“Talk to your doctor”


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One of the most irritating things I’ve found during my previous and current pregnancy is the phrase “talk to your doctor” before doing anything. As a person who works in the regulatory field, I understand why this statement exists. Partially because very few things are shown to have a direct correlation to harming pregnant ladies, but MOSTLY because no one wants to be liable in case a pregnant lady or baby is harmed by the advice they give you on a website.

However, I’m tired of having to call my doctor to find out if every little tiny thing I want to do is off limits. During my first pregnancy, I was trying to avoid caffeine by drinking herbal tea. But I was concerned because some herbs aren’t safe during pregnancy, but NO ONE KNOWS WHAT THEY ARE. I was on live chat with the company who makes the product and the standard statement “talk to your doctor” was flexed in my face like I’m a moron for even asking.

This problem with not knowing what’s safe for pregnant ladies stems from a true lack of research on the minor stuff. All the research I’ve seen for pregnant women is about life-saving stuff or measuring outcomes using non-invasive measures. And all I want to know is what I can take for this horrible acid reflux, what product I can use to wash my face and whether or not this herbal tea is going to kill my baby.

And honestly, half the time, my doctor doesn’t even fucking know the answer either. When I questioned her about the tea, she shrugged, as if to say “how the fuck am I supposed to know?” But her response was, “better not.” Well, why not? Because we don’t know. Okay, I get it, better safe than sorry, but really can you just tell me whether or not it’s okay to drink? Because it’s yummy in this tea, and I can’t have a red bull.

Talk to your doctor is the pregnancy equivalent of “I don’t know, go ask your mother.” How about you adult up and fucking tell me? I don’t think it’s that much to ask. Oh and if you’re going to tell me no, have a good reason, instead of opting for the negative given your lack of knowledge on the subject.

Telling people


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When I learned I was pregnant with my first child, my first feeling was panic. Not dread, but definitely that “Oh shit” moment of the unknown, worrying how every aspect of my life was going to change. I needed to get my act together, because before I was just living for myself. Now I was about to become responsible for another little human, defenseless as he was, and I needed to step up my game. A lot.

I was in therapy at the time, and I remember telling my therapist about all my worries. He seemed to wave most of them off, knowing I would be a great mother because I cared so much. He also acknowledged my fears, though, because of my dysfunctional upbringing, but assured me that I would not be “like them.”

Every friend I told was sworn to secrecy as I needed to keep this information out of the hands of my estranged family. My paranoia with them went deep, and I figured they all knew already somehow, even before I did. They didn’t, of course, but those are the fleas of my abusers. The guilty conscience gives us away.

Now, I’m completely estranged from everyone but my brother. I haven’t told him yet, but I will once I get to the doctor and hear that oh-so-important heartbeat. With the experience of dealing with my family’s fall out when they did learn about my son under my belt, I feel more confident. (A fool’s confidence, it feels like, since it’s so early, but still.)

All of my friends have been super supportive and loving, which is exactly what I need. I’ve made good choices in my life, because I trust the people around me to keep me and my family safe. Today’s a rare one, where I feel invincible.

The good news


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It was two days after my son’s birthday. I’d resigned myself that another baby just probably wasn’t in the cards for me. I was happy with my little family of three, just me and my husband and our little man. He was a gift, truly. I was so grateful. But still, the longing in my heart couldn’t be answered by “this is enough” because I felt we had more love to give, all of us did.

I work at a hospital, and every Monday I go for Pad Thai and coffee early. As I waited for my latte, a saw a friend from the maternity department walk by. I waved and she came over. In our small talk, I noted that with the stress of my son’s birthday party, I was two days late. I laughed, but her face grew a bit serious.

“Come with me.” She said. We walked back to her department, and she found me an unused room, and gave me a cup. I was barely able to produce enough urine, but we had enough to run the test. Hospital pregnancy tests are not like the “EZ READ – Know your results immediately!” kind you get in the store. We needed a pipet and an instruction manual on how to read the results. But there they were in bright purple lines. I was pregnant. Four weeks and three days pregnant to be precise.

Tears ran down my face as my friend studied my face to gauge my reaction. I’m sure in her line of work, they’re taught to meter their response appropriately. Not every positive is a happy thing, but for me, this was it. The thing we’d all been waiting for. Another baby! With that confirmation, she hugged me. And I cried harder.

My hands were shaking as I reached for my phone to snap a photo of the test. I called my husband immediately. I texted my best friend. I cried some more. The rest of the time was a blur, realizing my lunch was uneaten, my latte useless, and that I had to put my mask back on to go back to my office. I couldn’t share this information with my coworkers yet. They aren’t trustworthy and this information was sacred.

I floated on air the rest of the day, which was cruelly a meeting night so I wouldn’t be home until late. But when I did, we told my son, who at three years old, was sort of able to grasp what we were saying. He rubbed my belly and kissed it. I think he’ll be a great big brother.❤

Maternity Leave



I’m writing a few months of posts in advance, just as a head’s up to my regular readers and subscribers. By the time this post goes live, I’ll hopefully be in labor or near it with my second child. As exciting as terrifying this transition will be for me and my family, it’s foolish of me to think I’ll be able to remember what day it is, and what on earth I can post for you lovely readers.

So, instead of writing about the pregnancy in real time, I jotted down several months worth of posts, which will appear here in our regular intervals. (Or at least I hope so, that I’ve scheduled them correctly.) What follows are my real time struggles, saved for posterity and savoring whilst I manage a new life at home, and the transitions that go along with sibling rivalry, further experiments into sleep deprivation, conflict and, hopefully, the humor and wit you’ve come to expect from me.

I ask for your patience while I try to bounce back. Regular (real time) posts should resume early next year. I’m still following for comments and likes, so feel free to share your opinion with me as we move along the way. And, as always, thank you for reading. Much love, the pregosaurus!

Adios Neighborinos


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I’ve posted before about how we moved into our neighborhood at the height of the housing bubble. At the time, it truly was a seller’s market, and if you’re in the market for a house in the US right now, you’ll know that the crash has hit Delaware hard. In fact, we’re the #1 state in the union for home foreclosures, with almost three times as many foreclosures than any other state. It’s nice to be first, but not for that.

We weren’t the last “suckers” to move in, mind you. No, that glorious distinction belongs to the people who moved in across the street about a year after we did. The house they bought was, even by bubble standards, ridiculously overpriced. We were shocked when it was sold, given the number of beds and baths was the same as ours, yet was priced nearly $30k more than our home.

Once the new neighbors moved in, I began to understand why they bought the house. The couple, a man and woman in their twenties, had more money than brains. They lived on credit, openly admitting they always wanted to biggest, most expensive things they could find. They filled their home with their purchases, and it was obvious they had no qualms about spending outside of their means.

I had to admit I marvelled at the new cars, expensive handbags, fancy furniture, and what not they’d been enjoying while we struggled with job loss and the prospect of not being able to make it work in our Delaware experiment. It was hard not to feel a little jealous. Still, my husband assured me that we were doing what was best for us, and their finances were none of our concern. We remained pleasant enough with them, but limited our discussion of money as it always lead to incredulous statements about whatever it was they dropped cash on that week.

One year, we were invited to their home for a halloween party, and were surprised to see that the man of the house had the absolute gall to host in blackface as Mr. T. The lady went as Britney Spears’ meltdown, complete with bald cap, gray hoodie and umbrella. Their bravado was less than appealing. Not long after that, they married, and he lost his job due to layoffs. He found work in another state, and so began their long distance phase of their relationship.

Until recently, we barely saw them. Once the wife came home to find the front door unlocked and was certain that someone had broken into the house. She asked us to let her tiny purse dog stay inside while she called and met the police. The horrid animal shat on our floor, and as it turns out, she just forgot to lock the door when she left that day.

The neighbors next to us moved out, and put her house up for sale. When these folks learned that the new guys were from India, they said so in hushed tones, as if we should be somehow concerned that more “brown” people are moving into the neighborhood. Having literally no problem at all with Indian people, regardless of their shade, I was appalled that they’d say such a thing. (And for the record, except for a few times when they were a little behind getting their lawn mowed – they use a service, which gets busy – they’re absolutely perfect.)

We learned that they were underwater on their mortgage, and planned on renting the home out while the relocated to another state. I began to worry about the kind of folks they’d rent to, and why they thought they’d be good landlords when they wouldn’t be living close by. Then, the wife found a job in the same state as her husband and they let us know they’d be putting the house on the market soon.

One weekend, I caught the husband dumping his yard waste (giant tree branches from his backyard) in the common area. I asked him not to, citing that his pickup truck was more than capable of driving the waste to the free facility down the street for proper disposal. Later that afternoon, he came over to yell at me for scolding him in front of his parents for saying something. I was shocked that of all the things he felt the need to do, giving me a hard time for asking him not to be dumping his garbage was not one I expected.

A few weeks later, they got a moving truck to get their amassed possessions from the home. It took a giant semi to house it all, but on our street, parking such a thing was a feat in and of itself. They had one neighbor’s car towed because they needed the space in front of their home and he had inadvertently parked too close to the grass. They insisted we move our legally parked vehicles as well, promising they’d only need it for a day (which turned into four). They blocked the street with boxes and parked another of their vehicles in the common area as well. Everyone was silently (or in the case of the towed car, not so silently) brooding at their unfathomable inconsideration and rudeness toward their neighbors.

Soon, though, the truck was gone, and so were they. I assume in the coming weeks a for sale sign will be up in front of the house, or the bank will seize the property, or a new set of unruly renters will materialize. I have no idea. But I honestly can’t wait for them to go. And, hopefully whomever shows up to replace them has some sense of how to behave like human beings and these racists asshats can find themselves someplace else to be.



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Meh. I’m feeling old today. Yeah, it is my birthday, and no I’m not really doing anything fun besides the usual Wednesday activities with my husband and son. I normally dread my birthday because in the years when I was still in contact with my family, there would be the cringe-worthy calls I’d have to take from them.

My mother would call me first thing in the morning to remind me how this day wasn’t about me, really. She would lament how many hours she spent in labor, how magical it was for her, blar de blar blar.

She would always leave out the obvious part of my birth story I’d learn when I was a teenager, which was that she was married to another man and I was the product of her affair with my father. She’d leave out how she was in the waiting room of the abortion clinic, waiting for her name to be called, only to change her mind at the last minute. She’d leave out how she passed me off as another man’s child for nearly two years before the ruse was discovered because of obvious family genetic resemblance to my father’s side of the family.

No, today is about how she spawned the perfect way to get more attention, by having a little girl. She called me her “dolly” which was exactly how she always saw me. I was her accessory, her plaything, something she could control and give orders to until she got bored and needed something else to do.

In the years of our estrangement, she’s always done something to ruin the day for me. She used to send cards, reeking of Charlie perfume and cigarettes, pink envelopes with glitter sparkles falling out, which went right into the trash. I’d hear about it later from my dad, how I could throw away what was certainly a check inside, as if any amount of money could buy my dignity.

A few years ago, it was my father who stabbed me in the back, sending information about my son to my mother, and used his sister to pass on photographs of him. When I got word of this, I was heartbroken, feeling as though I couldn’t count on anyone. I called him to confront him, and he didn’t deny it. That was our last conversation. A few envelopes came from him with what were certainly letters and checks, but by then I was done. I don’t open them anymore.

These two humans, the ones responsible for my existence spent so much of it truly ignorant of who I was, assuming I could be bribed back into compliance. So, each year that passes, I dread the day when it comes, knowing there’s some people out there still making it all about them.

And as much fun as it sounds to celebrate, it comes at a price, knowing my happiness includes that bitter aftertaste, and after a while I begin to wonder if it’s worthwhile to even notice the day anymore.