Series: What I Learned Being Pregnant, Part Five

*Disclaimer: I AM NOT PREGNANT AGAIN! So don't ask.*

And now for numbers 13-15. If you missed the beginning of this series, click for 1-3, 4-6, 7-9 and 10-12.

Just a reminder, I left these completely unedited from how I wrote them in my pregnancy-haze. If there are typos, well, blame it on the hormones. I do.

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13. The dreams, oh my God, the dreams

I’ve always been a person who remembers their dreams. Sometimes I don’t always remember every detail, but I usually remember the gist. And I’ve been known to have some weird dreams. But nothing has ever compared to the crazy dreams I’ve been having since I’ve been pregnant.

I’ve had four nightmares since becoming pregnant. Four. Doesn’t sound like much unless you consider the last nightmare before then was 20 years ago. Two involved the death of my brother (watching it happen and not being able to do a damn thing about it – these occurred right around the one year anniversary of his death, so they were somewhat understandable – but disturbing nonetheless). One involved being in a dark alley and being shot in the head (the good thing about this one is that I have disproved the “die in your dream, die in real life” urban legend even though a quick Google will tell you the same). And then there was the dream I was being chased by aliens – which doesn’t sound scary unless you’re me. On top of that, it played out like a cheesy horror movie, and considering I hate bad movies, that’s a nightmare on top of a nightmare because I was in said cheesy horror flick.

I’ve also had other dreams that, well, made no sense at all. There was the dream I had the baby Aliens-style (meaning bursting out of my belly). There was the dream I had the baby and they put me in the drug-induced coma for a year and a half because they didn’t trust me around the newborn. Or my personal favorite, the one where I was trying to convince humpback whales not to eat polar bears. (One whale agreed and tried to recruit others through his webpage, the other one threatened to eat me!)

What’s worse is they say they are supposed to symbolize your anxieties about birth or being a parent or whatever. I don’t see how being shot in the head, talking to whales and polar bears, or being chased by aliens symbolizes anything beyond having an overactive imagination. But hey, I could be wrong, it happens every once in awhile. God knows I just don’t want to have my baby come rupturing out of my stomach, that would just be freaky.

14. I so should have bought stock in GlaxoSmithKline

For those of you who don’t have access to a computer to Google GlaxoSmithKline in the next four seconds, I’ll let you in on a secret – that is the maker of Tums. You know, my new best friend.

You remember those commercials back in the day for the disturbing dolls for boys, “My Buddy, My Buddy, wherever I go, he goes. My Buddy, My Buddy, My Buddy and me”?  Tums is “My Buddy.” I don’t go anywhere without some tucked away somewhere. In my purse, in my pocket, in the drawer at work, in my glove compartment, in my husband’s wallet where the condom used to be (I’m kidding, he still has it there, I had to get pregnant somehow).

It’s unbelievable how I can go from being in the deepest of sleep to being jolted awake by this insane burning climbing up my throat. And how just two wonderful little tablets make it all better.

I won’t chew on those minty Tums, those are like chalk. I mean, I seriously think every bottle of those white, minty Tums comes with a free eraser to go banging on the sidewalk. No, I buy the berry, assorted fruit, or assorted tropical fruit. Not much better, but at least it’s colored so I can try to convince my poor mind it’s cherry-flavored instead of chalk-flavored. It’s mind over matter. And Tums over heartburn.

15. I am the vainest individual ever…

… and it took getting pregnant to figure that out.

Seriously, I’m a jeans and t-shirt kinda gal. I love shoes, that’s my only real “girlie” obsession. My hair is the fall-into-its-own-style-and-run-out-the-door-in-30-seconds look. (Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.) I don’t wear makeup. So, I’ve never considered myself to be vain. I don’t constantly look in the mirror checking for lipstick on my teeth or a hair out of place.

But now, wow. About two weeks ago my ankles swelled up for the first time. They weren’t huge, I mean, it wasn’t like “Attack of the Killer Cankles” or anything, but it was a noticeable difference from the norm. My first reaction should have been one of the following: a) Wow, I need to put my feet up. b) I need to drink some more water. c) It’s normal. d) all of the above.

I’m ashamed to admit my answer was e) none of the above. My reaction was “Oh my God, my tattoo!” Because I have a tattoo on my left ankle and foot. And I was so paranoid about my tattoo becoming distorted because of the swelling. After all, if you get a tattoo when you’re thin and then you gain weight, it will get messed up, so why isn’t swelling going to be any different? So far, my tattoo looks fine, but I do still have nine more weeks of swelling to deal with. Will I make it without another tattoo freak-out? Highly unlikely, I’ll probably start analyzing it for any possible problems that I will immediately have to go to the tattoo shop to get fixed after the baby comes.

But wait, the vanity doesn’t stop there. I seriously heard myself say to my husband “sometime in the next month or so, I’m going to have to go get a pedicure.” Now, he knows I love pedicures because I love having my feet played with, he could have left it there. Instead of doing just that, he asks, “Why is that?” To which I had to make myself sound as shallow as humanly possible and say, “Well, because I am not putting my feet in those stirrups for all the world to see without a pedicure.” (And keep in mind, I get my toenails painted to match my tattoo, it’s a vicious cycle.) He tries to talk me out of it with a gentle, “Honey, no one’s going to be paying attention to your feet.” Anyone who has had a baby has said, “Honey, you won’t care.” Oh, but see, I care now. It’s pre-emptive at this point. Others claim no one will see my feet because they keep the delivery room so cold that I’ll be wearing socks.

Do I care that no one will pay attention? (People do, they may not say anything, but they do.) Do I care that it will be so cold in there that I’ll have to wear socks? (Usually my feet get hot after awhile, so the socks will come off, I’m sure.) And darn it, I’m modest and I don’t want any more people staring at my … well, you know … more than necessary, so if I get the pedicure, at least my feet will be a pretty alternative. Hey, shut up, it’s my story, I’ll delude myself if I want to.

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And tomorrow, the conclusion of my pregnancy-induced madness from 2007-2008.