Pregnancy and the puppy

Military Man is sleeping with someone else. 

 His new new bed partner in question has ridiculously large ears, black ringed, dark, doleful eyes and a beautiful tan coloured body...with a few white and black patches.

 I have been supplanted from my side of the kingsize by a Beagle named Smeagol.

Let's just get one thing straight; Smeagol is cute...far cuter than his murderously skulking namesake. It's the ears that do it - all floppy and softer than velvet making me seriously consider Cruella De-Vil type plans to use his ears to make a tiny but silky soft pillow. (I never would...though I do tend to rub my cheeks up against his ears a lot. That's normal, yes?)

Smeagol has been part of our little ohana for six weeks now and he's settled in well. We've crate trained him so that he sleeps unaided and very peacefully in his cushioned crate, surrounded by toys, for several hours each night. He's toilet trained and whimpers every so quietly at the back door if he needs to go and spend a penny in the garden and he can sit on command.

Smeagol the Beagle

But before you roll your eyes and believe me to be one of those weird puppy parents who shares ice cream cones with their canine pals, let me paint you a truer puppy picture. 

Smeagol is damn hard work. 

Firstly, he doesn't get on great with the cats, Heidi and Trixie (and yes I am one of those weird cat lady people...I openly admit to letting them eat off my plate... even before I've finished eating.) Heidi, our 12 year old tortoiseshell and self proclaimed queen of the house has been relegated to the upper rooms to save herself the stress of being chased around the house by a puppy high off blueberry training treats. Trixie on the other hand is braver...perhaps more naive. She's four and is blind and deaf and I honestly believe that she doesn't know that she's a cat. She slinks in to the kitchen and lounge (now territory claimed by Smeagol) and tries to navigate her way to the windowsill, her previous perch of choice. Cue Smeagol racing towards her, back feet skidding awkwardly as he attempts to pounce on her. Trixie defends herself valiantly, boxing her paws and hissing in what she thinks is the direction of his face but is actually at my slipper. 

 Secondly, Smeagol is a 14 week old beagle, meaning he has a lot of energy. He needs two good walks a day and lots of stimulation in between in order to get him to nap long enough for me to have a shower or cook lunch. This requires more energy than I have at the moment. At nearly 34 weeks pregnant, I feel the size of a house. I can barely bend over, walking has turned in to a stiff and slightly uncomfortable waddle, fatigue defeats me several times a day resulting in naps that make me feel like a narcoleptic grandma and I need to pee every 20 minutes. All of this does not a good puppy parent make. 

 Fortunately, Military Man does most of the hard graft. He does the walks, cleans up the poop (I can't bend over to pick it up...that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it) and deals with the training, which I reinforce once the basic skill has been learnt. This has resulted in 2 outcomes: Smeagol LOVES master, Smeagol hates nasty fat hobbit (read: me). As I'm on summer holidays from work, I get the joys of a boundless pup from 8am to lunchtime when MM gets home for lunch. Not long, granted, but when I've had only four hours of broken sleep (curse you bladder!), finding the energy to play tug of war with a puppy and get up every half an hour or so to let him outside is proving difficult. Harder still is the afternoon session, after MM has returned to work and Smeagol cries...actually cries at the back gate waiting for master to return. He then vents his anger, frustration and general brattiness by chewing things. Like the remote control. Like my lip balm. Like my glasses. Have you ever chased a beagle puppy whilst carrying a freaking bowling ball in your stomach? It's hard. 

Thirdly, whilst Smeagol sleeps brilliantly at night in his crate, I may have forgotten to mention that his crate has to be in our room, otherwise he howls and bays ALL NIGHT like a bereft werewolf with a bad case of laryngitis. No amount of training and consistency has helped with this. MM doesn't see it as a problem that he sleeps in our room...but MM isn't thinking about the newborn baby that will also be sleeping with us in seven weeks time. The cherry on top of this beagle pie, is that when Smeagol wakes, usually around 6ish, he has, through no fault of his own, gotten in to the habit of getting on the bed and sleeping for the remaining hour curled up next to MM. MM has encouraged this, taking full advantage of the fact that I currently prefer sleeping in the spare room where the bed is softer and comfier on my pelvis. I discovered this delightful little secret when, at just after 6 one morning, I went to pee and decided it'd be nice to climb in to my own bed for an hour to wake up next to my husband. I walked in and found them spooning, YES, SPOONING. MM's arm was draped over Smeagol and everything. For a moment, Smeagol's eyes opened and I swear he smirked at me... 

But for all of this, I can't help but love Smeagol. He has such a playful and joyful character; he gets excited by everything and everyone, from a new bandanna or collar attachment (he looks adorable in a bow tie) to the delivery man who strokes him on the rump and makes his tail wag so hard he knocks himself over. Watching him run around on walks with other dogs is just a sheer delight and seeing other dog owners coo and fuss over his cuteness and friendliness makes me feel so proud. And despite our moments, I know he loves me. His wagging tail tells me whenever I come downstairs, his peaceful snore tells me when he rests his head on my lap in the evening. Only a few days ago, we shared an unwitnessed moment of tenderness when, whilst sat on the edge of the bed in my bra and pants attempting to put on socks (the struggle is real), he gently jumped up and rested his legs on my thighs and proceeded to lick my bump just above my belly button, once, twice, three times before sitting back down and looking up at me in quiet acknowledgement of what was happening inside my belly. 

Smeagol and me at Jervaulx Abbey

People said we were crazy for getting a puppy when I'm so far along in my pregnancy but I actually disagree. Reading over this post, I can see now how much Smeagol has prepared me for being a mummy. I don't underestimate that a baby will be so much more work than a puppy and far more challenging too, but Smeagol has shown me that I can be irritated, annoyed and frustrated as hell with him but still love him and want to care for him and teach him, even when he's eating one of my Estee Lauder lipsticks and drinking my tea out of my mug. The moments of pride I've felt when he's mastered a new skill, like being able to walk down the stairs, have made me realise that I have so much to look forward to when my baby boy gets here. If anything, I'm thankful to Smeagol helping me to be a mummy in training.

I can't wait to see Smeagol and the baby grow up together. Beagles are brilliant with children, especially when they're introduced to them at a young age. It's one of the reasons why we chose the breed, but I can tell by Smeagol's personality that he'll adore the baby. I've just got to make sure I get my side of the bed back!

J

A Weighty Issue

I cautiously glance down to read the number on the scale that I’ve gingerly just stepped on to, clenching every muscle and sphincter in my body as though that will somehow reduce the weight through magical muscular mutation. I have to crane my neck over my stomach to try and see but unless I was to arch over and waggle my bum a little, there’s no way I’ll be able to see over the mountainous mound of belly that protrudes from me.

“You’ve gained 4.4 kg,” the medical practitioner says haltingly, her eyes panning over my gelatinous body before they reach my face. “In 4 weeks.”

I quickly do the maths because I was taught in pounds and stones like any decent British woman and, like many decent British women, magazine culture and fat shaming taught me that 1kg is equal to just a little over 2 pounds. 2.2lbs in fact. So that’s…9.7lbs gained. In 4 weeks. That’s 9 blocks of lard. 4.5 bags of sugar.

Refusing to say anything in order to maintain some kind of dignified grace (though actually my lip has started doing that weird throbbing wobble thing that means I might just cry), I resume my seat next to the desk and cross my legs as much as my fat stomach will allow me to.

The judgey faced woman in her blue smock and upside down pocket watch sits next to me and makes a note of my weight before sucking in a breath and saying:

“You know, you should stop eating take aways and biscuits and junk food.”

My wibbly mouth forms a little ‘o’ because I am genuinely ‘omg emoji’ shocked. She couldn’t have hurt me more if she’d have slapped me across my face. Fury replaces my shame and gives me the strength to look her squarely in the eyes (eyes which sit inside a plump face atop a plump, pretty little body which doesn’t look as though it’s a stranger to ‘take aways and biscuits’ itself. Hmph.)

“Actually, if you’d have read my file,” I say rather hoarsely, because that lump is still there at the back of my throat and I really want to hack it up and spit it at her. “You’d have seen that I can’t eat takeaways and biscuits as I have coeliac disease and have to eat gluten free foods. I plan my meals a week in advance and eat a diet of fresh foods which I cook from scratch. I can have my nutritionist or my gastroenterology consultant call you if you like.”

I watch a look of bewilderment pass over her face as she quickly leafs through my file to see that, yes, there it is, in big bold letters at the front of my notes: GI problems? Coeliac Disease, Autoimmune disease? Coeliac disease. HA! The smirk on my lips creeps across my face as she squirms a little in her plastic seat.

“Well, watch your portion sizes. It’s really not good for the baby to put on so much weight.”

Ah yes. The baby. As if I could have forgotten that little nugget, or in any way, for one moment, stopped worrying about his health rather than mine. Again, I stare at this woman, my midwife, and wonder in flabbergasted amazement, if she has any clue what it is like to be pregnant.

 It’s far too rude of me to ask if she has children – she is an older lady and I can’t see any personal pictures scattered around the surgery but I can see that she has a wedding ring on. The most I know about her is that she had a ‘lovely’ break away in Italy earlier in the summer. What does she know about me? Every medical issue I’ve had since I was born (if she bothered to read my notes…), my blood pressure and beats per minute, my blood type, the ease and time of my last bowel movement, the colour of my pee this morning and the fact that I have a ‘heavy growth culture’ in my last urine test indicating that bacteria sprouted like a fountain in the petri dish. She’s still amazed that I have been ‘asymptomatic’; i.e it doesn’t hurt when I pee. I  clearly confound all medical professionals.

This woman, who is going to be reaching in to my vagina and helping to pull out my first child in several weeks, knows all the numbers and tests but she doesn’t know me, and that worries me.

I am currently 33 weeks pregnant with a little boy whom I already adore beyond anything I’ve ever experienced before. His safety, health and happiness is the central focus of my thoughts and it has taken me, more than anyone, by surprise because I’ve never been particularly maternal. This baby was planned with my husband and we were lucky enough to get pregnant on our first try (much to my husband’s delight – he now thinks he has supersperm.) and we were both thrilled if slightly daunted by the task of becoming parents.

My pregnancy, in my eyes, has been fairly smooth but my mum informed me the other day that she thought I’d had it ‘pretty tough’. From weeks 8 to 14, I had hyperemesis and was signed off work as a secondary school English teacher for several weeks during the dreaded exam prep period. I was put on anti sickness tablets in the end which stopped me from chucking my guts up fifteen times a day. The second trimester was easier, though my midwife informed me that my platelets were low and told me rather unceremoniously that I might have problems ‘with bleeding’ after birth which of course, sent me in to a frenzy of panic as I hotfooted my ass on to google to read horror stories of pregnancies that have resulted in mothers bleeding to death during birth. By my next appointment, my platelet levels were ‘normal’  and so calm was restored.

Normal service resumed until I was advised at 24 weeks that I was rhesus negative, did I not know? Not only did I not know, but I didn’t even know what it meant. The explanation I was given was that any cross contamination of my blood and the baby’s blood could result in me creating antibodies that would repel and reject another fetus should I ever get pregnant again. Upon hearing that my blood type was ‘rare’ and yet lethal to potential life, I took the anti D shot with rigour.

Then I got to 28 weeks and the above ‘fatastrophe’ happened. I had entered pregnancy at a healthy weight. Having been ill for years before my coeliac diagnosis and losing 6 stones (the equivalent of a pre-pubescent child!), I had finally hit a healthy medium for my body. I was a size 10 to 12 with a healthy BMI. I was still heavy, but having a big ass and thighs will do that to a girl. During the first trimester, due to hyperemesis, I actually lost 4lbs – not much I grant you, but considering I was supposed to GAIN 5lbs in that time, you can see how much of a deficit it was.

By 28 weeks, I had ballooned. Almost very literally, because my stomach resembled one of those helium filled celebration balloons you find in Clintons. Baby boy was healthy and active, I was working and mobile and was feeling great. People said I was blooming  and truthfully, I felt it. My skin has never been better than in pregnancy, my hair is thicker and shinier and for the first time, I have actual tits that fit in a C cup bra, rendering my 32A’s useless in my underwear drawer. I received comments such as ‘pregnancy really suits you,’ ‘ oh you just look beautiful!’ and ‘You’re carrying it really well!’ I felt good…validated in my new, swollen form.

At 28 weeks pregnant, before the 'fatastrophe'.

                                          

So what my midwife said brought it all crashing down. I was no longer blooming; I was fat. I was no longer carrying it well, I was downing in subcutaneous poison. It wasn’t good for the baby.

I attempted to tell my midwife that I ate well and moved fairly regularly – I was on my feet all day as a teacher, moving from classroom to classroom, campus to campus, up and down flights of stairs. It was enough to give me a ‘pulse like an athlete’ and maintain my healthy weight before pregnancy. She’d looked as though she didn’t believe me so I swore I’d keep a food diary until my next appointment (I did) and try moving more (I did.) 

When I got home, I bawled my eyes out, stripped off in front of my full length  mirror and scrutinized every extra ounce of flesh that I had gained. Now instead of seeing a pregnant lady, flush with life, I saw a fat blob who had let herself go.

By my next appointment, I had gained 2 more kg (4.4lbs) and I got that same critical look from my midwife. I’d gone to my appointment starving,  having made sure I’d done my pees and poops before hand in order to carve out some hollow space and weigh less. My heart plummeted when she read out my weight gain and I quickly pulled out my diet diary. She flicked through it and her critical look slowly changed to one of confusion.

“You eat really well,” she admitted ruefully. “In fact, I don’t think you’re eating enough. You could stand to eat a little more protein and a few more snacks.”

 I nodded, glad this had been acknowledged. 

For a healthy pregnant woman, 2200 calories is generally agreed to be a good amount for prime fetal growth. In the third trimester, like I was then and am now, that shoots up to 2400. I was eating 1800 calories a day – I still am. I struggle to fit more in to be honest. My midwife then went on to take my blood pressure (‘healthy – quite low really’), my pulse (‘perfect’) and my iron levels (‘brilliant – some of the best I’ve seen.’) She felt the baby, who was measuring as being 2 weeks ahead of 31 weeks but was active and in the correct position with a ‘spot on’ heartbeat. She had to conclude that I was fine….really good actually. And yet, I had gained 40 lbs in total, taking my pregnancy weight gain up to just over 2.5 stones, well above the guideline 25lb amount for a woman of my size.

She said I was ‘a headscratcher’.

I left feeling a little smug to be honest. This woman had taken away my joy at being pregnant and turned it in to shame. Even now, 2 weeks after my last appointment, I feel like I need to apologize for taking up so much room, for having ridiculously wide hips that catch door handles, knock edges of tables and seem permanently bruised. It felt good to know that I was, for all intents and purposes, healthy…doing a good job…keeping my baby son safe and warm and growing well.

I’ve read a lot of messageboards for expectant mothers where mums to be destroy themselves for their pregnancy weight gain. It seems to me that every woman is different in pregnancy and puts on a different amount of weight. Some women make it through with miniscule weight gain…but might have a traumatic birth, others pile one pound after pound after pound very happily because, damnit, they’re growing a human being! One story was a woman who was a personal trainer who kept up her healthy exercise in pregnancy but gained over 30lbs and then struggled to shift it afterwards.

My mother, my life guru and source of all wisdom (aren’t all mothers? {slight shock that I will soon be one of these wise Yodas of the world}), put it all pretty clearly for me. She said that my body knew what it was doing and to let it do what it needs to do. Be kind to it, she said, forgive its foibles and flaws. I am not a robot with specific measurements that fit in to neat little boxes. My body is unique, igniting this spark of life and nurturing it to grow and move and live and breathe. In seven weeks, my body will produce a tiny human who will love me and depend on me regardless of the size of my hips or the squishiness of my thighs.

So, despite the fact that my next midwife appointment is in 2 weeks and I expect my weight gain to have gone off the chart (literally), I’m going to walk (or waddle) in to that surgery with pride. Because no matter how high that number on the scale may be, it is nowhere near as high as my worth as a woman….or as a mother.

J