When I have a craving

It's inevitable,

Week 19.

Well well well.

I'm 20 weeks, halfway there, livin' on a prayer.

So this is a summary of week 19. *fanfare music*

 

How far along? Today, 20 weeks 1 or 2 days, depends if you ask my LMP or my doctor. But we're talking about week 19, so let's move alonnng.

 Total weight gain/loss: Weighing 128 lbs, BOO-YAH! Closer to the 130s. Up 11.5 lbs.

  Maternity clothes? This week my sister gave me her huge bin of maternity clothes. My reaction was along the lines of 

 

Stretch marks? Holding on to the belief I have inherited my mother's super human genes and I will escape pregnancy stretch mark free. So far, so good.

Sleep: Waking up at least once for bathroom trips, or water. Here and there, hunger trips.

 
Best moment this week: Watching Craig leave for Publix at 10 pm for one of my ridiculous cravings. Don't even ask me why that was the best moment of my week. I'm weird. Oh! Actually, best moment of the week was my nephew's birthday, it was fun to see him turn 3 :)

 
Have you told family and friends: Everybody and their mamas know.

 
Movement: Child's an acrobat, kick here, belly surfing there. I love it, unless the little stinker decides to use my bladder as a trampoline. Serious, kid?

Food cravings: Crisps, still. Dairy, fruits, some vegetables. I eat what I want.

 
Anything making you queasy or sick: I have turned that page and don't plan to look back.

 
Gender prediction: I think I know, but I don't want to say in case I'm wrong. Apparently this is not a popular answer when people ask me what my guess is.

 
Labor Signs: What? No.

Belly Button in or out? In. Then again my belly button is abnormally deep.

Wedding rings on or off? On, a little looser.

Happy or Moody most of the time: It varies per person. I can be in a perfectly good mood for hours with my husband and get really mad the next one with person X, with the speed of a monkey on crack.

 
Weekly Wisdom: Uh... savour each week!

 
Milestones: HALFWAY THERE, BABY!

The first trimester.

This is a summary of what my first trimester went like.

We found out we were pregnant the week before Mother's Day. We got pregnant on our 3rd cycle, por obra y gracia de Dios, how mama would say. I am currently 17 weeks and 3 days along. This is how the infamous first trimester went.

THE GOOD

I harbor the miracle of life in my womb - my body is a temple hosting a brand new creation - I AM WITH CHILD, what could possibly top that? Exactly. So right up to when I started barfing with the elegance of a drunken ostrich (read on, read on), I was like this:

The glorious realization that I was, indeed, undeniably, happily, miraculously, finally pregnant, only brought me and Craig much closer. Everything in the world was beautiful. We were so blessed, so in shock and amazed and glad and in love!

Knowing we would eventually need maternity clothes, I ordered some on sale, online (I'd like to explain that I say "we" because even before TTC I was squirreling my way into Pea in a Pod at the mall, and Craig dragged me out like I was an infatuated 3 year old. So, full of glee, I was given permission to finally shop for maternity clothes). My first reaction when they arrived was:

Which brings me to the food.  We were doing so well. And then... not so well.

My biggest cravings at first were eggs, vegetables, chicken wings, some fruits and milk. I lost my sweet tooth overnight and found joy in munching almonds and sipping on boring soups. That was the midway point between enjoying food and ... morning sickness *dramatic music* Between weeks 5 and 7 all was normal. Then ... I guess you'll have to scroll down to find out.

Anywho, the other goods were the fact that my skin has never looked better. The usual acne breakouts that coincided with the luteal phase of my charts were gone. And I don't miss them, not one zit (haha I'm so witty). Then my hair stopped needing conditioner altogether. It was awesome all on its own *fluffs hair*

THE BAD

Anybody who knows me in real life knows this: I'm a pretty outgoing person. I like cooking for people, I like going out to eat, I like meeting friends in shopping centers, I like going out, period. Well. I became boring during my first trimester. Like, really boring. I didn't feel like doing a single bloody thing. I felt accomplished if I got out of bed most Saturdays. 

Which would explain why, when Craig got home, my reaction was like this:

 And this is where I brag about my husband. He tended (tends, tends ... lol) to me hand and foot. Craving watermelon at 10 pm? No problem, I'll be right back, babe. A massage, again? Okay. You wanted wings, though ... you don't want them anymore? That's okay, I'll eat them. If it wasn't for my tall, handsome husband, I would have probably ... called my mama, but you get my point: my husband rocks!

THE UGLY

Do refer to this post, which covers my experience with the first chunk of morning sickness. Frankly, at one point while I threw myself the most epic pity party known to knocked up women, I was under 300 covers in my bed in Lima, certain I was going to die - hoping to sleep through the rest of my first trimester. I was hungry but didn't feel like eating a thing. My own saliva was my worst enemy, and if heaven forbid, I had something with artificial sugar, I was projectile vomiting like the demon girl from the Exorcist.

So yeah. Morning sickness. Wasn't morning. It came in waves. As soon as I felt slightly better, BAM, in yo face, Jen. Go puke. Or worse. Dry heaving into a toilet not sure if I was going to throw up or this was just another false alarm. At least after throwing up I felt better. With gagging it was just a vicious circle. 

And honestly, I tried. I can talk myself out of a bloody headache, for crying out loud. I tried. I don't like throwing up. I never grew comfortable with it. I hear some women just surrender to it and let it be. Ha. Not me. Every time I felt the queasies forming inside of me I was just like:

Fought it till the very end. Mind over matter, mind over matter, mind over - BLEEEERGH, that's how it usually went. It didn't work. I was fully convinced my own baby was controlling my body, in the way those little aliens do in the Men in Black movies. Strawberry juice? I don't think so, mother - let's hurl it on the side of the street! Ner ner ner.

Soon we (when I say we, I mean an interesting mix of amused and concerned Craig ... and me) figured out that anything with artificial sweeteners, anything that was overly sweet, anything sweet that wasn't fruit, ended up in the toilet, which was incredibly uncharacteristic of me, because I can eat an entire pie in one sitting (don't judge). 

Here's a little pearl of wisdom you've probably already heard: this too, shall pass. You can do this. Or how my mother put it: suck it up, wimp, it doesn't last forever. Unless of course you have hypermesis gravidarum. In which case, may I just send my deepest thoughts of respect and condolences ... and Zofran.

SUMMARY

The first trimester, in all honesty, was not that bad. I had it much easier than say, 30 of my pregnant cousins in Peru. Apparently there's a gene on my father's side that has the women in my family barfing at least twice a day. I suffered the toilet fate 10 times in the 9 weeks that the whole ordeal lasted. Not bad.

The good outweighed the bad, and the awesome made me forget that I had no energy left in my body to pick up my 7 lb Yorkie. I certainly didn't cruise through my first 13/14 weeks, but I survived. And looking back, I'd do it all over again.

When I work out with my husband

It's a little like this

When I first started charting

And I hadn't read the book yet

After reading the book and comparing my first chart with the 6th one

Get "Taking Charge of Your Fertility" by Toni Weschler here. Highly, highly recommended!

The vomit chronicles, Part 1.

When you know regurgitation is about to take place,

the way to the bathroom/grass/side of the street is like

Seconds before I'm like

After the fact I'm like

Meanwhile my mother's like

And my husband cheers for me (YES, for vomiting), so I'm like

Clearly it's almost a religious experience.

When old ladies at church ask me if I'm pregnant yet

I want to be like

But instead I'm like

When there's a bounce house at my friend's kid's party

I'm like

When your very pregnant friend says "You're next!"

Most of my highschool friends are like

I'm like

Who is mom enough?

It's probably all over your news feed by now:

Shock value aside (come on, that kid is tall for 3!), it's an interesting twist to parenting in America.

In case you're not too sure what Attachment Parenting is, the Wikipedia article gives you a basic definition. Be warned, there is so much more to AP than being there for your child 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. It encourages co-sleeping, to form a bond between newborn and mother, and beyond. It encourages baby-wearing entailing that you're holding your baby, almost literally attached to your body, at all times, if possible. And breastfeeding. Oh, yes. Exclusively, and way into the toddler years, is encouraged. No cry-it-out, unlimited hugs and cuddles, rearing a child that is not afraid to communicate his feelings, therefore raising confident, psychologically well balanced kids.

That's the goal in every aspect of parenting, right? Bring up happy, well balanced children.

So. Back to the magazine cover, the war rages between Attachment Parenting advocates versus ... Babywise? "Normal" Parenting? Cry-It-Out advocates? That's the thing, there's no real counterpart to Attachment Parenting. At least not one that can be pointed at without a doubt. Attachment Parenting has its fans and haters, and it has as of lately been linked to the crunchy movement (Ha!).

What actually makes me narrow my eyes in discomfort is the title of the story. Are you mom enough? Well. I won't know till I pop a baby, but I do know this: It's a race, now. A competition.

I breastfed my baby all through his first year. I am better than you.

I had a natural birth with no pain medication. This makes me stronger and better than you.

Goodness forbid I'm one of THOSE moms who give fast food to their kids!

Seriously? No one likes to be told how to bring up their own children, let alone with a snarky attitude to back it up. I'm more likely to follow someone's advice when there's no judgement riding it. The title of the story on TIME magazine fuels that which should not have even started, in the first place: Are you mom enough? Under which qualifications do we begin to quantify success as a parent, yours or mine?

In short, I just think everybody needs to shut up and take five.

At the risk of sounding like a closet anarchist, let me just say that everybody needs to relax.

Again, the goal of a mother is to nourish, protect and raise healthy, happy children. It doesn't include berating other moms for not cooking all-organic dinners every single night of the kid's childhood. It doesn't have to be like that. It shouldn't mean, either, that everybody yields to everybody else's choices. Here, I am not even a mother yet, and I'm trying to shed a little light on the matter - perhaps an outsider's view might prove useful beyond my questions and doubts as a hopeful future mom.

Jaime Grumet is the mom featured on TIME. First of all I think it's brave she came forward to share her parenting style, especially if it's not a mainstream one. Second, while I don't fully agree with everything she does, I think it's pretty great she's doing what she believes is best for her kids.The whole purpose of TIME was to be provocative (they have to sell magazines, right?), but before passing judgement on Jaime, who knows what she really stands for?

When I was training with Wells Fargo, a very smart classmate said, flat out to me: "You do you. Don't let anyone else tell you what to do." We were talking about having kids right away after marriage or waiting a few years. Everybody, obviously, had an opinion on the matter. Everybody judged everybody on their opinion too. Just like with this magazine cover.

In this case, that's what I would tell everybody: You do you. Because I plan to do "me" when it's my turn.

Book Review: "Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother"

I ought to be clear: while I'm highly opinionated, I try my hardest to not be judgmental. Parenting is such a touchy topic, I understand that - and also take in consideration I am not even a mother, myself. In the realm of parenting, I've only been witness and daughter, so it's tricky to fully review a book on parenting without getting a couple of weird glances my way.

With that said, this is my (ever neglected) blog, and I get to do whatever the bloody hell I want :)

So. Amy Chua.

The book is a light read, I read it one night - or should I said devoured it? I thoroughly enjoyed it. It's a memoir, not a manual. What Mrs. Chua pointedly discusses regarding Chinese vs. Western parenting is not who loves their child more, or who wants what is best for their child more, but rather, how they go about it.

In Chinese culture, it's okay for a parent to think their child owes them everything, and the expectation of perfect grades and excelling in worthy activities such as music is an everyday thing. In Western culture, learning is supposed to be fun, and your expectations of your child can only stay within the diameter of what is okay for them. "B+? Good job!" says a Western parent. "B+? No dinner tonight!" says a Chinese one.

My mother is Peruvian. A Peruvian Tiger Mother.

A Peruvian Tiger Mother I adore with all my heart. She taught me how to read at age 3, write at 3 and a half (somewhat), and do basic math at 4. I read books for my age weekly. Nothing less was expected. If I got a B in math, I not only had a mini panic attack, I thought the name of my family would be shamed forever.

So when I read how Amy Chua brought up her daughters Sophia and Lulu, nothing really struck me as odd. Here, I'm biased. I had a Tiger Mother. Like Mrs. Chua, my mother had no problem telling me an A- was unacceptable. Why? Because she truly, deeply, madly believed I was fully capable of getting an A+. That's why no excuses were ever accepted.

In one odd moment in the book, the Chinese mother confronts Lulu about a song she was playing on the piano. Lulu loses her marbles and tears the music sheet apart. The mother tapes it back and makes Lulu keep practicing. You know what my mother would have done? Maybe I shouldn't tell.

No sleepovers, no play dates (I had cousins at family get togethers and birthday parties at school, that was enough), what do you mean Girl Scouts? Yet my childhood was the happiest time of my life. I looked forward to a new book, I came home holding a perfect score on a spelling test eager to show my parents. I thrived on their praise when I did things right (that's where Chua is different from my rearing). Example?

On one occasion, Chua's daughters made cards for her birthday. They were last minute "Happybirthdaymomloveyou" cards. She rejected the cards because she knew her daughters could do better, and saw the half-effort as ingratitude. Do I understand her thinking? Yes. Do I think she reacted in an ideal manner? No. But I'm not going to judge her. Her eldest daughter performed at Carnegie Hall at age 15. I haven't even conceived my first born. I better keep my mouth shut.

Sophia at Carnegie Hall

Plus my mother would've taken my lame birthday card. Just saying.

A results-oriented parenting style was sort of what my parents did. Push, push, push. A+, Mozart, charm school, read faster, swimming team, piano concert this weekend, horseback riding tomorrow morning, spelling award, you better aspire to be something more than a housewife, 1st place in this, in that. I liked it. True, sometimes I wished I could've been a Girl Scout like the rest of my friends, but looking back, the stack of diplomas in my school memories box makes for a better memory than ... whatever the Girl Scouts at my school did. I think they sold cookies.

The book is incisive, provocative, it truly shows you what it is to be in the middle of a culture clash. And it's not just a clash. It's more like the end of the world is happening and all of a sudden, your youngest child humbles you and show you that your system is flawed. Back off, Tiger Mother.

True, Chua could've seen it coming when her own mother warned her that Lulu was not responding well to Chinese parenting. But Tiger Mother pushed on. Which led to my favourite part of the book, a full-blown scream and yell match in the middle of the family's vacation in Russia. Only this time the child wins. And she is allowed to quit violin.

Ultimately, the humbling takes place inside Chua's deepest, darkest fear, that place I've only heard of and have yet to experience: "I've ruined my child's life". Except Lulu's not ruined, she's just too untameable to be put under the recalcitrant system of Chinese parenting. It just won't fully work on her.

Lulu, age 13

Thus, the revelation of the entire book: Whatever style of parenting you're planning to practice on your kids, it might work, it might not. Well, at least what's what I took from the book. Chua's oldest daughter responded to the Tiger Mother methods, Lulu ... not so much.

In fact, closer to home, the way my parents raised me is different with the way they're still raising my younger-by-ten-years brother. They're a whole lot more relaxed on him, on his grades, on his social life. But he's also quite different from me. So my parents decided to practice, upon noticing "Oh hey, this one's a boy ... and not like Jen" to practice what they jokingly call Designer Parenting. Custom tailored for each child!

Ha ha, father. Ha ha.

Sure, same set of house rules, but the personal approach tends to be different. Same amount of love for both, no choosing favourites, but understanding that we're not made with the same mold (thank goodness - just kidding, I love my brother).

The book does have a happy ending in that Chua learns how to back off, when to push and when to just altogether hand it to their daughters. Admittedly not everything is perfect, but the family strives for a healthy balance.

And everybody could use a little balance.

Ultimately the choice in parenting lies within, newsflash, the parent. What Chua does, what my mother did, what I will do when I become a mother, will be up to each mother. For the people that have heavily criticized this book, how about a nice warm cup of shut up? Relax, it's just a memoir.

In a gist, if you're reading his book and find her methods horrible, put it down, have some ice cream and move on. I'm quite certain this book was written with the intention to entertain or communicate a mother's journey at the most, not to teach. All mothers make mistakes at one point or another, and who's to judge? Right? Of course right! So. Like I said, it's a good read, and I enjoyed it through and through. I would highly recommend it.

"Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother" on Amazon.