Things I Don’t Like About Pregnancy

Sara (well, DUH!): I’ve been pretty lucky so far; I’ve had a relatively easy pregnancy. I know, I still have three months to go, but I still think I’ve been pretty lucky. Didn’t have serious, spend-all-day-hovering-around-the-toilet-waiting-for-the-next-explosion-of-morning-sickness, haven’t had nose bleeds, haven’t had bowel issues. So not bad, right? Until last night. Apparently, leg cramps at night can be a side effect/symptom of pregnancy. Something to do with the increased amount of blood that pregnancy creates, and then potential decreased blood flow while lying down.

Yeah, not fun. It happened at 5:30am. Sound asleep enjoying my dreams. Not sure what triggered it-perhaps I dared to attempt a stretch. All I know was it was like someone was ripping my left calf-muscle to shreds. I shot upright and immediately began yelling Peter’s name over and over. I was rewarded with a very panicked “What! WHAT!!!” So I’m in pain, Peter’s probably thinking I’m in early labor* and meanwhile, my calf is a massive knot, so much so that my foot has contorted so completely it now looks like a Barbie foot. You know, Barbie’s permanent toe-point – like she’s some crazy ballerina.

He attempted to rub it but that just hurt even more. I tried to stand up, but a Barbie foot does not allow one to stand upright (I now have much more sympathy for my childhood friend). I was practically whimpering in pain and trying to balance on one good leg. Eventually it loosened up enough that I could hobble around the room. Walk it out, just walk it out. And I eventually did manage another 25 minutes of sleep; not very good sleep, but something. But the remainder of the day—that stupid calf muscle has been soooo sore. Ought to be fun walking 2 miles tomorrow.

One word. Ouch.

*So, it turns out Peter did think I was going into labor. I’m writhing in pain and turns out he’s relieved. After the initial shock, he definitely got the better end of that deal. [Peter Note: I did note, in my previous post, that “paybacks are a bitch,” right? I don’t yet know the half of it, do I?]

The First of the Lasts

Peter: In case you were wondering, the panic attacks continue. Whatever groovy, mind-altering substances Sara will be treated to in the delivery room, they had better hook me up with some. I mean, Sara works for our State government, which means we have that “Cadillac” health insurance. So, I’m sure they can at least sort me out with 20 mg of Valium. Hell, I’ll even take its generic equivalent.

This past weekend, Sara and I took what would be our final “vacation” as non-parents*. Ignoring any advice to the contrary from her mother-in-law (which is what I suppose you do with a mother-in-law, even though mine is AWESOME…and may well be reading this), Sara drove out of a snowbound Trenton to meet me in Chapel Hill, NC, where I was wrapping up a three-day business trip.

My travels occasionally take me to big university towns, and I generally despise them all. It’s probably just jealousy, as I received my post-secondary education at a smaller school that was a whopping 40 miles from home and competed in NCAA Division III athletics. So, it was a welcome treat, to not have to spend another night alone in that town of powder blue-clad, middle-aged frat boys.

We enjoyed a fantastic Turkish dinner on Franklin Street, and called it a night. The next morning, we headed up to Richmond, VA, which would be our jumping-off point for visits to the Museum of the Confederacy, the Edgar Allan Poe Museum, and the wonders of Colonial Williamsburg. I learned that:

· Richmond has come a long way since I’d last traveled there on business, some 15 years ago. Definitely not a horrible city.
· Jefferson Davis was an awesome, misunderstood Renaissance Man.
· There are striking parallels between “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell” and the Civil War-era debate over whether blacks were capable of becoming decent soldiers.
· Millions of miles of cheesy, unwatchable celluloid have exploited the legacy of Edgar Allan Poe over the years.
· There are things to do in Williamsburg that do not involve roller coasters and beer.

From Richmond, we headed out toward Hampton Roads, for my first ever trip on the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel. That was groovy. This was followed by what seemed like a five hour trek up the Delmarva Peninsula, which went a little something like this: poultry confinement facility, vacant storefront, church, church, vacant storefront, church, poultry confinement facility, church, poultry confinement facility. Repeat.

We eventually made Ocean City, MD, and enjoyed a long walk on a boardwalk that was desolate, even by winter-at-the-shore standards. Dinner was a ridiculous orgy of crab meat, enjoyed through a haze of martini and chardonnay.

Monday morning, we packed up fifty pounds of dirty clothes and pointed the car northward. I’d never taken the Cape May Lewes Ferry before. It was a lot of fun, until I realized the travel was wearing on me, and remarked to no one in particular “Ya know, this is neat and all, but had we instead just driven through Delaware, we’d be home by now.” Following the 80-minute crossing, the drive home from Cape May was definitely not the highlight of the weekend.

Why did I just bore you with the details of our weekend getaway? Because it will never happen again. Not like that. No figuring the whole mess out a mere ten days in advance and just Getting Away. As much as I’m looking forward the next chapter in our life, it would be dishonest of me not to admit that I found the whole trip bittersweet, in that way.

Thus went the first notable “last” I experienced, as we hurtle toward the blessed day that will change our life forever, and in the best way imaginable. More “lasts” are sure to follow, as I go through the upcoming weeks and months, doing heretofore mundane things that I take for granted.

You will be able to read about them here, because I am a sadist at heart.

*Actually, let’s get real for a minute: for all practical purposes, Sara already IS a parent, I reminded myself, as she watched me consume copious amounts of craft beers, fine wines and distilled spirits while she “enjoyed” her cranberry & club soda cocktails. I’m sure the paybacks will be a bitch.

Panic Attacks at 0 cm

Peter: As I’ve remarked on several recent occasions, I know the due date must be fast approaching, because the panic attacks are coming closer and closer together. And I don’t even have to push the thing out of my body! This, my friends, is why men don’t get pregnant.

I will turn 40 on June 17 (a mere three weeks beyond our projected due date), and I sometimes wonder exactly what I was thinking, waiting until this relatively advanced age to get “in a family way.” To be honest, had I gone this route ten years ago, I’d be paying alimony and child support while renting a roach-infested apartment above a bowling alley or strip club, in the final approach path for a major international airport, so I guess I shouldn’t complain. Furthermore, I should consider myself lucky that Ms. Right came along in the second half of my thirties, rather than ten years later, or (gasp!) not at all.

In these modern times, however, I suppose I’m not all that much of a freak. Some of my contemporaries are packing their kids off to college, while others are still getting the hang of changing feces- and urine-fouled disposable undergarments. Their childrens’, not their own. As far as I know. These true blue friends will undoubtedly provide a shoulder to lean on, and later laugh a maniacal laugh (behind my back, of course – they’re polite, if anything) at just how far in over my head I’ve gotten myself.

Yes, yes, yes, you all tell me. I will figure it all out. I will be a GREAT father. Yes, and the cop on last night’s rerun of “Dateline NBC: To Catch a Predator” told the would-be statutory rapist “You have nothing to be afraid of.” So, just allow me my panic attacks, OK?