Babymoon

Ever since we officially started dating, Drew and I have tried to keep a tradition of taking a trip on Labor Day Weekend to celebrate our anniversary as a couple.  Since this fell conveniently in the middle of my second trimester, it seemed the perfect time to explore San Francisco while we wait for the baby to come, and while I can still walk all over a city and its bridges and redwood forests.

Being the shutterbugs that we are, we equipped ourselves with cameras and toured the City by the Bay for the first time.  Here's a short video of some of our favorite highlights:

While at Fisherman's Warf, Drew and I stumbled on an arcade full of vintage games dating back as far as the 1930's.  It was one of my favorite parts of our trip:

We've never been big on structured tours or heavy itineraries when it comes to our Labor Day Weekend trips.  I love the simplicity of exploring a new place without knowing what to expect around the corner.  A camera, a little cash, and comfortable shoes are all we need.

Cravings

If I were a restaurant owner, I'd target one demographic:  pregnant women.  I think if all marketing campaigns were geared toward pregnant women, they would be wildly successful. Why?  Because right now I will pretty much eat anything I see, or picture in my mind.  I see a Big Mac commercial, I'm in the car on my way to McDonald's faster than you can suggest a healthy banana or protein bar for a snack instead.  That's right, snack.   

In my "pre-pregnant" or "natural" state, I have a taste for seafood and Mediterranean food more than any other.  Drew has always been the meat and potatoes guy.  But now, I want nothing more than to ditch fish and eat burgers and steak all day long.  Baby Bautista definitely has the Bautista stomach, and as the little one is poised to triple in weight this month, I'm hungrier than I've ever been in my life.  In addition, it seems once I've got my mind on eating something in particular, I can't think of anything else until I do.

One night, Drew and I tried the Friday night food truck court, and discovered a truck called "Liberty Biscuits" that sells nothing but variations of biscuits and gravy.  I'd only eaten biscuits and gravy once before, when I first moved to Florida, but after trying it from this food truck with a fried egg on top, I was hooked.  We set out the next week again to get just that, but this time when we arrived the truck driver or truck chef, (I guess he does both) stuck his head out of the window and said four of the saddest words I'd heard in a long time- "Sorry, we're all out."

Poor Drew must have had a flashback to that day in Jason's Deli.  We looked around at the other trucks, but I knew none could compete with biscuits and gravy.  Then, we remembered  this restaurant down the street:

Surely they would have the best biscuits and gravy in the world with a name like that! We were pleasantly surprised to see they were open (for 15 more minutes) but unpleasantly surprised to find that they were only open for a Friday Fish Fry Dinner special. I thought all hope was lost when Drew and I walked over to the hostess to let her know we were planning to leave and come back for breakfast, and then Drew blurted out, "She's pregnant and really wants biscuits and gravy."  The hostess lit up and started reminiscing about her pregnancy cravings when she was carrying her daughter.  She ran in the back and convinced the cook to revive some biscuits and gravy for me!  It was delicious.

 

Nothing like finding some good old Southern hospitality and good old Southern biscuits and gravy in the heart of Arizona.

Getting Bigger

Baby Bautista is about the size of an avocado now, and though I only put on about 4lbs during the first trimester, I should start gaining a pound a week.  The hardest part will be resisting the urge to gain that weight in ice cream and cookies.

I started noticing a tighter waistband a couple of weeks ago, and I just figured my pants were shrinking and there must be something wrong with our dryer.  Eventually I admitted it probably wasn't an appliance issue, and adjusted my wardrobe accordingly.  However, I was surprised at my own reaction to my perfectly understandable changing shape.  I don't know if it's an engrained pressure from society or my own insecurity, or the years I spent on television, or just the fact that I've always pretty much stayed the same and have been lucky enough to never struggle with my weight.  Whatever the reason, the first day I failed at buttoning my pants, I told Drew I felt like a manatee.  Cue the waterworks.

I found myself digging through my closet for clothes that covered the fact that I was changing.  I've been wearing higher waistlines, looser shirts, and staring at the box of maternity wear that doesn't yet fit quite right. Too big to be comfortable in normal clothes, and too small for belly bands and pregnancy tops, for the past few weeks I sported outfits and an expression that said, "Please don't think I'm getting fat.  I'm just pregnant."

It's upsetting to me that thought even crossed my mind, but I know there are probably multiple reasons for this gut feeling about my growing gut, and I'm probably not alone.  The fact I have to remember is this: I'm going to get a whole lot bigger... but my big belly means a healthy baby.  And that, is beautiful.

Here I am with a small but proud bump today, at 16 weeks:

The Bad Patient

I'll admit, I'm not a very good patient.  At twelve, I sat in a dentist's chair crying and shaking at the sight of a Novocain needle, and my dentist actually told me I was his worst patient.  At 20, it took four nurses to take my blood.  I fear needles, I dislike doctors, and I hate almost everything about hospitals.  It's one of the reasons Drew and I chose a midwife practice for this baby adventure.  But despite my efforts to be low-maintenance, I'm afraid this week I may have managed to secure my position as "that patient."  Let's just say I probably won't be getting any of the midwives' cell phone numbers.

It all started Monday afternoon, when I opened my car door to load some video equipment into my Prius, and a crazy chemical smell spilled out.  I searched for the source, but could only find an old plastic air freshener.  Perhaps it melted?  I tossed it, rolled my windows down, and continued on.

The next morning at a video shoot with a congressman, I unloaded the gear and moved an old car emergency kit that had been in my car for years, but this time it was soaking wet.  I opened it up, and a can of "fix-a-flat" tire sealer had exploded from the heat.  That must have been the smell.  At the time, I didn't think much of it.  I tossed it, rolled my windows down, and continued on.

Later that day, however, I started thinking.  I consulted Drew and we decided to call a nurse's hotline just in case there was any cause for concern from the possibility of inhaling chemicals in my car. The stranger on the other end of the line asked a couple questions about symptoms I didn't have, but what she said next was what really flipped me out.  In a grave tone she responded, "Well, there's nothing you can do about it now."  

For some reason, I envisioned her taking off her surgery cap and mask like they do on TV , hanging her head and walking away, triggering some Indie music montage.  I know nurses probably don't wear surgery masks while answering a hotline, but in my head this one did.  I googled the product and the warning read, "Inhalation may cause sudden death.  Do not puncture can.  Do not store in heat above 120 degrees." 

My God, I did all of those things!  What else could I do next but run into a restroom at work and panic, calling an emergency bathroom stall meeting with my boss?

She came in and asked what happened, so I just started verbally retracing my steps.  Keep in mind my boss knew nothing about the reason I was upset, and it was taking me a bit longer than expected to get to the point.  I described the chemical smell. I described the emergency kit. I told her I put it in the trash can outside the congressman's office.  Her expression immediately changed to match my panic.

"Wait, does the congressman think you planted a bomb?" she interjected.   

After I cleared up the confusion and my boss admitted to watching too many episodes of Scandal, she started making calls to help.  I had called my midwife's office but they could only fit me in for a precautionary check-up the next day. Recognizing my stress level and concern, my boss urged me to try again.  I called back, pleading.  They told me if I could get there in the next 15 minutes they could squeeze me in.  Using my beltway driving experience, I made it just in time to run to the reception desk with my phone in hand, pointing at the clock and proclaiming, "one minute to spare!"  

"Head on back," said the receptionist, hardly looking up from her computer.  

A medical assistant checked my baby's heartbeat with her handheld doppler and as I heard the familiar sound at 152 beats per minute, my whole body relaxed.  Everything is fine.  One of the midwives I hadn't met before walked in for the follow-up and after I introduced myself saying, "I promise I'm not crazy," she said the most comforting words I'd heard all day:

"I would have done the exact same thing."

I'm 15 weeks pregnant today.  I can tell I'm growing but I can't feel the baby yet, and it's scary when you can't tell what's going on inside.  During this time, there are a few key things that really help:

1. The most awesome boss in the world.  Who else would meet you in a bathroom and actually encourage you to leave work and see a doctor for peace of mind? Only a rockstar with two young kids at home who shares her trendy maternity wardrobe.

2. An understanding and supportive husband.  He listened and endorsed my every decision, volunteering to pick up my car and get it detailed.

3. A medical practice that's a perfect fit.  In the middle of a busy schedule they took the time to ease my fears and didn't even blame me for being a worrying mom.

It was my first worrying mom moment.  I picture Baby Bautista in there, a cute little fetus, rolling it's eyes.

Emotional Breakdowns

We've all seen the stereotypical pregnancy-hormone-induced dramatic episodes depicted in Hollywood or on television.  The kind where a woman hears a sad song on the radio and bursts into tears, or screams at her husband for buying the wrong kind of potato chips to feed her midnight craving. Up until now, they made me laugh.  They made me think, "No one is that crazy.  Surely I would never be so irrational." Oh, how I stand corrected.

The Beginning:

It started when my nausea was in full swing (which is over now, thank God!) and I could hardly look at any food without wanting to run to the nearest bathroom. Every evening, my loving husband would come home and say hesitantly, "what do you want to eat?  We'll go wherever you want."  One day, I just knew I wanted a muffaleta from Jason's Deli. But alas, when we arrived I looked around at the people eating their sandwiches and read the descriptions on the menu and could think of nothing I wanted more than to yarf on every plate in the restaurant.  Drew must have seen this on my face because he quickly said, "We don't have to stay, we haven't ordered yet." 

I nodded and hung my head and we exited the premises.  As soon as we got into the car in the parking lot, I let loose.  For some reason it was a matter of pride for me to be able to stuff down the muffaletta  I had decided upon earlier, but I had failed. I cried until I started laughing at the ridiculousness of crying over a sandwich. This just further confused poor Drew, who was sitting in the driver's seat struggling for a solution and began to grasp at straws. "Are we sad? Happy? Is this funny? Should I be crying or laughing? I'll take you wherever you want to go."

When my brief moment of insanity stopped, we went to KFC where I ate a side of mashed potatoes and a side of mac and cheese.  It was delicious.

At the time, I was hoping that was it.  I'd gotten all of my emotional mess out in one embarrassing episode and from then on it would be smooth sailing.  But two weeks later, I really one-upped myself.

The Beginning of the End:

I should've seen it coming that Wednesday morning as I drove to work, scanning for a song on the radio.  I couldn't find anything I liked so I let a country song play out. The chorus mentioned "Tupelo honey," and made me recall a news story I did in Florida with a beekeeper who made Tupelo honey. All of the sudden I realized there were tears in my eyes.  "That was weird," I thought, and I walked into the office.

Later that day, I was tasked with finding a conference room for some visiting producers.  Seems like a pretty ordinary, menial task, right?  Wrong.  At the time, it was daunting and overwhelming.  There are so many conference rooms to choose from! I needed to find one that's big!  And Dark! That's when I felt the transformation happening.  Angry and frustrated, my body began to expand. My muscles bulged and my veins popped out.  My skin darkened into a murky shade of green.  I ripped off my shirt, and stormed down the hallway.  I believe someone snapped a photo of the creature I'd become: 

Okay, maybe it wasn't that dramatic, but it sure felt like it. As I ran to a co-worker to ask for help, she could sense the irrational level of stress rising in me.  We checked out a conference room together and she was walking me back to my office (which I share with 2 other people) as I started to return to my natural state, and as we entered the room she said, "you know, I think you might be having one of those pregnancy hormonal moments."  Then, she made the mistake of hugging me.  When I'm upset, a hug is like gasoline on a fire. Her nice gesture resulted in the most embarrassing and involuntary verbal explosion I've ever uttered in public: 

 "My uterus is the size of a grapefruit and I threw up in the shower this morning... FOR THE THIRD TIME!" 

Then came the tears.  Luckily, my coworkers are all my friends and they responded with a resounding, "awww," each one offering either a piece of food or a tissue.  The flood gates had opened. I spent my lunch break crying into a bowl of pasta for a half hour for absolutely no reason.  I gave my husband permission to have me committed for the next 6 months.

That bad day got worse when my car broke down a couple of hours later. Remarkably, a co-worker who had earlier witnessed the Bruce Banner to Incredible Hulk transformation came to my rescue immediately.  Perhaps it was out of fear that the beast would unleash again and take down the entire city of Phoenix. 

Aside from getting into her car and immediately chugging the rest of her bottle of water instead of my own by accident, I handled the car trouble pretty well, with minimal tears.  I guess the situation just didn't seem as dire as eating a bowl of pasta.

The End... or most likely to be continued

When I got home from work, I googled "public pregnancy breakdowns" just to see if anyone else's story could make me feel a little more sane or at least give my misery and embarrassment the company it deserved.  I got the biggest laugh from a story about a woman whose husband said hello to a waitress in a restaurant and she responded by throwing a plate of cheese and storming out, leaving him to pay.

What I find most interesting about any crying I've done lately (which I guess thankfully has only been on a few occasions,) is that even at the time I know it's irrational, but I just can't stop.  Drew has shown incredible patience during this time, and I appreciate that he didn't take me up on my offer to be committed.

While I hope that the episodes described in this blog are the only breakdowns I will have worth mentioning, I know I've still got at least  6 months of hormonal racquetball happening in my body, so that may not be the case.

So please, keep an understanding mind if you see me throwing cheese.