Feeling frenzied all the time can take a toll on your fertility. Here’s how you can chillax and boost your odds of baby-making success.
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My mom just came for a visit, and I feel like I’ve just been on vacation. When she’s here, my mother does the bulk of what I normally do around the house (and then some)—she cooks; she cleans; she unloads the dishwasher, then loads it back up again; she does the laundry; she changes diapers; she gives the kids baths; she babysits; she tells me to put my feet up and then waits on me, too. We try to convince her to relax and take it easy, but she’s not easily persuaded.
I spent a few days after our amnio obsessively Googling “choroid plexus cyst.” Most of what I read was entirely reassuring – tons of message boards where parents who’ve gone through the same thing talked about their completely healthy babies. I found academic studies that pointed to positive outcomes most of the time, especially in cases where the cysts are “isolated,”—i.e. where no other markers like cleft palate, heart defects, club foot, or clenched fists are found on the ultrasound.
I sat in the car, crying, looking at our baby’s ultrasound photos and trying to figure out what to do: Should I get the amnio or not? Could I just sit tight and hope for the best, expecting everything to turn out fine? No, I didn’t think so—I’m a total worry wart. I would agonize over it for the entire pregnancy.
I've always suffered from a little touch of attention deficit disorder. In my career life, it was something I played to my advantage—spinning my tendency to bounce from thing to thing as an executive-level ability to "multitask." I was good at it, and because our culture rewards ADD, it worked for me. I got things done, or started at least. Then I moved on to the next thing, fast, creating a wake behind me that people interpreted as creative management and efficiency.
I am sitting in exactly the way I'm not supposed to for the baby's proper positioning--slouching back on the couch. And it feels so good. Just like the half-caf cup of coffee I have every morning, the sips of Aron's beer or wine, the bite of smoked whitefish on bagel. I am not an angel about pregnancy; I have friends who even foreswore chocolate when they were nursing, just in case it pumped too much of a jolt into the baby's bloodstream. Not me. Baby better just roll with the slightly caffeinated punches, is my outlook.
Eight weeks left to go, the baby weighing in at a suspected (and right-on-target) 4 pounds, and a combination of more-things-to-do-than-I-ever-could in the remaining time and a deeply-felt shrug of the shoulders about this fact.
The other day the girls and I went to our local farm to pick blueberries. It was a hot and humid day. Elise kept insisting that I hold her while we picked because an unfamiliar farm cat kept creeping around through the bushes. After we picked, the girls ran around looking at the chickens, rabbits, and sheep. By the time we got home, and finished baking up a blueberry tart, all I wanted to do was lie on the couch and drink iced tea. So when Julia asked me if we could eat the tart for dinner—with organic vanilla ice cream to top it off—I decided to say yes.