Shannon Phillips

So, back when I had morning sickness nearly every day, the few times I actually threw up were right after taking my daily prenatal vitamin.  I soon learned not to take the vitamin in the morning, and not on an empty stomach.

But lately my stomach has been peachy, so much so that this morning I felt surely I would be safe in taking the vitamin early!  (I forgot it yesterday, and wanted to take it while I was thinking of it.)  Sure enough, twenty minutes later, I was in the work toilet barfing my guts up.

And that’s my story.

I definitely have a bulging tummy now, but it’s disguised by my natural, ahem, ample curves: I don’t think the average person on the street realizes I’m preggo.

My baby books say the kidlet is five inches long, which sounds like not a lot, but if you measure it out and stare at it, it *looks* like a lot of baby to have sharing space with one’s intestines.

I’ve gained six and half pounds, which is less than what the baby books say I should have gained at this point (ten to thirteen pounds is the official benchmark), but I think this is OK, as women who were overweight at the beginning of pregnancy are recommended to gain less in total.  I’m not doing anything stupid like dieting; I’m eating what I want, when I want.  So far there’s no real food cravings, but I do find that fruits and veggies are looking unusually good, and big chunks of meat are just completely unappetizing.

Sam pointed out that I’m nearly halfway through pregnancy, a fact I find kind of mindblowing.

So I was dismayed to learn in one of my baby books that apparently I’m not allowed to lie flat on my back anymore, as it reduces blood supply to both me and the baby.  Since I also can’t lie on my stomach (boobs too sore, even if the belly weren’t a logistical problem), this means I’m relegated to tossing from side to side for the duration of pregnancy.  Boo!

I felt the baby move for the first time last weekend! It wasn’t a kick, really more of a …flutter. I told my friend Grant and he says he’s heard many women refer to the baby’s first movements as being “like a goldfish in a bowl.” I have to admit that’s pretty apt description.

Just back from the doctor’s office—the highlight this time was hearing Baby’s heartbeat on doppler: a distinct, speedy thrumming, set against the slower tidal rhythm of my own body.

The lowlight was getting stuck with needles. Again. Every time I see the doctor they want to draw more blood for some test or another. I think I’ve had about a dozen vials taken so far. The blood drawing process itself has established a familiar pattern: I sit down in the little booth. A smiling, fresh-faced young person introduces themselves as a student phlebotomist, and asks if I mind them drawing my blood. I tell them I don’t mind, but I warn them that everybody has trouble finding my veins, and it might be best just to hand me off to the senior person on staff.

They tie the rubber strap around my arm and start tapping my elbow. They make small talk, asking about my weekend plans and so forth. I clench my fist while I answer. They are very very nice, but on the vein front nothing is happening. The nice young person says “hmm”, unwraps the tourniquet, and tries it on the other arm. We repeat the process. They tell me my veins are tiny and refusing to protrude. I tell them I’ve heard this before.

If the nice young person is particularly energetic, they will proceed to stick me with needles, sometimes two or three times before giving up. Sometimes they move to the other elbow, or even my hands. It doesn’t work. Today I was lucky and the nice young person gave up without even trying. Then the nice young person goes and gets the little old asian lady who knows what she’s doing. I don’t know why it’s always a little old asian lady, but I’ve been through this rigmarole several times at two different lab sites, and apparently in San Francisco it’s always a little old asian lady. Today her name was Soong. She doesn’t waste any time with chit chat, just swabs me down and slides the needle in, effortlessly, painlessly. In a few seconds we’re done.

Next time I think I’m going to insist on seeing Soong, or whoever the Soong-equivalent on staff happens to be, from the get go.

No morning sickness for the past two days! I think I’m cured. And I’m typing this at nine forty seven at night, which means the fatigue has gotten better too.

My baby books say that Junior is now the size of a peach. My waistline has expanded accordingly in the past two weeks—only one pair of pants still fit. My mom (“Nanita” to you, Junior) tells me that a package of maternity clothing is on its way. So that’s totally exciting!

Salon recently ran an extremely affecting story from a young Jewish/Protestant couple struggling with the question of whether or not to circumcise their son. The couple in the article suffers an unbelievable amount of pressure from their families, and reading their story, I was once again struck with gratitude for our extremely supportive families.

Circumcision is a vexed question, though, even for Sam and me, who don’t have the cultural/religious dimension to deal with. On the one hand, if Junior does end up being of the male persuasion, maybe it would be better for him to “look like Daddy”. And there do seem to be some health benefits to circumcision.

On the other hand, I find myself swayed by the logic Dan Savage put forward in his (excellent) book, The Kid. Botched circumcisions are rare, but they happen, and why take the risk of castrating your child in a medically unnecessary procedure?

So, I think we’re leaning against circumcision.

The nausea is definitely getting better, but I’ve been experiencing two other symptoms more acutely: headaches and fatigue.  The fatigue especially is making me whiny.  For the past two nights I have literally gone to bed as soon as I get home.  I take off my shoes, brush my teeth, and fall asleep.  Nina says I should get one of those buttons: “I May Look Like I’m Not Doing Anything, But On A Cellular Level I’m Really Quite Busy.”

All the symptoms will supposedly get better when I graduate into the second trimester, which is either in a few days or a couple of weeks, depending on how you count.  (Doctors count pregnancy from the last missed period, which puts me into the twelfth week, even though it’s only been ten since conception.)

So, Nina and I laughed about people who coo over ultrasound pictures, but, well, the doctor gave us one and I thought my folks might be interested.

You can see the head pretty clearly, and the arms sticking out on either side.  It looks like you can see legs too, but the doctor said that could just as easily be part of the umbilical cord.  Anyway, there definitely is a little baby-shaped critter in there.  Pretty trippy.

On our third official “date” (as opposed to all the hanging-out we’d done in the years we were “just friends”), Sam asked me what I was thinking, and I answered: “Okay, well, don’t freak out, but I’m imagining our wedding. You have to understand, this is just something that girls do. It doesn’t mean anything, except that if you’re with some guy and you can’t even picture walking down the aisle with him, that’s maybe a bad sign. So. I’m picturing it.”

Sam nodded calmly, and that was that. Except that the next time I saw him, he had drawn up a guest list.

Shortly after that, we drafted the 32-Year-Plan. The Plan called for a year of dating, a year of engagement, and the first baby nine months after marriage, in Year 3. We planned for three children all together, and figured that in 32 years the last of them would be graduating from college. To plan any further out would, we felt, be getting ahead of ourselves.

We shacked up a month later, and Sam got me a ring not long after that, but we made the engagement extra-long to compensate, with the result that it’s now Year 3 and Baby #1 is arriving right on schedule.

We named all the children as part of the Plan. The first boy will be Robert Samuel, nicknamed “Robin” for as long as he’ll put up with it. The first girl will be Rosaura Gayle (or possibly spelled “Gale”). The third child (the Plan does not allow for three boys or three girls) will be either Francisco or Francesca Amato. It’s fun to say, in an exaggerated Italian accent, “Fran-SEES-ko! A-MAH-to!” Then you drop the accent and add “…Phillips.”

The moral of the story is, it’s good to have a plan.