My grandma and mom came to visit a few weeks back and during their stay we shopped at literally every mall this side of the Cascades. At one mall, we walked into a Motherhood Maternity store to peruse the racks and just as soon as we entered we were swarmed by aisles and aisles of cheap fabrics in bright bold prints with frilly bows. It didn’t take long before my senses (and gag reflexes) were totally overwhelmed and I puked all over the store immediately bolted out the door, mumbling something about wearing a tummy sleeve for the rest of my pregnancy if I had to.

I haven’t been able to comfortably wear a tummy sleeve for over a month now.

Before my grandma and mom left that weekend, my grandma slipped me some money and told me to find some maternity clothes that I liked. I have spent the weeks since, searching the web for a pair a pants capable of containing this burgeoning belly without sacrificing my loose-fitting casual personal style. Let me tell you, maternity clothes are awful. The affordable items are made with horrible fabrics and for some reason everything looks like it has been puked on by a 3-year old who just ate an entire box of crayons. The expensive items are just that, expensive. And for something that will only get less than a years use (hopefully), I am not spending more than I would on an item that isn’t 3 sizes larger than my pre-pregnancy size no matter how good it looks.

Last week, I finally settled on a pair of pants. They arrived Monday and I have spent every day since wondering how I ever lived without elastic wasted pants before. The fit is good. The denim is soft. The elastic is, well, elastic-y. The only thing I am not so sure about is all the pockets are sewn shut (!?!@), but comfort at this stage trumps storage. Besides I don’t think I can handle any more lovely lady lumps.

Thanks Grandma.

It has been since January since I have written a “Truth Be Told” entry and although I have not heard anyone complain of it’s absence, I think a non-baby, non-workplace focused entry is long overdue.

So, let’s talk warts again.

It seems I have had a reoccurrence of another plantar’s wart on the bottom of my foot, so I am undergoing duct tape therapy again. I noticed this one while working on the others earlier in the year, but never got around to placing tape on it as it was at least 3-5 cm from the others and just think of the extra time it would take to cut a larger piece of tape (?!?!!). A classic case of laziness indeed, but I like to call it a controlled study.

Stress at workplace has intensified in the last few weeks. The stress is not a function of increased workload or client complaints but rather an internal conflict between myself and my employer. Without getting into the nitty gritty details, I think I have been an exemplary employee that has earned the company profits and respect, while my employer chooses to use statements like “extreme disappointment”, “piss poor at asking for help,” and “unable to handle pressure” to describe my performance. There is a lot more to it, but you get the jest. Ironically, his disdain for my abilities seems to correspond with the announcement of my pregnancy, but that too is a point he adamantly disagrees.

Because of workplace stress, the last few weeks have been an emotional roller coaster that have been no doubt enhanced by pregnancy hormones and general insecurities about my recent change in professional and personal identities. I feel as if I am currently living two lives. Monday through Thursday I am totally consumed with work obligations and as a result my home life is completely set aside and ignored. It’s not until Friday arrives that I can focus my actions and thoughts on being a wife and mother and I spend the better half of the weekend making up for everything that was ignored during the work week. And still there is little time in all of that for me time, let alone Bubba and I time, and I think that the continual repetition of not not having any time to decompress is jeopardizing my emotional well being.

After the discussion with my boss earlier in the week, I took some time off to stew think about what he had to say, what I had to say, and where my priorities are now and where I think they will be in the next 6 months. It took several days of crying, personal reflection and strengthening of my delicate ego, but I finally reached a short-term and long-term decision that I feel will be best for myself and my family.

I thought I had fulfilled my tear quota for the month week.* But then we had our most recent doctor’s appointment.

The appointment started out as usual — have flexibility-increasingly-challenged pregnant woman pee into a tiny Dixie cup**, have pregnant woman get on the scale (2+ more pounds!), take pregnant woman’s blood pressure (90/50, I think?), ask pregnant woman who’s the baby’s pediatrician and then stare at her blankly when she responds with “what pediatrician?”, shove pamphlets for pediatricians at pregnant woman before corralling her into a room prepared with a tray of speculums and gigantic Q-tips leaving said pregnant woman questioning why she put off shaving, AGAIN — but how better to cap off a shitty week than to have a shitty doctor’s appointment?

While listening to the baby’s heartbeat, the doctor struggled to isolate the baby’s heartbeat from mine. She moved the doppler around my lower belly while simultaneously feeling my wrist for my heartbeat. The doppler boasted the sounds of random thumps, whoooshes and static but I could tell from the frequent, somewhat panicked, way she moved the doppler and the intense look of concentration on her face that something wasn’t right. Moments later she finally spoke, telling us with carefully chosen words that the baby’s heartbeat seemed to be arrhythmic, maintaining a regular heart beat and then repeatedly slowing down. She reassured us that heart arrhythmias were common in utero and that they often clear themselves up soon after birth but as a precaution she referred us to a specialist.

Everything happened all so fast — listening to the irregular heartbeat, scheduling the appointments for our next prenatal visit, scheduling an appointment with the cardiologist, the shitty week(s) I have been having at work — that I just lost it. I felt like a bad mother, letting my stresses at work affect the baby. My mind started racing through of all the things I may have done to cause this: working 40+ hours a week, drinking Starbucks daily, eating prepackaged foods, not exercising regularly, smoking and drinking before I found out I was pregnant.

As we left the doctor’s appointment, all of the shit that has been happening at work seemed irrelevant and the answers to resolve the problems so simple. Although we won’t know for sure what is going on with the baby until September 2, I cannot ignore the apparent relationship between workplace stress intensifying and this recent issue with Baby. Ultimately, the baby needs to be my top priority and work and everything else will have to come second.

*My sister called me A CRIER this week. I’ve never thought of myself as much of a crier, except in understandable situations like attending a funeral or watching the ending of the Fox and the Hound, but admittedly I do cry at everything lately. Even including when she called me a crier. I hope this is only another side effect of pregnancy and not an indication that I am turning into a . . . GIRL!

**When did Dixie cups become the chosen urine specimen cup for Doctor’s offices? It just seems so unsanitary and potentially messy, and when the stock of Dixie cups is set up next to the sink I guess they can also be used to get a glass of water. Just as long as you don’t use the same hand you just peed on.