It’s been a while, readers.
7 weeks. That’s how long it’s been since I told you that I almost lost my son. Good news is that he’s doing amazing, I’m doing amazing, and we’re still looking to be on track for our due date. Bad news is now I have gestational diabetes (but that’s not what this post is about).
Baby Pixie has doubled in size since we last had him scanned. He’s measuring about a week big, which is pretty decent. Means we’ll have a chunky boy, but hopefully not too chunky. Getting my diet in order again will probably slow down his growth as well.
During my time of bed rest, I have been researching baby things (obviously). I plan on breastfeeding, and I just got a pump. Fun fact: Looking up breastfeeding devices and items makes you feel like a dairy cow. Not even joking. It is hilarious, though. I am SEVERLY disappointed in the lack of cow print maternity bras.
It is overwhelming. I had to measure my nipples to find out a good size for the pump cones. When I did that, I realized I will be hooking myself up to a machine to pull milk out of my tits to freeze for future consumption by my child. Wouldn’t be so much of a problem if I was a stay at home mom, I think. I will have to do this at WORK. That just seems…demammarizing. That’s not even a word, but that’s how I feel. It feels like it will be an embarrassment and make me less of a woman to breastfeed at work. I know it’s totally something natural and what I should be doing to help my child’s health.
I overthink a lot of things…
Looking for a day care for your unborn child is also really weird. And expensive. I’ll be making enough when I go back to work (if I still have a position after I have the boy), but it’s a little jaunting to see those prices. Luckily, it’s not too much more expensive to send my boy to a Montessori school (which is my main goal).
Most of the other stuff is super boring. Vulvar varicosities and hemorrhoids; occasional sore boobs; yeast infections… All normal things that no one really talks about this late in pregnancy. I am perfectly happy talking to people about it, though. When talking to other mothers, it’s like TMI doesn’t even fucking matter. I love it. Nothing is too gruesome for these ladies. Can’t wait to be able to hand off my advice, though. PIXIE OUT.