Living with a Preggo: Third Trimester

Have you ever been in one of those situations where you're getting this whole stream of information coming your way- much of which is horrifying- and yet you know you just have to pay attention?

The third trimester is a lot like that. Like, yesterday, the wife informed me that she had lost her mucus plug. While this is a pertinent bit of information, signaling that the pregnancy is probably within two weeks of its end, knowing that there was a plug of mucus in my girl's nether regions was just something I really did not want to know.

Don't worry, though- there are lesser horrors in the third trimester. Let's cover the two big ones.

1. The Baby Shower.

"What the hell, man?" My buddy Brian asked me. "Guys are coming to the baby shower? Are you serious?"

Yeah, I was. I guess it's some sort of new trend, but apparently these days adult males are expected to come along, eat the finger foods, and ooh appropriately at the little bibs and whatnot. Gone forever are the days where a man could expect to hit the golf course with his boys during this time. Now, you and your boys will be all dressed up and at the shower, too.

Fortunately, my homegirl Noelle was throwing this one, and she took a few steps to make it easier for the guys- she manned up the food a bit (hooray for a hearty breakfast casserole rather than cucumber sandwiches) and she put together a customized baby shower bingo game to keep the fellas occupied. Kudos to you, Noelle! Alas, few things will make this sacred bastion of femaleness palatable to some guys. If this is very much not your environment, I recommend smuggling in a flask.


2. The Childbirth Class

Okay, I've got to be honest: this was the single most horrifying part of the whole pregnancy process for me.

It started out so promising: It was a room full of fresh-faced first-time parents just like us, they served us a modest breakfast, did a round of introductions, then went through the stuff I was mostly there for: the process we'd be expected to follow when The Day came. All very good information!

It all went to hell from there.

Next we were told to separate by gender, and asked to share our greatest hope/joy, and our greatest fear, about the delivery process. Me and this group of guys look at each other with trepidation: none of us wanted to start "sharing" with a bunch of dudes we didn't know at all. The girls were already merrily chatting away. So, like an idiot, I decide to take the lead, and give it an honest shot. BIG mistake. I admitted that my biggest hope would be that all goes quickly and smoothly, and my biggest fear was for the health of my wife and baby- that something might go wrong and either might end up seriously hurt, or worse. My fellow dads-to-be smirked. They knew that whatever they said, it wouldn't sound as pansy as what I'd just said. Practically all the remaining dads insisted that their biggest fear was that they wouldn't actually get to see the baby emerge and be the first to touch it. They practically bristled with steely-eyed masculinity. I'm sorry, maybe I'm a giant wimp, but I neither want to see my wife's fun bits stretched to crazy, melon-size diameters, nor do I want to see my daughter's skull squashed down, and then reinflated to something near its proper size. I think I'll stay on the other side of the curtain, where I can pretend to provide moral support to my wife, rather that what I'll actually be doing, which is trying to stay conscious.

Anyway, after our nice little sharing session, we proceeded to watch some videos that looked to have been from the early 80s. The first wasn't too horrible- it followed the birth processes of a couple of very overweight and hairy Northern Minnesota women. Fair enough. The next video, however, was the one I hated. It went though damn near everything that could go horribly wrong during the delivery process, and what the doctors could try to do to correct those things. This is the stuff nightmares are made of, fellas. I can't say you don't need to know this stuff- it might be okay to understand what's going on should such a nightmare come to pass- but when it comes right down to it, I'm paying a team of doctors a HUGE pile of money to take care of any problems that should arise. I really don't need to see videos of tiny infants being extracted by very ungentle means, resuscitated, or what-have-you. That kind of education is only going to give me nightmares. And if that makes me a wimp, I suppose I'm a wimp, thanks. That's doctor territory; I'm a financial analyst for a reason.

With my stomach still doing slow rolls, we were coached on how to give our women backrubs. They got a one-hour backrub out of the deal, and I suppose I got a free hand workout. But they at least lowered the lights and played soft music, which helped with my recovery from the horror video.

All told, though, I guess it was something worthwhile to do, even with the thorny bits. I just hope some of you guys get- or got- a different video. Seriously.

And then, there's the preggo herself. Third trimester is, to be sure, a little awkward for the ladies. And rightly so. I'm doing me best to be a good hubby, fetching as needed so she doesn't have to maneuver her way into that precariously tippy standing position nine-monthers tend to have. But a few things caught me off guard. Like, snoring. My girl, who to my knowledge has never really snored before, now snores the way you'd have to imagine Walter Matthau would. This is, apparently, totally normal. (I'll probably pay a price for revealing this, but hey- it's not like she can chase me down to beat me!) The kiddo is also taking up a lot of the room that used to be devoted to stomach and bladder space, so Katrina now eats about ten bites total per meal, but eats about twenty times a day. Ever buy a girl a nice steak, have her eat a tiny corner, and declare she's done? That kind of thing happens all the time with a preggo. The big difference is, she actually will raid the fridge for the leftovers. And then of course, there's incessant trips to the bathroom. I mean, all the freaking time. But, whatcha gonna do? The chick's got a bowling ball in her belly. Gotta cut her some slack, I guess.


Prognosis

We're short timers, now. I think we nominally have four weeks left, but with the appearance of the previously mentioned plug, it's looking like we're probably down to two or less. Her last visit to the doctor revealed that all is well with the baby; she's turned right and we're just waiting for the big day, at this point. Me and Chris are swapping out the flywheel in my car for a lightweight one, and replacing the clutch while we're in there. Just wait, this kid is going to decide to kick off the show while I'm covered in grease and clutch dust.

I'll keep you posted - 'till next time, take care.