Yeah, I’m still on vacation.  It’s kinda sick.  My family does the two-week beach house thing, and it’s so freaking far from where we live that my husband and I tack on a few days of driving / side trips before and after.  Before we got here we stopped in our soon-to-be new hometown in Tennessee, and took a side trip to Chattanooga to, uh, “do” “Antiques Roadshow.”  We weren’t on the show, because for that you have to have an interesting antique item which, as it turns out, we do not.  My husband has a bunch of antiques he got from his mother, and his mother told him that all were probably very valuable, but as it turns out, not so much.  But we got in and out of AR in an hour, with good information about our stuff, and had a wonderful time in Chattanooga which is a beautiful little city, so that was fun.  I was working up a large case of pregnant grumpiness and glad to get out of the crowds at the convention center, many of whom were toting (presumably antique) guns.  It’s the South, y’all.


We’re going into major transition time because we need to get ourselves moved out of Chicago and close on our Tennessee house by September 30th.  Our Chicago house needs to sell, and all I can say about having a contract on one house without the other one being sold is, we don’t do stupid stuff like that but we did and it’s a long story.  We have plans B and C in place if the Chicago house doesn’t sell and all will be well, and the Tennessee house was so bewitching that we had to, had to put a contract on it back in March.  So, yeah, whatever; that’s what we did. 


Meanwhile here I am pregnant, discharged from the RE and no doctor.  After reading my pregnancy book – which is “Great Expectations,” by Sandy Jones and Marcie Jones and I really like it – I decided I’m scared of OBs, episiotomies, C-sections, epidurals and forceps, and I want a midwife.  There’s no point in getting all set up with a doctor in Chicago when we’re hoping to be gone by September, so I somehow, miraculously found a midwife in our Tennessee town who has an appointment on the one day we’ll be in town, next Monday.  Calling for an appointment is semi-hilarious when they ask my birth date (Yes!  I’m 45!) and my address (Yes! I live in Chicago) and my last menstrual period which was about 3 1/2 weeks before my baby was, uh, thawed.  This one was conceived last November when the eggs were retrieved and fertilized and embryos frozen.  I didn’t go into all THAT but it should be fun when I do.


I have my “OB records”, a sheaf of papers that is wafer-thin compared to the gigantic chart I left behind at the RE’s after 4 years of assisted reproduction efforts.  Supposedly these will clue in my next “care provider” about the real timing of our baby. 


I’m doing really, really well with not worrying about my pregnancy, and this is because the nausea goes on and on and on and shows no signs of “tapering off” or whatever happy horse**** is supposed to happen.  I have days like yesterday, ginger-ale-for-breakfast kind of days where the nausea is as bad as it was at any earlier point, and I cry.  I take ginger and sometimes it works beautifully; some days (like today) it sorta works and then gives me stomach cramps.


I imagine there is a little man with a clipboard who is managing my digestive system and he is very, very busy.  “Nausea!  Take ten!” he barks, from a high platform above my churning, bubbling stomach.  (Said stomach looks like pictures of the Lake of Fire that you see in religious tracts, except there are no sinners drowning and screaming in it).  “Diarrhea!  You’re up!”  “Reflux!  You’re next!”  “Can I get some more gas, here?  Let’s go, people!  Let me see some ACID!”


But I never wonder if I’m still pregnant, so that’s all good.  Tomorrow I am 12 weeks and I am naively hoping the nausea turns off like a light switch, as the cute, cute, little-blonde-with-a-bump at our open house told me hers did at 12 weeks; but I am not holding my breath.  I always thought 12 weeks was the end of the first trimester but my book says T2 starts at 14 weeks so I’m still wrapping up T1.  Not that it matters, as everyone helpfully points out; I may feel bad for many more weeks.


(happy happy joy joy no, not complaining, not me)


All that to say that when I see the midwife on Monday I really, really want an ultrasound but I guess I won’t die if I don’t get one.  I’ve only been to the RE where they ultrasound everything that isn’t nailed down, and I don’t know how regular doctors do it.  Just take my word for it that I’m pregnant?  Weird.


I’m mystified about the midwife thing too.  Will I just call her “Susie” or whatever her name is?  She’s not going to be “doctor so-and-so.”  I loved it that my RE called herself by her first name but now I’m having to adjust to the non-doctor-ness of my midwife.  Will she be younger than me?  (Most people are, these days).  She’s part of an OB practice and I do intend to give birth in the hospital, so it won’t be all moon goddess crunchy granola more than I can handle.  I guess.


I was going to take pictures of my perfect Sea-Band tan lines, because I still wear my nausea wristbands 24-7, but I’m too tired & grumpy to go get the camera. 

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