Huzzah, here comes the second trimester! By all accounts, I had a breeze of a first trimester but I still am mostly happy to see it gone! I only felt sick when I was not eating, so I just had to eat all the time (darn!). Other than mild nausea, the only other symptom was that I felt wiped out. I would make it through work, come home to collapse on the couch, where I would remain until a respectable 8.30pm at which point I would retire to my bed. While various aspects of my social life took a hit from this fatigue, the unexpected upshot of this symptom was that I didn't have the energy to stress out about anything. As a lifelong worrier, this was a delightful period of calm for me.
But that's over now. And true to form, a portion of my newly recaptured energy is being dedicated to coming up with things to worry about, and then worrying about them. Recently, my main focus is getting ready for the baby. I have most of the pregnancy/birthing concerns taken care of (with the exception of writing a birth plan and deciding upon the at-birth vaccinations). But what to do with our daughter once we get her home? I've been making a list of things I need to buy, but I am constantly stressed about missing something. So, I need help!
Here are things I have bought, or think I need to buy. Please, please comment or email me if there's anything I missed! Also, feel free to chime in on quantities of things I need, or great places to find things. Other advice and suggestions are welcome too!
Clothes
Diaper/Nappy Inserts (Where do you buy these??)
Diaper/Nappy Covers
Breast Pump
Bottles
Bottle Sterilizer
Baby Bath
Baby Bath Robe/Towels
Baby Hair Brush
Crib
Crib Sheets
Changing Station
Car Seats and Pram
Sleeping Sacks
Diaper Bag
Baby Wipes
Baby Lotion
Small Towels (for Spit-up)
Crib Mobile
Glider and Ottoman
Sling/Carrier
Thermometer
Max/Min Room Thermometer
Thanks for the help!!
Oct 19, 2010
Sep 1, 2010
I Know that I Think that I Know
I'm pregnant!
It all began when my husband and I were travelling home from dropping off my mother to the airport. As is usual for me when my family members are leaving, I was a little sad. My husband has often tried to cheer me up with attempts ranging from moderate (ice-cream) to very poor (suggesting I get my fill of family by visiting the in-laws). On this occasion, he knocked it out of the park, by turning to me, suggesting that we have a romantic evening at home, light a fire, enjoy a film, and then (in his ridiculous British accent) try to "make a little baby".
I have heard so many times, that I now accept as canon, that the best way to get pregnant is to not* want to. The idea being that the stress of trying actually interferes with conception. This has been anecdotally proven by stories of people who desperately wanted children and turned to adopting. As soon as they received their adopted child -thus removing the stress of becoming parents -they conceived. So, I decided not to become neurotic about it, instead letting whatever was meant to happen occur. That resolve was met with, at best, abject failure. I'll edit for content, but highlights included shaking my ill husband awake because I had calculated I was at day 14 and making a Google calendar of my cycling and other pertinent activities (see ill-husband shaking). Neurosis 1, logic 0.
I should preamble the next section with the admission that I am a teensy bit of a hypochondriac. My mother is one, her parents before her and my doodle of a punnet square tells me this is a dominant trait. I was doomed to it. I once diagnosed myself with no less than three types of cancer during a single shower. "Is that headache on one side of my head, where did I get that bruise, have I always had that mole?" This hypochondria has easily translated to pregnancy, and there have been a number of occasions where I have convinced myself that I was pregnant.
Now that I actually wanted to be pregnant, my neurosis swung in the other direction, and I convinced myself that any symptoms were merely the result of my trying to have symptoms, and being a massive hypochondriac. After all, I had falsely thought myself to be pregnant before. This time, I felt a little nauseous, somewhat fatigued, thirsty a little more often, and I had an occasional head rush when I stood up. However, I reasoned, it was unseasonably hot which would certainly explain the thirst, sleepiness and occasional head rush. The queasiness was more likely than anything to be the result of ignoring my lactose intolerance in order to keep the ice-cream industry afloat.
The first time I actually knew that I was pregnant, I was walking to my workplace and, thanks to a dead iPod battery, was amusing myself with my own inner monologue (an analog podcast if you will). I thought about how I would tell people if I were pregnant. Suddenly, I pictured a baby inside me - with actual human features as opposed to larval amphibian phenotype it actually would have had at that time- and felt the most pure sense of happiness flood over me. This of course sounds like the most ludicrous diagnostic technique, but my mother had similar moments when she knew she had conceived. However, I then remembered that my mother had similar moments when she knew she had conceived, and chalked it up to another bout of wishful thinking.
I also found it a little odd that, when playing Guitar Hero with my husband and brother, I became so overcome with emotion during Taylor Swift's Love Story that I couldn't sing. It was during the bridge where she thinks it's not working only to be proposed marriage. "Romeo save me I've been feeling so alone, I keep waiting for you but you never come, Is this in my head? I don't know what to think, He knelt to the ground and pulled out a ring, And said, marry me Juliet, You'll never have to be alone, I love you and that's all I really know..." I pretended that I needed to sneeze, and the two boys were so involved in their pretend instruments, they didn't notice. Also, they're men, so I was likely home-free even without the allergy charades. My rationalizing of this event was more simple in that I have quite a colourful history of crying at stupid stuff.
I was at this point about a week late, and the logical thing would be to take a test. But the neurosis had that one covered too. I had previously bought a set of two tests. This was before we were trying, but my desire to be a mother predates my husband being on board and I would have considered it a happy accident. I had convinced myself I was in "that way", and so, I was extremely disappointed that it came up negative. I promised myself that whenever I used the second test in the pack, it would be a positive. This self-consolation somehow evolved to a mandate, and I wasn't sure what the consequence of disobedience would be, but I didn't want to find out. So, I bided my time with pseudo-symptoms, longing to know if I was pregnant.
I had a rare moment of sensibility, I decided that not knowing wasn't making my chances of being pregnant any greater. In fact, it occurred to me that worrying my period into being late would actually delay my next cycle, thus reducing the number of times per year I could conceive**. I didn't want to anger the magical pregnancy test at home, so I went to the store and bought new ones.
When I got home, despite having had a full bladder for the past month, I was abruptly unable to go number one. Eventually, as my husband was leaving to play tennis, I was able to sneak off to the bathroom and take the test. I had bought a digital test to eliminate any confusion. Watching the little egg-timer blinking felt like an eternity. Then the egg-timer went away. I could swear the screen stayed blank for an hour before finally revealing the word "Pregnant". I ran out to my husband and told him the news (by shoving the urine-soaked stick into his face). We hugged and he left for tennis. And so it begins....
* please forgive the split infinitive. There was no grammatically correct way to put quite the same emphasis on actively having an absence of effort, which I guess shows how futile trying to "not do" something actually is.
** I should at this point apologise to the academic institutions that have given me science degrees for the shame I bringing to them throughout this entry.
It all began when my husband and I were travelling home from dropping off my mother to the airport. As is usual for me when my family members are leaving, I was a little sad. My husband has often tried to cheer me up with attempts ranging from moderate (ice-cream) to very poor (suggesting I get my fill of family by visiting the in-laws). On this occasion, he knocked it out of the park, by turning to me, suggesting that we have a romantic evening at home, light a fire, enjoy a film, and then (in his ridiculous British accent) try to "make a little baby".
I have heard so many times, that I now accept as canon, that the best way to get pregnant is to not* want to. The idea being that the stress of trying actually interferes with conception. This has been anecdotally proven by stories of people who desperately wanted children and turned to adopting. As soon as they received their adopted child -thus removing the stress of becoming parents -they conceived. So, I decided not to become neurotic about it, instead letting whatever was meant to happen occur. That resolve was met with, at best, abject failure. I'll edit for content, but highlights included shaking my ill husband awake because I had calculated I was at day 14 and making a Google calendar of my cycling and other pertinent activities (see ill-husband shaking). Neurosis 1, logic 0.
I should preamble the next section with the admission that I am a teensy bit of a hypochondriac. My mother is one, her parents before her and my doodle of a punnet square tells me this is a dominant trait. I was doomed to it. I once diagnosed myself with no less than three types of cancer during a single shower. "Is that headache on one side of my head, where did I get that bruise, have I always had that mole?" This hypochondria has easily translated to pregnancy, and there have been a number of occasions where I have convinced myself that I was pregnant.
Now that I actually wanted to be pregnant, my neurosis swung in the other direction, and I convinced myself that any symptoms were merely the result of my trying to have symptoms, and being a massive hypochondriac. After all, I had falsely thought myself to be pregnant before. This time, I felt a little nauseous, somewhat fatigued, thirsty a little more often, and I had an occasional head rush when I stood up. However, I reasoned, it was unseasonably hot which would certainly explain the thirst, sleepiness and occasional head rush. The queasiness was more likely than anything to be the result of ignoring my lactose intolerance in order to keep the ice-cream industry afloat.
The first time I actually knew that I was pregnant, I was walking to my workplace and, thanks to a dead iPod battery, was amusing myself with my own inner monologue (an analog podcast if you will). I thought about how I would tell people if I were pregnant. Suddenly, I pictured a baby inside me - with actual human features as opposed to larval amphibian phenotype it actually would have had at that time- and felt the most pure sense of happiness flood over me. This of course sounds like the most ludicrous diagnostic technique, but my mother had similar moments when she knew she had conceived. However, I then remembered that my mother had similar moments when she knew she had conceived, and chalked it up to another bout of wishful thinking.
I also found it a little odd that, when playing Guitar Hero with my husband and brother, I became so overcome with emotion during Taylor Swift's Love Story that I couldn't sing. It was during the bridge where she thinks it's not working only to be proposed marriage. "Romeo save me I've been feeling so alone, I keep waiting for you but you never come, Is this in my head? I don't know what to think, He knelt to the ground and pulled out a ring, And said, marry me Juliet, You'll never have to be alone, I love you and that's all I really know..." I pretended that I needed to sneeze, and the two boys were so involved in their pretend instruments, they didn't notice. Also, they're men, so I was likely home-free even without the allergy charades. My rationalizing of this event was more simple in that I have quite a colourful history of crying at stupid stuff.
I was at this point about a week late, and the logical thing would be to take a test. But the neurosis had that one covered too. I had previously bought a set of two tests. This was before we were trying, but my desire to be a mother predates my husband being on board and I would have considered it a happy accident. I had convinced myself I was in "that way", and so, I was extremely disappointed that it came up negative. I promised myself that whenever I used the second test in the pack, it would be a positive. This self-consolation somehow evolved to a mandate, and I wasn't sure what the consequence of disobedience would be, but I didn't want to find out. So, I bided my time with pseudo-symptoms, longing to know if I was pregnant.
I had a rare moment of sensibility, I decided that not knowing wasn't making my chances of being pregnant any greater. In fact, it occurred to me that worrying my period into being late would actually delay my next cycle, thus reducing the number of times per year I could conceive**. I didn't want to anger the magical pregnancy test at home, so I went to the store and bought new ones.
When I got home, despite having had a full bladder for the past month, I was abruptly unable to go number one. Eventually, as my husband was leaving to play tennis, I was able to sneak off to the bathroom and take the test. I had bought a digital test to eliminate any confusion. Watching the little egg-timer blinking felt like an eternity. Then the egg-timer went away. I could swear the screen stayed blank for an hour before finally revealing the word "Pregnant". I ran out to my husband and told him the news (by shoving the urine-soaked stick into his face). We hugged and he left for tennis. And so it begins....
* please forgive the split infinitive. There was no grammatically correct way to put quite the same emphasis on actively having an absence of effort, which I guess shows how futile trying to "not do" something actually is.
** I should at this point apologise to the academic institutions that have given me science degrees for the shame I bringing to them throughout this entry.
Jul 5, 2010
Here Comes 100
It's a very important time in my life as a needle-worker. I am about to start my 100th* needlework project. I wanted to do something special, but then got all flustered when deciding what that special project is! So, I decided to outsource the decision making. I have quite a few WIPs under way (see right) that I will finish out before starting on this landmark project so there is time before I CO. Thanks for helping!
Links to the patterns:
1. Bunny-All-in-One
2. 110-41 Socks
3. Torreyana Shawl
4. Maze Socks
5. Cable Clock Socks
*as documented by Ravelry
Links to the patterns:
1. Bunny-All-in-One
2. 110-41 Socks
3. Torreyana Shawl
4. Maze Socks
5. Cable Clock Socks
*as documented by Ravelry
Update
Torreyana wins!Jul 4, 2010
10 things #8: Seven's M.I.A.
I finished another project in my 1000 day challenge. This time it's a cute little hat that I made from 101 Designer One-Skein Wonders. I used some leftover Socks That Rock medium-weight yarn remaining from a design project about which I still am waiting to hear back.
Number eight was completed ahead of number seven, owing to the tragic loss of seven at some point during our house moving excitement.
That's Seven!
Number eight was completed ahead of number seven, owing to the tragic loss of seven at some point during our house moving excitement.
That's Seven!Jun 5, 2010
Mar 27, 2010
Well, This Sucks!
Grumble. I broke my hand today. It's not looking good for my knitting in the near future. I will work on rigging my cast (it's in a splint until I meet with the orthopedic surgeon) with a knitting needle holder. But for now, I'm just going to feel sorry for myself.
Mar 20, 2010
Homer
My cat Homer died today. I wasn't with him, but my Mum was. I found out from a voicemail that he had passed. I don't know why this has hit me so hard- he was 12 after all -but it did. So, I decided to acknowledge his life in my blog.
I thought long and hard about how to write about my furry friend; whether to tell a linear tale about how he featured in my life or a more sentimental piece about what he meant to me. It all fell short and was deleted as quickly as it was written. I feel that my mother's email said all that could be said in words:
The vet confirmed that he had cancer and showed me the lab report... Anyway, he had to give poor Homer two injections of a valium type drug which Homer naturally resisted! It wasn't pleasant holding him while the vet did it, but Homer did soon relax and lay down and I petted him and the poor darling was purring as he died. His eyes glazed as the drug hit his brain and he was dead though his heart was still pumping and the vet was going to give him another shot, but the heart did stop then.
Homer died as he lived, a real sweetheart. Even as I had him in the cat carrier in the surgery waiting room, children gathered around him and said how lovely he was and poked their little fingers through the bars of the carrier to stroke him. I was trying not to cry, but Homer seemed to like their attentions.
I can honestly say I have never loved any animal as I loved Homer. He was a true friend, always there for me as I hope I was for him. He 'nursed' me in his catty way through my thyroid illness, fussing over me as I lay wearily on the bed and cheering me up greatly in his catty way. He always welcomed me back when I was away, almost tripping me up in his enthusiasm to greet me. He had a huge appetite for food, much greater and greedier than his brother's and a bit like me in that respect! He was gregarious and sweet natured, rarely bad tempered... All in all, he was the best cat that ever lived which I told him as his little spirit slipped away. Anyone who thinks that only human animals have a 'soul' is greatly mistaken.
Goodbye Homer.
I thought long and hard about how to write about my furry friend; whether to tell a linear tale about how he featured in my life or a more sentimental piece about what he meant to me. It all fell short and was deleted as quickly as it was written. I feel that my mother's email said all that could be said in words:
The vet confirmed that he had cancer and showed me the lab report... Anyway, he had to give poor Homer two injections of a valium type drug which Homer naturally resisted! It wasn't pleasant holding him while the vet did it, but Homer did soon relax and lay down and I petted him and the poor darling was purring as he died. His eyes glazed as the drug hit his brain and he was dead though his heart was still pumping and the vet was going to give him another shot, but the heart did stop then.
Homer died as he lived, a real sweetheart. Even as I had him in the cat carrier in the surgery waiting room, children gathered around him and said how lovely he was and poked their little fingers through the bars of the carrier to stroke him. I was trying not to cry, but Homer seemed to like their attentions.
I can honestly say I have never loved any animal as I loved Homer. He was a true friend, always there for me as I hope I was for him. He 'nursed' me in his catty way through my thyroid illness, fussing over me as I lay wearily on the bed and cheering me up greatly in his catty way. He always welcomed me back when I was away, almost tripping me up in his enthusiasm to greet me. He had a huge appetite for food, much greater and greedier than his brother's and a bit like me in that respect! He was gregarious and sweet natured, rarely bad tempered... All in all, he was the best cat that ever lived which I told him as his little spirit slipped away. Anyone who thinks that only human animals have a 'soul' is greatly mistaken.
Goodbye Homer.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Is There Anybody Out There?
