Late Third Trimester Exercise

Week 35

Monday: Prenatal Yoga

Tuesday: Hiking by our old house. About 3 miles round trip, 45 minute hike, nice view at the top. One of my favorites for a quick hike because of the short distance (didn’t even have to pee once on the hike!) and decent elevation gain.

Wednesday: Weights. Triceps dips, bridge lifts, squats with 20 pound weights, wall sits, low squat jumps.

Friday: Aspired to walk the stairs at the beach, but did not get very far. I only made it 5 times because I was tired and my legs are starting to hit my belly when I take two stairs at a time which is uncomfortable and annoying as fuck.

Weekend: Really tired, did nothing. Walked around Comicon on Saturday to people watch and go to bars for a few hours (and yell at an anti-abortion protester to shut the fuck up) and that was too much excitement for me.

Week 36

Monday: Prenatal Yoga

Tuesday: 3 hill sprints, 2 sets of 13 squat jumps, 25 regular squats

Wednesday: Triceps dips, squats with weights, wall sitting, bridge lifts.

Weekend: Does lounging around the pool in the desert or going clubbing count for anything? Probably not. On Sunday we walked up a hill near our house 3 times, but that wasn’t too intense and didn’t really counter the weekend sloth.

???

As I near the end of pregnancy, I feel the old doubts of having children surfacing. I’ve spent the last several months treating this entire experience like an important project, with plans, research, classes, books, etc., so I thought I’d resolved such anxieties, but I suppose that is not the case after all. One would think the last 7 months of preparation would have served as a gradual transition, but it seems the impending due date only highlights the severity and certainty of this decision.

I used to be utterly freaked out by the idea of giving birth; that’s still somewhat the case but infinitely overshadowed by the fear that I won’t enjoy being a mother. I’ve had to make many lifestyle changes and compromises since December 23, 2016 but of course none of it can compare to what lies ahead. It seems like having to rebuild an entire life from scratch (mine).

I think my husband and I have built a special life together. I don’t mean “special” in the sense that we’re particularly unique, interesting, or superior compared to others, but 12 years together necessarily results in something irreplaceable and I could easily live another 12 years like this, or the rest of my life.

We met on a rainy night in February painted by the haze of alcohol. The friend who introduced us accidentally set something on fire at a party, after which we quickly made our departure, and I was so drunk I spelled my own name wrong when I entered it into my husband’s cell phone. We didn’t start dating until a year and a half later, because only Fools Rush In.

When I first moved in with him, the living arrangements could best be described as a small fraternity house nestled in the heart of suburbia, inhabited by gamblers and students who drank too much, joined by unruly dogs, and then our equally recalcitrant cat.

During my first year of law school, my husband quit his engineering job and became a professional poker player, so the summer after my first year, we leased our room in the house, and left the country for two and a half months. We rented an apartment in the suburbs of Barcelona, and he funded our trip with poker while I promised to undertake some domestic tasks while he worked. The “tasks” were an adventure in and of themselves, as I enjoyed every moment of Barcelona, including regularly walking 25 minutes to the grocery store (we did not have a car), where I could buy unfamiliar foods and practice Spanish. We fell in love with the city, but moved on to Prague, Milan, Rome, Tuscany, and Yellowstone National Park the rest of the summer.

For the duration of law school, I packed all my classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays so I could have 4-day weekends every weekend, and there were many trips to Vegas with free hotels, compliments of my husband’s card-counting days. When I unexpectedly was notified I was the recipient of a $32,000 merit scholarship I hadn’t applied for, we took tequila shots all night at a bar in Cardiff-by-the-Sea that now longer exists, and I jumped into the ocean with all my clothes on.

Eventually, we moved into a two-bedroom apartment by ourselves, in a neighborhood characterized by beach bums, dirty hippies, quirky stores, and drug use. Our complex was built in the 1970’s, and rumor has it the communal hot tub was built of an epic size because the complex used to be a swinger’s colony. The neighborhood has since gentrified and I miss some of its formerly bummy, disheveled, and unpretentious elements.

After I took the bar exam, we celebrated with an Asia trip to Taiwan and Thailand. We scootered through the canyons of Taroko Gorge and indulged in decadence on Thai beaches. In the first couple of years after I started working, we traveled to Kauai and hiked Mt. Whitney with his family, and I started paying down substantial amounts of law school debt.

We got married in 2013, 2 weeks after our 8-year anniversary in a ceremony officiated by a dear friend. We wrote our own vows and exchanged them in the glow of the southern Californian sun, and at the reception, through a series of small mishaps, many guests got unbelievably drunk. Two weeks later, we honeymooned in Bali, Macau, and Taiwan.

In 2014, we went to Colombia, where we ate ceviche on Cartagena beaches, hiked a beautiful national park, and walked the romantic alleys of Santa Marta at dusk. I took a picture outside the former residence of Gabriel Garcia Marquez and constantly had a Colombian beer in hand to counter the Caribbean heat. We spent one night in some of the worst accommodations I have ever experienced, and when I was awoken at 4 a.m. to roosters, cats, and dogs brawling in the streets amid human yells, 90 degree heat/90 percent humidity with a broken fan, and a broken bed, there was nothing to do but laugh at the outrageousness of the situation.

In 2016, we picked Vietnam over Greece and had a dream vacation at beach side resorts, daily all-you-can-eat buffets of Vietnamese breakfasts, luxurious city hotels, lush jungle retreats, and scooter rides in Saigon, Hue, Hanoi, and the Vietnamese countrysides. We took the longest cable car ride to the highest peak in Indochina and enjoyed the view as lone passengers in a car designed for 30 people with a 360-degree view of the valleys, rice terraces, and mountains of Sapa.

We drink, cook, hike, exercise, and laugh together. We’ve taken painting classes, dance classes, and played on a soccer team. We own a house and a condo together, refurbish old furniture sometimes, save for early retirement, and spoil our cats. We are very different in some ways and have been at each other’s throats yet are fundamentally so well-suited for each other that if I weren’t an atheist I’d chalk this up to fate.

Our years together have not been extraordinary in and of themselves (plenty of people hike, drink, and travel), but for me, the last 12 years has been characterized by little pieces of magic here and there, and everywhere.

When I was little, I was prone to impractical daydreaming. I would daydream of being a rock star or sprouting wings and flying, for instance. On the other hand I rarely contemplated much in detail about the specifics of my future life. My eleven-year-old self didn’t care to think about what kind of career, husband, house, kids she’d have, or vacations she’d take, beyond assuming that there would eventually be a job, a dude, and an abode in the mix on an abstract level, because that’s what adults do.

So what I mean by “special” is, it’s special to me, and if my eleven-year-old self was given a glimpse into this future, she’d be pretty damn smug and content, implausible fantasies of growing wings and flying across oceans aside.

Having a kid is supposed to be the “next” step, a higher level or deeper stage, but sometimes it feels more like we’re tearing parts of a great creation down and rebuilding it to be something completely different and unfamiliar.

So, what will the next 12 years be like? Stay tuned…

 

DON’T DO IT

The taco belongs in a mouth! It won’t always make it into a mouth, but it’s best not to broadcast any evidence of taco waste!

I hereby give permission for anyone to slap me if I share pictures on social media of my child covered in food. Seriously, this is weird and gross. The pasta sauce all over the eyebrows and face is as attractive on your child as it is on you. Please, no. Also, while your kid is rubbing noodles in her hair, smearing chocolate everywhere but in her mouth, and flinging taco bits across your kitchen, there are starving children in third world countries.

Maybe I’ll change my feelings when I become a mother, but irrespective of how I feel, I will NOT ALLOW MYSELF TO DO THIS. I would never post a picture of myself covered from head to toe in chocolate because it is messy and unattractive. Regardless of how cute or “funny” I might think my child is, I’ll try to remember that to others, she likely looks messy and unattractive covered in food. If anyone catches me sharing pictures of my child covered in food, it means my body has been overtaken by the body snatchers and I am signalling for help.

Did You Buy _______ Yet?

No, but I do have a big jar of coconut oil in the kitchen pantry, so I’m good. Twitter tells me coconut oil is the solution to all life’s problems, and since I already own a big jar of it, I’ll bite.

I’m completely serious. I’ve already acquired way more baby shit than I intended. I don’t know how it happened, but somehow we have like 5 different sleeping arrangements for Fetus, including a co-sleeper, a crib, a cradle, a folding Rock ‘n Play, and a swing. Granted, she is expected to grow out of the co-sleeper and cradle within a few months, but still. Five. Sleeping. Arrangements. How does sleeping get this complicated? Why are babies so hard? Aghghghghghgh.

I’ve also been advised I really need a baby wipe warmer, nipple cream, some sort of diaper rash prevention cream (as opposed to Desitin, which treats the rash once it occurs), a bottle warmer, a changing table, among others items I have avoided buying thus far. With the exception of the changing table, a lot of these don’t take much physical space, especially compared to the 5 different sleeping products/devices, but they take up mental space and create psychological clutter for me so I am avoiding them for as long as possible.

According to Google, coconut oil can suffice both as nipple cream and diaper rash prevention, so I’m going to do just that unless/until it proves to be an embarrassing hippie failure.

Beef Noodle Soup for the Soul

I was driving back from a deposition in Newport Beach yesterday, and once I was on the 405, realized it was only the briefest of detours to go to a Taiwanese restaurant off of Jeffrey in Irvine. Beef noodle soup sang out to my soul (or was it Fetus craving something?) and I exited Jeffrey to stop for lunch at A&J Restaurant (半畝園).

I don’t bullshit myself; A&J does not have amazing beef noodle soup and cannot compare to Taiwan, but it absolutely satisfies the craving and it is not possible to eat here and leave unhappy. I have consistently ordered beef noodle soup with the wide noodles, half tendon, half meat every time I come here for the last 19 years, but there are other great things on the menu as well including the green onion pancakes (蔥油餅) and some other carb-loaded fried dough, the name of which I do not know in English (抓餅). One of these days I want to bring husband here for a traditional Taiwanese breakfast/brunch for soy milk soup accompanied with some other fried dough dish (油條). Noodles, fried dough, more fried dough… this is how Asians get the diabeetus.

This place has been around for a long time; it’s been there since probably well before my family moved to Irvine in 1998, and as far as I can tell has employed the exact same personnel since at least then. We used to come here all the time when I was in high school, and it appears that almost 20 years later, with the exception of maybe one extra person, it’s the exact same ladies who seat you and serve you. I don’t know their names, but I know them by face, and I suspect the one random Hispanic lady who’s still there has a decent command of Mandarin by now. I was last here just about a year ago, and one of the waitresses recognized me, commenting that I used to go there all the time with my family. She asked, “Didn’t you used to have a little brother? Where’s he?” I responded that my “little” brother is now 26 and living in New York City, and we laughed about how much time had passed.

After lunch, I spoiled myself some more by walking into Sunmerry bakery for unearned treats (unjust desserts?). Had a pineapple bun and bought two Portuguese style egg tarts for dessert after dinner. I ate the pineapple bun while sitting in traffic on the way back to San Diego and saved the egg tarts for after our carne asado burrito dinner. It was a decadent day, as far as food goes.

But MuH CLotHeS

At week 35, finding clothes to wear is a constant pain in the ass because I’m outgrowing stuff on a weekly basis, but I’m still trying to avoid maternity clothes by making use of empire waist dresses I already own. I actually wore the tribal print dress below to a wedding in 2015. The extremely high slits had to be adjusted with a quick needle and thread job, but it did just fine for our baby shower (at week 33). The yellow dress (week 32) is actually something I took from a friend some 7+ years ago when she was cleaning out her closet. Hey, sometimes it pays to hoard stuff.

I also picked up some cheap ass leggings in larger sizes Wal-Mart for $3.99 a pair (see above) and also am still squeezing some final usage out of my regular skinny jeans with the help of a belly band (at week 35, this really is probably the last time I can do this). But… I did cave and bought a maternity dress from H&M. It was leopard print and I could not resist.

 

Unmedicated Birth?

Although my mother and mother-in-law both gave birth without the assistance of epidural analgesia, this does not appear to be the norm for most women, at least in the current times. I do not go around broadcasting that I plan to have an unmedicated birth, because I really have no clue how it will ultimately all play out, and it could very well be the case that medical interventions become necessary… but hopefully not.

Some of the sentiments I’ve heard about an unmedicated birth are quite snide, and I get these from all kinds of people, including those who are professional healthcare providers (not my own, fortunately). No, I don’t want a gold star or a pat on the back for needlessly suffering through pain, nor do I believe that “natural suffering” should be part of the grand experience of labor and birth. Believe me, if I could literally snap my fingers and have a pain-free birth, I’d do it. However, the fact remains that no medication or medical procedure is without attendant risks and potential complications.

Some studies suggest epidural use causes increased labor time and increases the need for instrumentation use in the form of forceps and/or vacuum, which in turn leads to increased risk of severe tearing (here). I have no strong opinions on what other people should or should not do, except that I believe every woman should have enough information on data and risks to come to whatever conclusions based on her personal preferences. But just as to myself – as a person who has never undergone any sort of surgery, medical procedures frighten me. I have not so much as had tonsils removed, had a mole biopsied, or ever needed stitches. No joke, the most invasive medical procedure I have undergone is probably a pap smear. So the mere idea of having a needle in my spine that pumps drugs continuously in my body, along with a catheter up my urethra, or potentially having someone stitch my vagina or slice my belly open, causes just as much if not more anxiety than the fear of labor pain.

Further, having worked in the medical field, I have a selective awareness of all the things that can and do go wrong with medical interventions. I’ve had a case where a patient experienced a severe spinal infection from spinal analgesia and have also had a case in which a woman permanently and completely lost bladder control after a catheter mishap during birth. Granted, these complications are extremely rare, but at least with an unmedicated birth, I know what the worst complication is – pain. Pain sucks, but if you can tolerate it, it’s a lot less scary than complete loss of bladder control, paralysis, or a c-section.

All this being said, I dread pain and am not about to go into this without the right resources and tools, which is why we decided to take a Hynobirthing class. My clients are almost exclusively composed of healthcare providers, and being a person who very much appreciates medical technology, embracing alternative measures was not easy for me. This is particularly the case because the alternative measures inevitably involve a certain degree of what I describe as Hippie crap, for lack of a better term.

I own more than a handful of boho skirts and love Bob Dylan. I don’t wear deodorant because I don’t need it but that does not mean I want to give birth while dancing in a naked circle in the ocean or that I will ever be sold on the spiritual/emotional benefit of candles, incense, or aromatherapy [NOOOOO]. I am not one of those “spiritual not religious people.” I am not searching for cosmic truth or seeking to be one with nature.

I previously had no interest in meditation, spirituality, and certainly no interest in hypnosis, because I liked my life at a certain pace, and I liked to be in control. On my high school graduation night, a hypnotist performed a demonstration, and of about 40 people, I and one of my friends were the only two skeptical individuals who were not able to succumb to the hypnotist’s antics, despite following directions.

So how did I get over this?

First, I told myself I had to. I did some light research and found that plenty of women can and do experience bearable births without epidural use, and told myself that if I wanted to take this path, I would have to consider, accept, and follow the advice of the practitioners who specialized in this area. I’m not one to follow anything blindly, but I did make a commitment to this particular path. I bought Ina May’s Guide to Childbirth, my friend gave me Mindful Birthing, and I signed up for prenatal yoga.

During my first couple of yoga classes, I internally cringed at instructions to “send loving thoughts” to my baby and affirmation cards about beautiful birth goddesses. When told to “let go,” my instant thought was Let go of what? No, I don’t want to. But then the Asian mom in me said Listen to the teacher! What do you know? Plus, you paid for this, so pay attention and just do it! While yoga was not life-altering, it did bring a sort of calm and balance into my life.

In turn, the breathing techniques and general culture involved in prenatal yoga primed me for the Hypnobirthing class, which was taught by an experienced and knowledgeable midwife. The course featured much informative material about the stages of labor and delivery, the relevant anatomy, and exercises for managing pain. Don’t get me wrong; I still engaged in internal eyerolling at some of the videos, particularly the one where the narrator spoke like she was trying to get me to join a cult, and proclaimed nonsense about the spirals of the nautilus shell having some relation to the order of the universe and pain relief [please, just don’t]. However, I do strongly believe the meditation, breathing, and relaxation practices and visualization techniques were on point, useful, and will be immensely helpful during labor and birth.

In the end, as with all things in my life, I settled on a mishmash of what worked for me. I fully embraced Ina May’s perspective on dispelling the fear associated with birth, but ignored her implicit calls for further socializing medicine; I incorporated the benefits of prenatal yoga without resorting to paganism; and I fully engaged in meditation/relaxation exercises without committing to birthing in a tub at home and eating my placenta.

Happy Birthday, Husband

Dear Husband,

You must know this, but I love you so very much. I love your smile and your slate-blue eyes with their gold flecks that are more noticeable in the sunlight.

More importantly, I want to say thank you for how amazing you have been during the last 6 1/2 months. Thank you for researching nutritional information, organizing my prenatal vitamins weekly, buying us books, buying me a body pillow, coming to all my appointments with me, and being especially supportive and comforting. Thank you for putting up with me when I am grouchy about sleep and capricious about food. Thank you for telling me I look great all the time. I am so fortunate and grateful, and could not imagine a better partner for this stage in life. I cannot help but wonder (with horror) how different this would be if I didn’t have you, or if you were not you.

Sometimes you ask how you got so “lucky” to find me. The answer is that I am me because you are you. You motivate and inspire me to be this version of myself. If I were with someone else, I would be just as quirky and have the same smile, but I would not be my best self without you as my anchor.

I hope I make you as happy as you make me. Happy birthday, and coincidentally, since your birthday falls on Father’s Day this year, Happy Father’s Day. Our daughter is going to be one lucky little lady to have you as a dad.

WTF I Ate Moldy Tortillas

Father, I have sinned, for I ate medium rare steak twice in the last two months, had sushi (salmon, not tuna, to avoid mercury), and also drank more than 12 ounces of coffee on one occasion, perhaps two. I also had a taster of beer recently and a bite of shrimp ceviche.

They tell pregnant women not to eat sushi, uncooked seafoods (ceviche! smoked salmon! sob!), medium rare steak, hummus, deli meats, among others, but no one said a damn thing about moldy tortillas, did they? I had a couple of tortillas that tasted fine, only to check the package later and realize some of them were growing mold. I then proceeded to have stomach problems for the next 24 hours.

Of course the culprit would not be anything listed in the first paragraph, but something like flour tortillas. Irony.