How Does the Baby Get Out?

I’m into the final weeks of my surrogate pregnancy. Like I can actually count the days down to the induction. The magic number is seventeen. 17 days! Sometimes I think it will happen sooner anyway, since both my kids were at least a week early, but as long as this baby waits at least 9 more days until her mom is in the same state as we are, I’m good to go. We’ve scheduled an induction not just for planning purposes, but for the IP’s peace of mind (they’ve had late term problems with previous pregnancies). 

So I am getting really excited. I obviously can’t claim the standard reason for being excited at the end of a pregnancy (the baby herself), but I have several other reasons:

1.      I want to not be huge so I can fit in my clothes again. I only have one pair of pants that fit comfortably. They are soft stretchy maternity jeans, which is all great, but they’re also skinny jeans, which is not so great when you are short-legged and top heavy. If my legs were slightly longer and/or more slender I might say I resemble some sort of adorable lollypop, but since they’re nice and stocky I might say I just look like...a dumbass. My darling husband might whole-heartedly agree. I imagine wide-eyed vigorous nodding. He hates those pants. With fire. 

2.      I want to not weigh 1,956 pounds so my feet quit hurting when I stand up for more than 0.78 seconds. I also would hope that they return to their normal size (still excessively wide but perhaps not so swollen). 

3.      I want to get into a hardcore diet and exercise routine and get back to my pre-pre-pregnancy weight. SIKE. (Or is it PSYCHE?) Well, yeah, I DO want to get back to my pre-pre-pregnancy weight, but I totally do NOT want to do the hardcore diet and exercise routine. UUUUGGGGHHH. I’m actually really dreading it, but it needs to happen. I’ve gained way more weight with this pregnancy than I did with my two, plus I started at a much higher weight than the other times. I’d like to blame the two cycles of IVF meds (which DO cause weight gain), but the inactivity of my first year staying home full-time is also to blame. Waitressing and childcare kept me moving more than I realized. HowEVER, I must admit, my extreme laziness and gluttony are the real culprit(s). I have milked the pregnancy excuse to the max. Oh, the baby wants another piece of pie. Oh, I’m supposed to take it easy. Heh. Whatever, Fatty. So I have a few weeks left to eat AALLLLLL the fudge, cinnamon rolls, ice cream, chocolate, cookies, cupcakes, etc., etc. currently in my house and then people had better quit giving it to me. (I suppose I’ll have to refrain from buying and baking stuff too.) 

4.      I want to drink beer. Prost Dunkelweizen, to be specific. And ginger beer. And strong coffee. Plus marijuana will be legal in Colorado tomorrow, so there’s that. Kidding not kidding. 

5.      I want to not be so lethargic and irritable. No doubt my sweet kiddos and hub are even more excited for that. I feel like I’m always so tired and cranky that I’m no fun to be around for anyone, and I’m such a massive lump that it’s hard to get up and play with the chilluns. There are other relationship areas affected by the physical and emotional aspects of pregnancy that I am eager to work on too.

6.      I want to pee less often. 

7.      I want to eat sushi and deli meat and all the other no-nos. 

8.   I want to be rid of excess indigestion and gas and that weird pressure that rises up at the base of your throat like you need to throw up or burp but you can’t. What is that? Heartburn?

9.   I want to laser the hell out of these heinous purple veins on my right leg. Yeah insurance covers that! Woot woot!

10.  I want to get a tattoo. I'm not sure what but I want one.

11.  I want to sleep on my stomach. Even if it's bad for my neck to twist around like that.

12.  Finally, and most importantly, I want to see the parents with their new baby. I don’t know just what this experience will look like, but I’m excited about it. Truly.

One common question people ask—after the standard “how are you feeling” physically—is the “how are you feeling” emotionally. I don’t have a very good answer though. Honestly there’s not an extreme depth of emotion at this point. It’s been a very long process (I started looking into it when my daughter was just a few months old, and she’s three now), so I’ve had plenty of time to get used to the whole thing, plenty of time to research and read other peoples’ stories. It all just seems very…normal, for lack of a better word. While I do recognize that there is something profound about carrying someone else’s baby for them, it generally feels no more profound than babysitting. Surely when it all goes down in the hospital I’ll have more to say on the matter, but it really is pretty simple to me. No complex tangle of emotion, even with the idea of actually giving the baby to them. It’s theirs anyway. It always has been theirs. 

I won’t deny the possibility that I might get a little case of baby fever, and there will be no stopping the wave of hormones that will inevitably wash over me, but all I need to do is read the list above to remind myself what’s so nice about not being pregnant (even though I have easy peasy pregnancies). I could also recall any number of super stressful days at home with my two wonderful monsters and imagine how it would be even more stressful with the addition of a third, OR contemplate the fact that in two short years they’ll both be in school full-time (*gasp*bite knuckles*SOB*) so I might be able to have a life again and WHY would I start over with another one?

So in the meantime I’m enjoying the alien antics of this baby girl rolling and kicking my belly in the freakiest of ways, waddling to the bathroom every ten minutes, and kegel-ing nervously when she pushes down in such a way that I think she’s trying to escape. Not yet, you. 

Dirt and Tuesday are only mildly amused by the strange pulsation in my gut, and seem completely at ease with the idea that this baby is not ours. They know her name and her parents’ names, and ask why the baby kicks them when they squish her, but are uninterested otherwise. I just reeeeaaalllly want to avoid giving them an in-depth answer about how the baby gets out. “The doctor gets her out” is the accepted response at present, but I fear that my little incessant questioners will soon interrogate further. While I’m all for discussing natural things in an up front and honest manner, that is one thing I don’t want to burden their curious brains with right now. 

Although sometimes (rarely, but occasionally) they readily accept the most basic answers without any additional questions, like the time Tuesday asked why grownup ladies have hair on their hoohoos. All I said was that she’d have it too someday, and she happily dropped the subject and left. The idea of a thong seemed much more disconcerting to her though: 

“Why are you not wearing undies?”

Me, flashing front hip area: “I am wearing undies. See?” 

Tuesday, looking worried: “Why are you not wearing undies…in the back?”

If pantylines and wedgies are such troubling issues to discuss with a three-year-old, I am quite skeerd to describe the logistics of childbirth. 

Six Month Update

I know I’ve been a total slacker in keeping up with this blog. Not only have I been posting less frequently, I feel like I’ve let “you” (whoever YOU are reading this) down in terms of content and quality. HowEVER, I never really set forth any sort of mission statement or specific production goals, so never mind that sentiment. This blog’s very essence is a testament to my state of being at this phase in my life: random, disjointed, roller-coaster-rific. 

Organization was always the hardest part of essay writing for me in school anyway.

I thought I ought to document a little more about my surrogacy “journey” at this mid-pregnancy moment. I’m like 6-ish months along right now and everything looks good. It’s a girl. I’m sure the intended parents are “over the moon” (the customary and apparently only permitted phrase used to indicate happiness or excitement in the surrogate world), but it’s hard to know their specific moon proximity from emails that come every twenty days or so. They’re very busy people. And probably guarded about getting too close, which is fine, and totally understandable, but…it is odd going through a pregnancy with zero excitement. I’m excited on principle—that the pregnancy is going well and all—but obviously there isn’t the anticipation of bringing home a baby or anything. And since I don’t talk on the phone with the parents, there’s not really anyone to squeal excitedly with.

The parents are coming out here next month to attend an ultrasound, have the hospital tour and discuss our birth plan. I’m totally nervous about it because we haven’t seen them since LAST summer when we first met them, and that was in a supervised environment, like having a chaperone on a date. So that will be nice and awkward.

I’m watching Brother Bear 2 right now. Just put the kids down for nap and here I am, still watching the movie. I want to know if Kenai’s girlfriend is gonna turn into a bear, of course. Kids are surprisingly quiet for two little people who were still quite energetic a few minutes ago. It is so freaking windy outside, shaking the house with its fall-y-ness. I just had a bowl of cereal (my third since last night’s midnight breakfast of champions, aka Wheaties). Baby girl is kicking. I want to take a nap, but also need a shower, but also need to work on my painting…I don’t bother throwing exercise in the suggested pile of activities at this point. Same story different day.

I started the first in a series of pregnancy-related body image paintings last month but lost my momentum after I finished the underpainting, as I often do. I want to get one done each month, but self-imposed deadlines are way too easy to ignore. Plus there’s a few Christmas doggie portrait commissions on the horizon, and the nakey exhibit isn’t until next fall. 

At least I can stick it to the little boy about actually making art now. Sort of. 

A little while back, Dirt asked me what a studio was. I told him it was a place where creative people make things: music, art, movies, etc. He then asked, “Are we creative people?” I told him yes. Something to the effect of “You are very smart, imaginative, creative people. You are such good artists too, with your drawing and painting!” Without skipping a beat, he said “You’re not.” A tad taken aback, I asked him why he would say that, and he replied, matter-of-factly, “Well, Mom, you just never draw.” POW! Way to call me out on never doing art, son. But now he has to deal with my nude drawings, even though he told me I need to put a bra on them.

The end of this movie is totally making me cry. Not sure if I can blame it on preggy hormones, but that’s what I’m going with anyway. I called it, by the way. Girlfriend is turning into a bear. Also, I was wrong about at least one kid actually being asleep; Dirt just emerged, naked, eagerly asking me to check out his recent potty deposit. “Is that a huge pile?” (If you must know, the answer was yes.)

Do you know one frustrating way to spend an hour? Trying to take a nap with a little boy who says he just wants to cuddle but then is all wiggly and chatty and when you get stern with him and try to send him back to his room he runs off crying and says you hurt his feelings cuz he just loves you and wants to snuggle you so you end up feeling like a big ol’ meanie and got no actual nap at all. And the pointy-nosed dog keeps poking you with his pointy wet nose cuz he’s needy and shooing him away makes you feel even more like a big ol’ meanie.

Sooooo the husband is on a week-long hunting trip and I’m left to fend for us alone, keeping the kids, dogs, and horses fed. For the human variety, I stocked up on frozen dinners and mac’n’cheese (and cereal, as usual). I am enjoying the fact that the house stays fairly clean in his absence, but I am bored, and feel even more boring than usual in terms of hanging out with the kids. All I can say is, I’d better get a freezer full of delicious elk meat after being abandoned with all the beasts while 6 months pregnant.

“In other news” (as I’m prone to say), I swapped out one part-time art job for another in recent months. The great little local studio where I was working closed because the rural folk couldn’t appreciate its awesomeness, and sadly, the owner couldn’t garner enough business to stay open. So, now I’m working a little closer to Denver teaching painting classes to non-artist boozers. Kidding. But not really. It’s one of those “paint and sip” studios. They also have clay and glass art classes, as well as a whole separate area for kid stuff. It’s a super cool place too, and although the paintings are often overly simplistic and I get tired of reassuring patrons that they’re doing well, the people I work with are great and it’s really pretty fun. After I got over the awkward performance factor and learned how not to fall off the little stage, of course. (Don’t worry, B, surely I’m still plenty awkward to those who know me. Especially when I have to use the silly little microphone.) 

Although I loved the quiet solitude and private lesson setup at the other studio, the more social aspect of this job is excellent—especially considering the lack of adult interaction a prairie-dwelling stay-at-home mom typically gets. And once I’m done being pregnant I can even enjoy a beer while working, which I look forward to. More than you know. 

Speaking of pregnant (yes we’re back to that…see how outstanding my organization is?), you know what I hate? People telling me “You don’t even look pregnant!” I suppose they see it as a compliment of sorts, but seriously. That just means I look fat normally. If this belly does not even look pregnant, then that sucks for me. Cuz it’s plenty round. 

I actually got maternity pants this time around and I have no idea how I got by without them in my other two pregnancies. Really low-waisted and/or unbuttoned pants all the time?? I remember purchasing a single pair of pants at Motherhood (maternity store), and never ever wearing them cuz they were atrocious. Instead of the “full/extended panel” coverage I am currently so fond of, I couldn’t commit and got the half belly type, which is just a wide elastic band at the top of normalish pants ("demi panel"), causing both muffin top and hip puffage. Like putting a rubber band around a marshmallow. But now I’m totally digging the kind that goes all the way up to your armpits. 

The other day I took all our old baby stuff to the consignment store, with sudden OCD flourish. Dooley was cleaning out the garage (after two failed attempts in the past few months, and now we can see the floor and walk through without hopping over an obstacle course of black widow-infested hurdles), which prompted me to drag all things baby out of the basement and whisk them immediately away. I couldn’t even take the time to list them on Craigslist or think for two seconds if we know anyone that wants them. They. Had. To. Go. Now. Thankfully handling it that way didn’t allow for too much sentimentality, but it is a little bittersweet. I think I’ve accepted that two kids is more than I can handle anyway, and I’m anxious to see what I can do with myself once these guys are in school. 

[Incidentally, Dirt started part-time preschool, which he says he hates, but you can’t trust a four-year-old. I just hate having to get up in the morning to take him there. He is equally bad at mornings, and it’s really hard to motivate for something that no one likes. Allegedly. And it’s stupidly only three hours long. He can write his name now, though it doesn’t seem like he’s taking advantage of the socialization factor like we thought he would; in fact, our loud, crazy boy apparently turns into the shyest thing that ever was when he’s at school. Weeeiiirrrrd.]

Anyway, I wondered to myself, as I hauled in the bouncer and changing table and high chair, if the consignment clerks were wondering to themselves why a pregnant person would purge her baby items. Then I thought they probably think that I “don’t even look pregnant”. Those jerks. 


Now excuse me while I go outside and attempt to throw a pile of hay over a fence as tall as me in the cold hurricaney wind and get tons of itchy bits in my bra, then come back inside to clean up poo that has a stench so powerful it is filling the house but I don't want to open the windows because it's cold and windy.

Baseball and Blues Traveler

Taking your family to a baseball game is like the quintessential American activity. Throw in some 4^th of July fireworks and you have Independence Day perfection. EXCEPT…except that my kids are young and impatient and wiggly…except that baseball games are entirely too long and entirely too boring not entirely engaging from the tippy-top of the nosebleed section…except that the aforementioned impatient, wiggly beings want to go to the bathroom or get water or whatever every five freaking minutes and it is an unpleasant undertaking to awkwardly maneuver by all the people from the very middle of the very top row and down the stairs…and back. Except that the fireworks, which were being asked after relentlessly from 6pm on, didn’t start until 10:30pm. Except that by the time we fought the crowds and traffic going out and drove all the way home, it was almost 1am.

I need to take a moment to point out that complaining makes a more entertaining read. While the things I’m discussing are all true, I will say that overall it was a good time. However, talking about what a great experience we had is boring. Negativity is generally funnier to write about, but I’ll try to strike a balance.

To begin, in the spirit of negativity, let’s discuss the crowd. The swarming masses of humanity. 50,445 of them to be precise, since the game was sold out and that’s the capacity of Coors Field. Or 50,200, depending on your innerweb source. Either way, that’s a crapton of people. Incidentally, I always wondered why the Rockies mascot was a triceratops, and just stumbled across its origin on good ol’ Wikipedia: during construction, they unearthed a triceratops skull. Neat. Still don't know why the fork his name is Dinger though.

The Negative: Parking downtown is always a great source or anxiety for myself and my husband, and any lot remotely near the stadium charged upwards of $40 to park. To. Freaking. Park. We were lucky enough to score $25 parking and still felt horribly ripped off. 

The Positive: Getting in to the game was alright though; the crowds were meandering in politely and we got in fairly quickly. Come to find out, only 1/3 of the people actually came at the beginning of the game. (Next time I’m not showing up until at least the 6^th inning either.) 

The Negative: By the time the excruciatingly long four hour game ended and the 50,000-head herd of drunken cattle began spilling out, it was another story. Painstakingly slow itty-bitty steps aaaaalllll the way out, mashed against swaying fans who thought their loud, slurred jokes were much funnier than they actually were. They even caused Dooley, who was sober, to question his own past inebriated charm and hilarity.

The Positive: The kids were wide-eyed but patient, and shockingly well-behaved considering it was several hours past their bedtime. The fireworks show was worth it, too. Dirt grinned through the whole thing, his eyes filled with wonder. Tuesday covered her ears and looked concerned. Or terrified, depending on when you looked at her. “To loud for mine ears!”

The Negative: My only complaint was the cheesy rednecky music they blasted the whole time, which ruined any sense of reverence one might feel while enjoying Independence Day fireworks.

The Positive: They did play Louis Armstrong “Wonderful World” and Ray Charles “America the Beautiful”, which I feel is the appropriate vibe.

Moving on. That was our July 3^rd. Our actual July 4^th didn’t involve the children (*gasp*). The very next night we attended a Blues Traveler concert at Red Rocks Amphitheater by ourselves and got to see even more fireworks. For anyone unfamiliar with this famous venue, it’s super cool and you should go there. Or at least google it. The seats are built into giant rock formations, angled up along the incline of the seats on each side, so you’re pretty much surrounded by them. You can see most of Denver from the higher bits of the stadium, so we could view at least 6 far-off fireworks displays from different parts of the city, plus there was one show right behind the stage.

That’s the positive. See how boring that was to read about? Don’t fret.

The Negative: I, like most regular folk who aren’t necessarily die-hard fans, only knew the songs from Blues Traveler’s hit 1994 album “Four”. It never crossed my mind that they’d even consider playing other songs. Yeah, I’m an idiot. Not only did they exclusively play newish music unfamiliar to myself, they were waaaaayyyyyy more jam-bandy than anticipated. The Blues Traveler I knew had distinct 2 ½- minute songs, with recognizable structure including verse, chorus, bridge, etc., and well-defined endings so you knew when the song was over. What was this endless, formless, lyric-less nonsense? Again, I’m an idiot. Evidently Blues Traveler was “a key part of the re-emerging jam band scene”. I suppose the tie-dyed merchandise and incredibly strong smell of pot emanating from the stadium could have given it away too, but at that point there was no turning back. 

 The Positive: Still a fun experience. Awesome venue. It was windy but there was no rain or lightning. We got a night out by ourselves for once. That guy is incredible on the harmonica. Pretty good music, although I was quite sad not to be able sing along. And oh, the people watching. The fact that concert-goers take it as an excuse to put on outlandish costumes is a mystery to me, but continually entertaining. And the dance moves that accompany the outfits…! If only I could have taken a video to post for you. 

The Negative: We felt super duper old. It was another night neither of us was drinking, so instead we were judging. Naturally. All the “kids” surrounding us seemed waaaayyyy to young to be drinking, and yet, they were. When you find yourself looking at the youths and imagining how you’d feel if your own children turned out that way, you feel old. When you spot the young mother who brought her 2-year-old along and you want to wrap the little person in a blanket and snuggle her because she is obviously exhausted and cold and overwhelmed by the surrounding chaos, you feel old. When you find yourself scolding the young mother in your head, you feel old. When you find yourself wondering how someone’s parents let them out of the house dressed like that, you feel old. Nevermind that I had to pull out three tinsel-rific gray hairs the other day and am really bad at staying up past 1am two nights in a row, come to find out.

The Positive: When the teenager next to you offers to share his weed, suddenly you’re young again. (You politely decline.) He then refers to you as your husband’s “girlfriend” instead of “wife” and that takes a few years off too. 

Mmmmmmm

So that show ended close to midnight and then I ate leftover lemon cake in the car with my hands before we were even out of the parking lot. On the way home Dooley had to stop at Wendy’s for a burger, so I also got a small frosty and some fries, because damn if that isn’t the best midnight combo ever. Obviously we needed sustenance for the hour-long journey home from anywhere; the night before, on the way home from the Rockies game, Dooley had to stop for Arizona iced tea and gummy bears. Go figure. 

 The Positive: Which reminds me, for those of you who are wondering about the surrogacy, I am indeed growing a little gummy bear human myself. The second transfer worked, and at the 8 week ultrasound it really looked just like a gummy bear. I’m presently between 11 and 12 weeks along, and only want to eat cereal. I actually ate an entire box of Special K (the kind with strawberries) in a single day, wolfing it down for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. 

The Negative: I can’t bear the smell of cooking chicken and really don’t care for cooked food in general. My pants are all too tight, mostly because I gained ten pounds just from the meds, but soon I’ll be able to blame it on pregnancy belly instead, which I look forward to. 

The Positive: I got all the way done with all the fertility shots, patches, and pills a couple weeks ago (thank God), and am feeling pretty normal now. Tired, but that’s not unusual anyhow. At least now that I’m off meds I’m not crying at every ridiculous freaking thing. I was getting choked up watching Disney movies, and even this wildlife clip “the Battle at Kruger”, which involves a bunch of lions fighting over a buffalo calf with some crocodiles, but then the buffalo herd comes back chases them away and the calf actually survives. I also teared up in the checkout line in the grocery store when the checker was talking about her grandkids overseas. I was even so moved singing along with “Devil Went Down to Georgia” on the radio, when Johnny beats the devil in a fiddle duel, that I was too choked up to keep singing. Hormones will do crazy things, especially that unnatural amount of hormones. 

So that’s that.