Do your breasts hurt?
Do your boobs hurt?
Do they hurt yet?
Yes, they hurt. My breasts hurt like the dickens. Finally!
It was a slow start. In fact, it was one of the reasons I initially thought maybe these little dumplings might not be sticky enough. In hindsight, the fact that I had no breast pain prior to test day should have been a dead giveaway that I WAS pregnant since every cycle I was NOT pregnant; I was practically in tears from the breast pain.
As of this past Saturday, I can now officially say I have moved into the “yes, my breasts hurt phase.”
Today was my first full day of nausea. And did I mention the constipation? Well, I’m not going to. I have to draw the line somewhere.
Jonathan also learned that if I tell you to bring me home carrot cake, apple crumble is not a satisfactory replacement. Not even for a person such as myself who is ‘always ready for dessert.’
Tonight the menu was chicken n’ dumplings. The official Wilcox recipe. It’s basically my Mom’s recipe with a little help from Tyler Florence and my own special seasonings. Jonathan was gone for the evening to a meeting in Las Vegas, so it was just me, the dumplings and Boomer. The only thing that appealed to my all day battle with nausea was chicken n’ dumplings, so I walked to Whole Foods, bought the groceries and made them.
As each dumpling plopped into the pot, I thought about my great-grandmother, Mamaw Wines. She never made chicken n’ dumplings — at least for me — but she did give birth to eight children in six pregnancies at home — two sets of twins. As I begin to think about my birth plan, I think about her. She was by far the most fertile woman I ever knew in my family; on either side. As I got older, I knew she had to be fertile to have two sets of twins, but the romantic in me also liked to think that she and Grandpa Wines had one hell of a sex life.
From the looks of this picture, perhaps Grandpa Wines was the only one having a hell of a time.
All of Mamaw Wines babies were born at home because that was how it was done back then. Several people have tried to suggest things to me like water births and home births. It’s apparently all the rage. As beautiful as that sounds in some universe (not mine), even my Mamaw Wines is looking down on me and saying, Lord have mercy child, you’re going to be 44-years old. Get to a hospital.
For the time being, I’ve decided on all the modern conveniences offered at Tarzana Medical Center with a doula. I’m not looking for heroics, but in thinking that it may be the only time I do this, I want a plan in place. I don’t want to wing it and I don’t want to just do what everyone else tells me I should do because of my age. For this, I want to be a little more like my Libra husband and weigh all the options.
It’s Los Angeles. You won’t believe the options.
It’s funny, but throughout my entire infertility journey, the actual being pregnant part has never worried me. I have not had one moment of worry since I found out I was pregnant. It feels like the most natural condition to be in for me — but getting here? The road getting here offered repeated gargantuan mental and physical roadblocks. Sometimes it felt like a labyrinth. Sometimes a mirage. It was never something I could see until it was finally there. One day I wandered out of the labyrinth; the mirage became a beautiful lake.
Jonathan and I went to a Valentine’s Day Partner Yoga Workshop on Sunday led by Chaz. It wasn’t that hard to get him to go once he found out our yogi fertility doctor and his wife were attending for a second time. It’s not that yoga is out of his comfort zone. Jonathan is naturally incredibly flexible and athletic, and he has done Bikram yoga — but there is always a bit of trepidation during the learning curve. Vinyasa flow is new for him.
I am the same way, which is why I continually talk about taking up tennis and biking (his official sports) and never give it much beyond the lip service. I fear ever being good enough to do those things with him at his level. I don’t want him to have to pull back to accommodate me. I think he feels the same way about yoga — like he is invading my thing; my space.
Your yoga practice is so personal, two people can be practicing together while working in entirely different orbits.
For obvious reasons, he was treating me like a china doll for some of the poses, but for the most part I was able to do everything; it felt great. The facial massage almost put me to sleep it was so relaxing. It’s amazing how much tension we carry in our jaw. I think it’s from all the stuff we don’t say that we want to say. It takes a lot of energy to hold back; to swallow; to refrain from letting it all go. Jonathan felt the same way I did about the massage. I vowed to do more massaging at home, but only if he promised to come to bed before two o’clock in the morning.
Couples shavasana is basically spooning — which is how we start sleeping every night — but for some reason after massaging and stretching and listening to soothing music this spooning was much more magical. Afterwards we had to write a thank you to each other at the same time on a card and seal it. What he wrote made me cry. Honestly, he is the writer in the family; a beautiful one.
As I was lying there holding him, I thought about our wedding day. We danced to The Flamingos — I Only Have Eyes For You. His choice. He sang it to me while we danced. Spooning on our mats in this room full of other couples, it felt very much like our wedding dance. Intimate and private; as if we were the only ones there in this room full of people.
By the time the workshop is over, I am all hot and bothered. I know full well he will not touch me in quite the way I was feeling given the fact that he currently thinks I am precious cargo. But, you see, at that moment I did not feel like precious cargo. I may have looked really calm, possibly even precious, but inside I felt like a cat on a hot tin roof.
We see our doctor and his wife in the lobby after the workshop. I have an overwhelming desire to ask him, How long until we can have sex? But, of course, I don’t. Jonathan would have been mortified. Honestly, I would have been mortified. The lobby of a yoga studio on our doctor’s birthday is probably not the time or the place. Instead, I more appropriately just said goodbye and wished him a Happy Birthday.
There goes my jaw tension starting up again.
I still have no answer to my question.
Perhaps we can find that out on February 27th when we go in for the dumpling check.