I don't know about you... But I'm feeling 22

Dear Baby Girl,

I hope that you will understand the reference in the title of this post because I’m pulling for Taylor Swift to be a timeless legend that will transcend generations. We shall see.

At 22 weeks you are FINALLY KICKING! This is a phenomenon that I thought would bring relief and reassurance with it, and it did for all of two minutes, but now any time you are not kicking I am convinced something has gone horribly wrong. There’s just no pleasing me. I’m impossible Baby Girl, I know. Your father tells me all the time.

I feel like I’m now in the pregnancy zone (of course, that could change tomorrow as I definitely go up and down, but now I’m good). I can stay up later, I’m accomplishing things, and your father and I actually had a conversation about potential names for you (we disagree for the most part, but it’s a start). I picked paint colors for your room (so fun), and I can decidedly tell you everything about every top baby product out there—safest brands, most aesthetically pleasing, best bang for your buck, etc. We are making progress my dear. Slowly yet surely. And we’ll have some cool things for you when you come along, I promise.

My worst pregnancy nemesis lately has been the dreaded “pregnancy brain.” There is some debate among the internet as to whether symptom is actually scientific. I am no doctor, and I admit I have my moments of utter stupidity even when I’m not pregnant, so I can’t really speak to the matter one way or another. However, right now I have a scape goat and I am going to use it.

Exhibit number 1—a picture speaks louder than words:

The footwear I packed for myself for my prenatal yoga class.
Pure genius.

Fortunately, yoga doesn’t require shoes, so I only looked like an idiot walking to the yoga class from my car. This is just one very visual example of my pregnancy brain. I’ve also gone to ship a package and left the address at home, tried to put the cereal in the refrigerator, made a few mistakes at work that I am not proud of… it happens. I can see you rolling your eyes at me, and you can stop it because I only eye roll at my mother. You can’t take that habit from me. So there.

I have more to say, but now I'm tired. It's 10:22 PM. Hey, I said I was staying up later, but let's not get crazy. I haven't seen 11PM since January.

Love,

Mom

The "It's a Girl!" Weekend

Dear Baby Girl,

Lately I’ve probably been getting overly sappy. There’s these things called pregnancy hormones and sometimes they take my letters to you to the level of a dramatized teen romance. So let’s get a little more light hearted here—at least for the time being.

So we found out you are a girl… YAY! Thirty minutes after we cut the cake, this is where I found your father:

Bags packed and headed for the train station.

Don’t worry; this is about the state he was in after we decided to get married, and so far so good on that front. Your dad tends to get really nervous when little bits of news turn his world upside down (he is a creature of habit, after all), but once his head shifts gears there’s no going back. You will have him wrapped around your tiny little finger the moment you are born.

It’s funny—back in the day, years ago, when your father and I were just friends and coworkers, I’d hear stories about his dating life (this is probably a little weird for you to hear, but just roll with it). In any of these stories where a side needed to be taken, I would inevitably take the girl’s side, and tell him, “Tony, I can’t wait until you have a daughter!” And that day has arrived, my dear. Work your magic on the man. I’m sure you and he will both teach each other valuable life lessons.

Now back to where I found your father waiting on the curb for an Uber—this was actually a prescheduled trip, not a runaway Dad scene. He had a work conference in NYC and was going up a day early to see Orf and Chrissy—but nonetheless, a picture-worthy moment when taken out of context. This trip actually worked out well for both of us. He got to hang out with his friends so they could loosen him up a little, and I got to go on a baby girl shopping spree with your Grandma Tracy. I will spare you the pictures of the beginnings of your new wardrobe, but we did pick up a couple of other random items I want to share with you:

Left: We got this football hat for the Annual Leavitt Thanksgiving football game at Gram's house.
Right: The elephant is for the nursery. We are going with a pink & gray theme.

Now let’s go in reverse order here for a second and jump back to the earlier part of the weekend. Mammy and Grandma Tracy were both in town (Mammy making a pit stop en route to Maine). At a ripe age of…87, I believe… Mammy isn’t the most mobile, but it was on her bucket list to visit our house, and I like to make dreams come true. We had a great time. Although her body is giving out, Mammy is still as sharp as a razor, and had some great one-liner zingers. If you can skirt around the fact that she asks to be dead every so often, she is actually quite pleasant to be around. She still smokes like a chimney, and I made her go out to the back deck for this activity. We had one bad moment where we found her on the ground on the back deck because she had fallen—terrifying of course—but Mammy provided us with some comic relief as we found her unhurt and still puffing away on her cigarette while completely disheveled on the ground. Even in her younger years, Mammy’s goal has traditionally been to preserve her cigarettes at all costs. This used to bother me, but at 87, I believe she can do as she pleases.

3.5 generations of ladies. Hopefully at some point we can get a picture of all four.

On Friday we had your 20-week ultrasound (the day before your gender reveal). At this one we saw your heart, lungs, kidneys, brain, and all other vital organs. I was delighted to hear that they are in excellent condition, and you are doing quite well. You are in the 68^th percentile for size, so that provided me with some relief, as I am now definitely convinced my belly size has shrunk (even my coworker said something to me about it), but I suppose it can only be attributed to first trimester bloating. This appointment was at the hospital, and I had another appointment with my regular OB on Tuesday. The back to back appointments were quite nice. I’d have one weekly if insurance would allow for it, but as your father says—I am crazy.

That’s all for now, Baby Girl, much more to come.

Love,

Mom

These pictures aren't quite as clear as the 3D one I posted the other day, but still solid pictures.
The bottom one is your tiny little left foot. It looks like you might have flat feet, like Dad.

Gamechanger

Dear Baby GIRL,

I’m a little overwhelmed with emotions right now. I’ve wanted a daughter for as long as I’ve wanted a baby, and when I cut that cake and saw the bright pink my heart just melted and I broke down. I was truly shocked. I had convinced every facet of my being that you were going to be a boy, and although I would have loved you the same either way, I have spent most of my life in the company of challenging males (i.e. Uncle Ben, Uncle Eli… eh-hem… YOUR FATHER). You will provide balance and the missing piece to my world… a challenging female (usually I have fulfilled this role, but it’s getting rather exhausting). I love you already so much and I can’t wait to see your beautiful face, little girl.

I got a glimpse of that precious face at the ultrasound on Friday.  Although the photo may just look like yet another sonogram photo to you—to me, it’s astonishing. It’s the clearest image I have of you to date and I swear I can make out some of your finer facial features. I think you have your father’s nose. Your little lips and eyes look so pretty. When Dad saw the picture he said, “That’s a girl’s face,” even though we had no idea what your gender actually was. You were just too pretty to be a boy.

I’ve been trying to find time to sit and write to you, but your gender reveal weekend was truly a whirlwind, and I wanted some alone time write only to you, without distraction, and give you the attention and recognition that you deserve. This isn’t just your father’s and my story any more—it’s yours. You’re the leading lady. Your gender reveal provided even more humanity, reality, and context to what we are about to face. It’s incredibly humbling, and I suspect will become more so every day as we get closer to meeting you. I will fill you in on the weekend eventually—but for now a little baby girl is music to my ears, and I can’t think of anything else.

Love,

Mom

Beautiful.

MID MAY, HALFWAY!

Grandma Tracy bought me this dress for Mother's Day,
which is a little back asswards but oh well. I'll accept it.
My coworker told me it looked like Kate Middleton.
So... HORRAY... I have achieved my goal!

Dear Baby,

This has been an incredibly painstakingly long week. I am excited to be at the halfway point, but I have been counting down every excruciating hour until we get to your appointment at 2PM on Friday.  Also, “halfway,” though technically mathematically correct, is somewhat misleading. Out of the 20 weeks falling in the “first half” of my pregnancy, two of them you were not actually conceived, the next three I didn’t know about you, and for the next three after that I didn’t have a visual. So I’m thinking that the second half of pregnancy is going to be a whole other ball game.

Anyway, here we are, at 20 weeks. I have yet to feel you kick, but I don’t really understand what it’s supposed to feel like, so what I could be imagining as indigestion I suppose could actually be you. I would really like to feel something with certainty though, because you are making me nervous. I may be hallucinating or going crazy, but I swear the size of my bump has actually gone down the last couple of weeks, and I don’t like that one bit. Your father knows this is bothering me (as I am quite vocal with my worries) so this morning he said to me, “You look bigger than ever!” Probably the only time I will want to hear those words.

In any case, I am more excited for our 20 week appointment to see you again than I am to find out your gender. In fact, I am inflicting a little more self-torture by postponing your gender reveal by a day. We are going to have the doctor write down “boy” or “girl” and put it in an envelope, deliver the envelope to the bakery next door, and pick up a “gender reveal” cake on Saturday. When we cut the cake, the frosting in the middle will either be blue or pink. This is probably an unnecessary little gimmick, but your father suggested it, and whenever he is on board with something like this I have to encourage it. Plus, Grandpa Steve is always pushing the “wow factor” (or, as he says, the “wow fact-ah”). Plus I want cake. But there’s always a chance I break down at the appointment and say, “JUST TELL ME!” I give it 50/50.

I have tried to hone in on my “gear” research lately. The product of focus most recently has been the stroller. It actually made me delighted to discover that you can get a car seat and stroller in tandem (TWO items off my list! YAY). My biggest debate is whether I need one stroller or two. I really want to get a running stroller (or a “jogger” stroller, as is the appropriate vernacular), but I don’t know if I can get a good enough running stroller that serves all my purposes (car seat, maneuverable, etc). Also, most reviews seem to recommend waiting 6-8 months after birth to start taking you jogging. That threw me for a loop, as I expected to do it a couple of weeks later. We’re learning Baby, we’re learning.

Your Nonna is quite hellbent on your father and I naming you as soon as we find out your gender. She may be disappointed as we haven’t even discussed names since probably a couple of weeks after we found out about you. But maybe knowing your gender will give us the push we need in that department. I would love to give you a name sooner rather than later, but I’m not sure whether I’m quite ready to have the great name debate with your father.

Can’t wait to see you TOMORROW!

Love,

Mom

This is NOT our cake, but it is pretty awesome.
Uncle Eli found it online and sent it to us.

Figs, Figs, Magical Fruit...

Dear Baby,

You know where this is going.

I’ve been trying to avoid sharing this bit of information with you as it might well be what one would call… too much information. However, for the sake of full disclosure, here it is:

My most woeful pregnancy problem so far has been trouble with my bowels.

In other words, I simply cannot shit.

I’ve heard about this symptom in my readings, and have tried every natural solution possible as I’m trying to steer clear of meds. I drink an obnoxious amount of water a day (to the point where I have no trouble whatsoever going #1 and actually probably have created a separate problem going #1 too many times). I eat a diet that is extremely high in fiber, which consists of so many leafy green vegetables that my poo (when it comes, ever so rarely) has literally turned green. I tried fiber fortified cereals, fiber fortified gummies, and even prunes. Well I can tell you, prunes have yet to prove the magic I was promised, but I have finally found something that does work…

FIGS!

I don’t know what it is about my body that rejected all other forms of fiber to help aid my digestive track, but figs do the trick. I bought some on a whim in the little coffee shop at work, and a few hours later all of my problems were solved. Bowels clear, hemorrhoids gone (yes, I had those too—pure misery). And it wasn’t a one-time solution; they have continued to work wonders for me.

So there you have it. If you ever have this problem growing up, I know what to do. Again, I’m sorry for the bombardment of my private bathroom matters but it had to be done, lest I forget if any siblings for you should come along in the future and I must face this problem again.

Love,

Mom

P.S. When I told your father about my miraculous cure, he said, “Oh, yeah. I forgot about those. They have a ton of fiber. My mom eats them all the time.” Thanks, Tony. I should have asked your Nonna.

 

Happy Mother's Day

Dear Baby,

I don’t think I quite yet qualify for this holiday, but I’m sure next year you will do something spectacular for me, like say “Mom,” for the first time. I can’t wait. Until then, it’s all about the grandmas…

Grandma Tracy and I having a slumber party Jan. 2015.
No idea where your father was but he was MISSING out.

This is the happiest picture of Uncle Bart and your father with Nonna that I could find.
Poor woman.

It seems grandchildren appreciate their grandparents much more than children appreciate their parents.
Hmm... good news for the grandmothers, bad for Taylor.
Look Baby! Those are your only cousins!!! (for now)
Speaking of which, their mother... your Aunt Joanne... is another amazing mother who deserves a shout out!

It’s important to remember on Mother’s Day that although we will always think of our mothers as mothers, they are actually humans that impact us in so many ways other than taking care of us. Even if we don’t recognize it, they are the foundation of who we are, and shape our personalities in ways that we will never notice or give credence to. Sorry mom.

It’s a thankless job, but in the end, mothers are so selfless that it doesn’t matter to them.  I appreciate this but I’m sure will not realize the extent or magnitude until you come along. I look forward to that day.

Alright, preaching over.

Unfortunately your dad and I were with neither of our mothers today. But Grandma Tracy is coming next weekend for your big gender reveal and we are going to Pittsburgh Memorial Day weekend so the mother visits (slash grandmother visits) are soon to come. 

Also I have to give your father some credit today because he actually did get me a prenatal massage which he said was a “pre-mother” Mother’s Day present. I’ll take it. It was wonderful, and my hips are feeling much better after the Thai lady got after it.

Love,

Mom

P.S. If you DO happen to want to do something for me this Mother's Day, go ahead and kick for me. I won't object, and would love the reassurance...just saying.

19 Weeks, Random Musings and Catch-Up

Dear Baby,

I have a few random things to catch up on that never made it into any other entry so far, and probably none of them could make up one by themselves, but I do want to throw them out there.

An ongoing (and again, random) issue I’ve been having throughout my pregnancy is I get really nauseous and dizzy at grocery store checkout lines. I have no idea what triggers this, as I am fine the entire shopping trip, so I find it hard to believe that it is the smell of the food. It has gotten less severe in the second trimester than the first, but I still need to sip water, pace a little, and take my jacket off in the checkout line. Very strange.

The first time I went to visit our OB, the practice had temporarily switched locations to undergo renovations. The secretary instructed me to call the office the day before to make sure that they were at the new location. However, when I dutifully called they hadn’t yet switched the phone lines and no one was answering. I didn’t know where the new location was. I called several times and left several messages with no response. I googled the practice and it didn’t show that they had changed numbers. I checked message boards and didn’t see any mention of it. I called the hospital and they gave me the same number. I tried other lines at the hospital, until I finally spoke to—maybe the fifth person—and pleaded with her to give me my doctor’s cell phone number. She hesitantly did. I called and got no answer, so I sent the doctor a text. She eventually responded and gave me the address.

To this day, my OB remembers me because of my persistence with this. She was quite surprised I was able to get her personal number, but seemed very impressed that I went through such efforts to make it to my appointment. She’s been great ever since, and the practice fixed their phone lines thanks to me. 

I announced your existence to my coworkers in a Bloomberg chat room. I simply typed, “So—I have some news—I’m pregnant.” Succinct, and to the point. Your father would be proud. My coworkers were very taken aback and found my choice of information dissemination highly amusing, as I literally sit right next to them on a trading floor where we have no walls to divide us. I could have turned my head and said the exact same thing to their faces. But it was also a social experiment to see who was checking their chat more diligently.  

Your father and I have been battling over which sports teams are going to be your favorite. Your mother is 100% Boston and your father is 100% Pittsburgh. We are all set with basketball (no Pittsburgh team), and I am okay with conceding hockey to the Penguins. Baseball will never become an issue unless the Sox play the Pirates in the World Series. But football is the real wild card. I have no idea who will win this because the Patriots are just so good, but you will likely never see a Tom Brady world, so that could throw a wrench in the mix. THEN, your Aunt Joanne really threw us for a loop when she told us you just might become a fan of the local teams… ::gasp::! So we could have a Nats/Caps/Skins/Wizards fan on our hands. I suppose it is ultimately your decision but your father and I are certainly going to make a strong push in this department.

And to conclude my musings, a clip from the Leavitt group text:

Love,

Mom 

PS Exactly one more week until we find out your gender!

Cinco de Mayo: Then and Now

Dear Baby,

2013...

This was actually Cuatro de Mayo because your father does not go out on weeknights.

2016...

The sad Mexican dinner I made tonight.
In my defense, that is homemade guacamole.

What a difference a baby makes.

Love,

Mom

The "Before"

Dear Baby,

I thought it prudent to show you some “before” pictures before we go to town on what used to be Uncle Eli’s apartment (and prior to that Uncle Ben’s apartment).

Also, we received some sad news, especially for you—Uncle Eli is moving to Florida. Apparently the house he had lined up in Alexandria fell through, and he has some prospects in St. Pete with college friends. I can’t say I am happy about this move, but as your father says, “It’s his journey.” I am truly disheartened that he will not be as present for your early years, but maybe eventually he will make his way back to Virginia. It seems both brothers have run off to another state on me. Maybe this will prepare me for when you finally make your journey onward and upward, but I feel like I am too young for this sense of abandonment at the moment. Oh, well. We move on.

There's Uncle Eli standing in your empty bedroom, waving goodbye.
I think your Dad will miss his play station BFF, but it's best we keep you away from that sort of thing anyway.

Anyway, in cleaning out the apartment, I decided that it has been occupied by males for entirely too long. When we got rid of the hideous ginormous leather couch that I hate, and rolled up the rug, the floor was filth like… well like you would expect from an apartment occupied by 20-something year old boys for the past two years. I can’t tell you how happy I am to have it cleared out and looking somewhat clean again. Your father may be even happier. He eyed that couch like it was a foul smelling dead rodent he was forced to leave in its place in the middle of the living room (as you know, Dad is more of a “Danny Tanner” type in terms of cleanliness than the typical male stereotype. God help me if you are a boy you will take after him that way).

Look at this mess. TOTALLY a boy's apartment.
Bottom left is the infamous couch I spoke of.
Upper right is Uncle Eli's bedroom.
I will never allow your bedroom to get to this sorry state.

We are now in fairly good shape for Grandpa Steve and Jimmy (Dad calls them “Stimmy”) to come and work their magic. They are scheduled to arrive in June, and will spend several weeks beautifying the place. We have a few more things to take care of prior to their arrival, but we’re happy with our progress at the moment. We will replace the kitchen with a small wet bar unit, with a giant farmhouse sink (I stole this idea from my friend Emily after seeing her and her husband Jordan use it as a baby bath for their daughter Olivia. Pure genius). Jimmy is going to redo both bathrooms, and we are expanding the size of the downstairs bathroom. BUT… the most exciting item of all this will be… your bedroom! I can’t wait for that to start looking more and more like yours and less of a sad empty room. Wherever you end up later in life—and I’m sure it will be someplace grand and great—guess what? You’re stuck with us for the next 18 years!! HA!

Love,

Mom

Looking better already.
Since Uncle Eli is leaving us, we put him to work.
He helped Dad take down the kitchen cabinets, after which Dad had severe back pain.
He's just in for more heavy lifting though if you end up being as big as your Uncle Bart.

May Day

Dear Baby,

Your father is convinced that May Day is an imaginary holiday invented in Maine. When I first explained the traditions behind it—gifting a basket full of goodies and then running away—he thought I was completely insane (he still does for other reasons, but never mind that). However, I have Wikipedia on my side (scroll down to the “United States” section), so I am invariably in the right here.

In the Leavitt family, we have always celebrated May Day by gifting a basket to Uncle Ben, as it falls on his birthday. Last year, before he moved to Denver, your father got on board with my holiday tradition and we created the greatest May Basket Uncle Ben has ever received, completely tailored to his taste and personality. The idea is that he doesn’t get to receive any of the gifts in his basket until he has run after and caught everyone who gifted it. Dad gave him a run for his money by hiding in the bed of his truck. Ah, wit over athleticism, a classic tale. So—though he fully considered this holiday ludicrous at first—he has fully embraced the holiday. And if you are ever to spend a May Day with Uncle Ben, I suggest you plan your strategy accordingly.

Love,

Mom

Ben's Best May Basket Ever.
Complete with Cholula sauce, American flag duct tape, a bullet can opener,
camping gear, awesome t-shirts, PBR, and a "growing marijuana" book,
which was a topical joke considering his move to Denver.