mom, homeschooler, and writer — in that order.
There’s pregnant.
And then there’s very pregnant.
At around 36 weeks, a woman develops abilities that include carrying a significant amount of weight the whole day , washing her toes without actually seeing them, and growing a life inside her.
I may be biased here, but frankly, it’s comparable to being a superhuman.
Just don’t ask her to save the day, because if we’re being completely honest, all she would rather do is sleep, sleep, and sleep.
Good night.
Last Saturday, my heart expanded by six pounds, fourteen ounces. She redefines my life.
via Stuart McLachlan
How amazing are these paper hats by artist Stuart McLachlan? He started his career as an illustrator before shifting his focus on cut paper as art. Although all of his works are breathtaking, I find that the ones he made for children are especially endearing.
I know that the concept is probably a little too elaborate (or is it?), but can you imagine having a children’s party with these as party hats?
P.S. Here I go again. I think I’m falling into the parenting trap of wanting to do too much. My imagination is already going wild, planning the baby’s christening with art installations as the theme. Methinks I should slow down and focus on having the baby first.
Knockers. Jugs. Melons. These breastfeeding videos made me laugh.
How you choose to feed your child is a very personal decision, I think. In my case, I am absolutely committed to exclusively breastfeeding our little one once she is here.
I have had a strained relationship with my boobs for most of my life. When you are a C in a norm of A’s, the teasing can be brutal, especially when I was younger. But now, I have never been prouder or more appreciative of how I am built. (Size doesn’t really matter when it comes to the ability to breastfeed. It’s really more of a psychological reassurance thing for me.)
I doubt very much that I would be referring to them as fun bags though. Awoogas maybe.
via The Glow
There are some days when being pregnant makes me feel so beautiful. A new life is on its way and among the millions and millions of women in the world, my body is the chosen vessel. It makes me feel strong. It makes me feel special. I glow.
Then there are days when I just feel like a penguin, waddling to the bathroom for the umpteenth time.
We only have a few weeks left before we get to meet the Little One! I am now entering that phase when even the sight of little mittens and socks make me swoon. Were they always this cute?
While I spend a large chunk of my day daydreaming about how awesome it will be to finally hold my baby, I can’t help but have moments when I think I am way out of my league. This is a baby we’re talking about. A tiny, tiny human being. Do I have it in me to take care of this child? What if I am an evolutionary outlier and I don’t have maternal instincts? What if I accidentally drop the baby? I mean, what are my qualifications for taking care of anything in the first place? I had a dog and a tomato plant. I don’t even play Farmville because I dislike the commitment.
The other night, I was up until around 3am because I literally had one thought in mind: what if I forget to feed the baby?
It seems silly, really. My friends have assured me that the baby will not let you forget that he or she is hungry. Your eardrums will be reminded when it’s time for sustenance. But still.
I would be absolutely devastated if I scarred my child for life because of things I did or did not do. I’ve been reassuring myself with the thought that I am not the first woman to give birth. I mean, motherhood has been done before. If others can do it then surely, so can I, right?
But then I think about that time when I scarfed down a bag of Cheetos that I’m not supposed to have. Or that time when I delayed seeing my doctor by five days. Or that time when I forgot to drink my prenatal vitamins. The baby isn’t even here yet and I’m already letting her down.
Everyone has been telling me that all mothers, especially first-timers, experience some level of anxiety. “You’re going to be fine”, they say. My husband, so soothing and supportive, tells me that motherhood is not about doing things perfectly. The baby just needs to be loved.
That’s probably the most reassuring thing ever, because I’m pretty sure perfection is out of the equation. But I can do love. Yes, I think I’ll be able to do that quite well.
Baby kicks woke me up last night so I tried to keep myself occupied while I waited to feel sleepy again. As I was puttering around the room, I found myself thinking about the things I want to teach my child. Every concept, from the alphabet to dating, is suddenly so fresh and exciting because I get to see them from a different perspective. Everything I know, I will try to pass on to her (or him) and it will be interpreted and lived out, as my child grows up and starts making decisions.
Funnily enough, one of the first thoughts I had is that I want to teach my child to not be a music snob.
So Little One, when you are old enough to develop your own tastes in music, do not be turned off by what’s old or unpopular. In the same way, don’t think that just because something is current, it is no good. Listen and decide for yourself. Pay attention to the lyrics. You might miss out on something beautiful if you confine yourself when it comes to music. Even songs that are considered corny and old-timey can move you to tears if you give it a chance.
Having said that, think twice before liking any song with the word “badonkadonk” in the lyrics.
After months of being told that my emotions will probably get the better of me while I’m pregnant, it finally happened. I ended up having an uncontrollable bout of weeping last night.
My husband, looking so concerned, kept on asking me if there was anything I was upset about. I couldn’t really articulate what I was feeling. There was no emotion that stood out — it a jumble of mild insecurity, feeling left out or left behind, and anxiousness. Now, these are emotions that I pretty much live with on a daily basis, even before I got pregnant. I guess the hormonal changes magnified them? I’m not sure. Mostly, I was crying because I felt like crying. It was so weird, I could not stop. It was almost like I was leaking tears. My husband just held me while I simply dissolved.
After about five minutes of sobbing, the tears just stopped. Just like that, I felt okay. It was, to say the least, a baffling experience.
For all those who have gone through pregnancy, is this normal? With or without a baby, have you ever felt sad for no apparent reason?
Is it just me or did the world suddenly take ownership of my belly when I became pregnant?
I think that everyone loves a pregnant lady. For the most part, pregnancy is an enjoyable experience, especially since it offsets my moody disposition. But, there is a chunk in the population that feels that my blossoming belly is an invitation to:
a. Touch/rub/and in one disturbing moment kiss my stomach
b. Offer unsolicited advice about motherhood and its woes. Extra frown points if the person giving the advice isn’t even a parent.
c. Tell graphic stories of their childbirth and pregnancy experience, if already a mother*
d. Tell graphic stories of their friends’ or family member’s childbirth and pregnancy experience, if not a mother
e. Give really ominous advice.**
d. Comment on the size of my boobs.
It is this part that is not as pleasant. In my heart of hearts, I know that these people mean well and I try to appreciate the sentiment behind it all. At the very least, I haven’t snapped at anyone yet. It’s just that I’m starting to feel like the norms of society no longer apply to me. I mean, last time I checked it is still rude to say to stare at someone’s chest and loudly exclaim that they are enormous.
So universe, please hear my plea. Try to be a bit more sensitive. If you touch us, do we not crave for personal space? If you describe the color of your private parts during labor, do we not shudder and think, “I didn’t need to know that.”?
Pregnant ladies are people too. Say it with me — pregnant ladies are people too.
* I had the experience of meeting a lady for the first time and she launched into a full blown account of the urinary tract infection she went through during her pregnancy. She actually described the condition and appearance of her pee. Whatever happened to “So, where do you work?”
**In the early stages of my pregnancy, I had one person come up to me and say that I will probably miscarry because of my work. Gee, thanks. A first time mom really needed to hear that.
I admit that writing down that title makes me want to knock on wood. I don’t want to jinx it or dare the nausea into coming back. It was not a pretty time.
First thing I learned about pregnancy is this: the movies lie to you. Morning sickness does not involve the lead character emerging from the bathroom primly wiping her mouth after making a few gagging noises behind a closed door. The nausea can hit you anytime, anywhere — in the restroom of Makati Shangri-La Hotel (in the middle of the meeting), the streets of Salcedo Village, Makati (while stuck in traffic), the corner parking lot at Emerald Avenue (in full view of co-parkers) — You get the picture.
For the past two months or so, I have neglected almost all activities except the absolutely necessary ones such as bathing and work deadlines. I didn’t even get reprieves at night. Apparently, morning sickness chooses no time. It lasts literally, the whole day. The entire time, I felt like I was staring at this:
Of course, the picturesque scene is a symbolism for images I want to spare you.
I should say that the entire time I was feeling sick and being roused from my sleep by dreams of rocking boats or moving cars, it was very hard to complain. I may have uttered a whimper or so, but I didn’t mean it. Really. It’s hard to see the bad side of it when the little one is saying hello.*
*My husband knew exactly what to say to make me feel better. Every time I would get dizzy or get sick, he would say that it was the baby’s way of communicating with us. He would even imitate the baby, curl up his arms, and say “I love you, Mommy”.
Hit or Missus 