beginning to sense light and feel outside pressure. Now it’s mutual.
- are getting fingernails and toenails. Awwww!
This has been my experience of week 15:
- The feeling of um, am I still pregnant? Every so often I’d actually forget I was pregnant.Whether that’s the Maine air or that forgetfulness they say comes along with pregnancy, I couldn’t say.
- Rosy cheeks. Still with some zits.
- Extra protective husband saying things like, “I don’t know if you should go kayaking…” which was great because I totally didn’t want to go kayaking, sorry.
- “What’s that dark line that goes from your belly button to your love jungle?” he asked one morning (okay, I’m paraphrasing). “What the hell?” I said. It’s actually called the linea nigra, and it is exactly that. It, like everything else it seems, is the result of pregnancy hormones.
- Crying. Lots of it. I thought the Second Trimester was the honeymoon? Last honeymoon I remember involved a lot of good sex and lobster, not nights of sobbing into my pillow for unnamed reasons.
You know, it’s still a lot better than the first trimester. I really overall feel pretty good. If I could stop crying. I mean, I was crying on the way to work today as I was playing Glasgow Mega Snake (by Mogwai, of course). There’s no damn words in the song! But it was so – beautiful – *sobs* yeah. That’s kind of how it goes.
I’d write more but I need to go hunt down a box of tissues and a candy bar. So folks, stay tuned for a “Does crying during pregnancy make your fetus a wuss?” and other related topics, coming your way via Wisermom.
by Ms. Myg on August 27, 2008
I don’t consider myself anyone who’s ever been terribly hip, nor stylish, nor in the know. Even growing up in the terminally awesome 80’s with a fine sense of post-punk and an even finer sense of 90’s indie guitar rock, I never did figure out how to dress.
I have to say, being pregnant has made this problem all the worse.
I looked at myself today, 13 weeks pregnant with twins. I’m digging the new shape of my body, as much as I was pretty unhappy with my former one. Since starting IVF treatments in January, I have gained a ton of weight all over – my face, arms, belly, thighs. Even my fingers have felt swollen. I chalk it up to drugs, hormones and the god awful depression that comes from failed IVF attempts, (which made me eat all the more, and all the less healthy stuff).
So my form is a bit, well, doughy. I am sad to admit that it droops in a lot of bad places, like my upper arms and thighs. My butt has those awful dimples on it and seems to get wider every time I check. (I’m checking a lot less frequently now, so I hope that helps). But what draws my attention in the mirror now is not the sagging heaps of flesh from just below my armpits. Instead, I’m hopelessly drawn to the tight expanse of bellyness extruding over my belt. Yes, there’s a bit of a cushy pillow on top, but to me the overall shape of my naked body clearly says, “PREGNANT!” And that’s really rad.
However, without a moderate investment in a half decent maternity wardrobe, that awesomeness of looking pregnant is reserved for nakie time. Otherwise, consider my look big and baggy like so many trash bags over a pile of wadded newspapers. I’m wearing my husband’s pants, which sounds much more darling than it looks.
I really swore I would try to be cool, even as a Mom, even as I get into middle age. I don’t want to dress “comfortably” in cheap elastic waistbanded pants and billowing tops. I want to be pregnant in punk rock t-shirts, dirty jeans and high tops.
But the other day, I looked in the mirror and saw myself in a pair of Orange Crocks and elastic waist banded capris tucked under a billowing floral print SNAP (for god’s sake) top. The ultimate picture of middle aged laziness in fat fashion.
Something had to change. So I finally did it. I finally went out and bought maternity clothes.
Now these aren’t the jeans I actually bought, but I did buy two similar pairs, one with the belly like the picture, and another with that full belly stocking thing. Having never been pregnant before, and suffering the last several weeks as my mid-section revolted against the button of every pair of pants I own, I was simply AMAZED by how incredibly wonderful maternity pants are. I told my husband, “This is life changing.” And I sincerely meant it. The experience of sitting has completely altered for me. No more persistent discomfort in my midsection. No more sitting at my desk at work with my pants unbuttoned and unzipped, hoping nobody walks in unannounced. No more leaning back precariously in my office chair, trying to get my damned pants fastened clandestinely before I stand up. Life changing.
Why did I wait so long? Well, I am really quite fragile still about being pregnant in the first place. I am terrified that if I make it too real (by buying maternity pants, say) that it will cease to be real. I don’t know if I’m overly superstitious given the four years of struggle it has taken to get pregnant. Maybe I’m just like this.
In any case, in my new maternity jeans and retro striped t-shirts I may not yet look the paragon of hip impending over-35 “I grew up in the 80s so fuck off” motherhood I want to be, but now that I can breathe while sitting, I have to admit – I feel that way on the inside.
And it’s what’s inside that counts, isn’t it?
