Some Pregnancy "Final Thoughts"

I have reached the “finish line”, so to speak, in my third pregnancy. When you think about it, 36 weeks technically equals 9 months anyway. I have enjoyed my pregnancies, for the most part. Each one has had its bumps in the road, but I’ve never hated being pregnant like some people I know. Usually they have good reason to despise the condition: morning sickness, bad acne, large weight gain, bed rest. I have been fortunate enough not to experience those side effects. So while you could say I’m a seasoned pro when it comes to pregnancy, I am no expert, and I realize that everyone’s experiences are different.

During three pregnancies, people have dispensed advice and opinions at their leisure, telling you what to expect (while you’re expecting). I’ll admit, I like talking to people about being pregnant, and it is something that truly resonates with women in conversation as we each have our own experiences to share. While it is deeply personal, I have been in a room full of moms, and there are no holds barred when it comes to sharing those birthing stories! Talking to strangers about pregnancy can be interesting too, and while gory details are spared, I’ve had some nice conversations with some customers in the pharmacy I work at, comparing pregnancy notes and chatting about our little ones.

I find that most people are pretty joyous when it comes to discussing the prospect of a new baby on the horizon. I have been surprised with this pregnancy that I did not gain weight right away and my belly is just kind of like a basketball. I would’ve thought with the third I’d be as big as a house. This time, nearly on a daily basis, I am told how cute, great, gorgeous I look. That is not to boast, because obviously I don’t often feel that way, especially when I think my stomach can’t stretch any further. But it is so nice to hear considering that when I was carrying Kelsey and a customer actually said, “Hi chubby!” I gave her a Look and laughed it off with an obvious sarcastic growl undertone. I don’t even know how she would’ve thought that would’ve been remotely funny to say, and I still don’t care for that customer to this day! (No words have been spoken of my body size this pregnancy.)

I find that the older population thinks it’s pretty neat that we don’t know the gender of our child. “How wonderful!” “What a nice surprise!” It’s often my friends who comment, “How can you not find out? That would drive me crazy! I have to be able to plan!” Quite frankly, I think anybody who is pregnant more than once should NOT find out at least one time. I’ve had the experience of knowing that Averey was a girl, and I was thankful to have that knowledge, even though it’s not how I would’ve chosen originally. But with Kelsey and this one as a surprise, well, it’s pretty amazing. How often in life do we have good surprises? How often in life do we just sit back and NOT have everything planned? We have enough gender neutral onesies, and if we have to paint the bedroom again, it won’t be that difficult a task since the baby will be in our room with us for a couple weeks anyway. Jake and I have both come to the realization that either gender will be a wonderful addition to our family. Considering the miracle of conception to birth, I can rest in the fact that not knowing the gender will give me good reason to push even harder! Besides, when the child arrives, that is when you meet him or her for the very first time. Sure, you see the ultrasound photos and the movements rocking your belly in the weirdest motions and you’ve had time getting acquainted, but the delivery is the moment of truth. Does it really matter that you knew their gender four months ahead of time?

There are some things I won’t miss about being pregnant. Discomfort in sleep, pressure on the bladder, sciatic pain, a desperate need for an overload of fiber… and annoying comments. This goes beyond “Hi chubby!” This is the your-pregnancy-is-exactly-like-mine-and-I-know-exactly-what-I’m-talking-about type remarks. Honestly, I think most people mean well, but I think it’s the pregnancy myths that people believe that clearly must be true… and make no sense whatsoever.

Case in point, a conversation I had yesterday with a customer.

Customer: Are you having a boy?

Me: I don’t know!

Customer: You’re carrying out front like you’re having a boy!

Me: I actually carried the same way with both of my girls, so who knows?

Me (what I really wanted to say): And how am I supposed to carry a girl? Off to my side? In my rear?

This drives me BONKERS! I apologize if there are any of you that are convinced gender determines how you carry, but personally, I think it’s a bunch of hogwash. During my pregnancy with Averey, I was working in a hospital. While waiting for an elevator, another employee says, “Oh, you’re having a boy because I carried just like that with mine.” Having the knowledge of my ultrasound actually came in handy so I could curtly say, “Actually, I’m having a girl.” Come to think of it, anytime someone makes a remark on how I’ve carried in ALL of my pregnancies, they always determine that I’m having a boy! This time, they could be right, but the track record isn’t so great thus far. And how, may I ask, does a baby’s genitalia establish the positioning in one’s uterus anyway? I have never once looked at a pregnant woman and felt compelled to say the baby’s gender based on the position of her bulge.

Then there’s the heartburn/baby hair myth. I had heartburn and some disgusting reflux with Averey, and while she had some hair at birth, it was hardly enough to comb after a bath. Kelsey came out with a decent crop of spiky blond hair, but not once did I have heartburn with her. It also could be due to the fact that I chomped down Tums every night before bed, but still. This one has given me some heartburn, but we’ll see about the hair. I’m just not sure how hair (encased inside amniotic fluid nonetheless) could actually cause the heartburn. Yet I’ve heard fervent discussions over this matter as if it has some merit.

Then there’s the gender determining tests: the string test, the Chinese birth calendar, peeing in a toilet full of Drano… you’ve heard them all. While they can be fun (or funny), I’ve found only one test determines the gender: birth!

As I head into my final four weeks (or less) of pregnancy, I anticipate the compliments and brace myself for more doozies as I will continue to carry this baby out front (because I’m not sure where else to put it), and people learn that this is my third pregnancy (Wow, your hands will be full!). While we’re entering uncharted territory, I am eagerly awaiting to meet this karate-chopping baby who thinks my bladder is a trampoline. And hopefully someday, I won’t be dispensing unwanted opinions on others’ pregnancies, but sharing in the joy and miracle that bringing a child into this world really is.  

It's So Hard to Say Good-bye to Yesterday

It was 15 years ago today that I entered the Montoursville High School gymnasium in my royal blue cap and gown, ready to move on to the next phase of my life. After my senior year, I was a mix of emotions, and graduating symbolized a lot more than just getting a diploma.

I remember being so excited about being a senior after watching the previous classes leave. It seemed that being part of the senior class would be fun and full of activity. Each class had their Class Day: all the seniors wore white, performed in skits poking fun at their time at MHS, showcased a slide show and then sung their class song. While it could bring tears and the reminder that the graduating class was really leaving Montoursville, I still looked forward to the event. When the class of ’96 graduated, it was our time to shine.

And then Flight 800 happened.

Summer trips to Mexico for the Spanish Club were routine, but the French Club hadn’t travelled to France during our time at the high school. On July 17, 1996, 16 students and their 5 adult chaperones left for Paris aboard TWA Flight 800 from JFK Airport. A few of my friends were part of this trip, and to say they were excited was an understatement. But the plane crashed minutes after takeoff, killing all 230 passengers. Some say this is how the “real world” came to Montoursville: a rude awakening for a town of 5,000. We lost six members of our class, and words can’t even explain the profound loss of so many youth. As one of my closest friends, Monica Weaver, perished in that horrific incident, I was extremely saddened that someone I had grown very close to over our junior year would not be around for the fun senior year we were anticipating. My cousin (and one of my best friends) graduated in June and would head off to college in the fall, and while a couple of my other best friends and my boyfriend were still in school, they were in classes below me. Monica was that one friend I was going to spend so much time with, and she was gone. This inevitably changed the course of my senior year.

The first day of school was unlike any other, and while the events of the summer were still fresh in everyone’s mind, it seemed to me that people were moving on. I ended up taking a step back as this was the day that Monica’s body was identified—the last of the Montoursville group. As we got further into the year, I felt as if people were forgetting. A foolish assessment, but I was sad a lot more than I let on, and I just didn’t feel that anyone felt the same. My friend Erin (a junior) and I grew close over the year because we had both lost very close friends, and she originally was supposed to go on that fateful trip. That friendship was positive for the both of us, and while we are in different phases of our lives and live far apart, we can pick up the phone after a couple months and ease into conversation to this day. I think the bond developed out of the loss of friends truly cemented our friendship.

In Psychology class, we had to complete a project, and a lot of people sent surveys around the school to collect data on a certain subject. I chose to do my report on Flight 800 and how the student population was affected by the tragedy. I saw that the effect on a lot of people, whether they were friends with someone or not, was greater than I expected. However, my report went missing from the blackboard in the Psych room. I have no clue what happened to it, and I was disappointed not to have that piece. But being the pack rat I was (am), I saved the surveys with all of my other Flight 800 memorabilia.

My senior year still had some bright spots, and I tried to make the most of it by spending time with friends, my boyfriend, participating in “Guys and Dolls”, and enjoying the school dances and prom. I do believe people seemed a bit friendlier that year, and that was a positive result of such a terrible tragedy.

I would have to say that the happiest and saddest day was Class Day. It was a little strange to see all the members of my class dressed in white, but as we waited outside the auditorium that beautiful June day, a rainbow formed around the sun. Was it a sign? We liked to think it was. We all carried white roses tied with blue and gold ribbon, and as we entered the auditorium to Rusted Root’s “Send Me on My Way”, each of us made our way to the stage to drop off our roses in memoriam of our classmates lost. This was mentioned at the introduction of Class Day, and after a brief moment of silence, the show was underway. With two hilarious sketches, “wills” from the seniors to other classmates or people in other classes, people named “most likely to…” or “class (ditz, yuppie, mooch, fill in the blank)”, we got to the good part: the slide show. Set to music, a majority of kids in my class had a specific snippet of a song played for them, describing their personality, or name. (For instance, some Jeremys in my class had “Jeremy” by Pearl Jam. Obviously.) Some were flattering, others not so much. Mine was “Supermodel” by Jill Sobule… and to this day I’m still not sure why, since it should’ve been the “Hokey Pokey”, referencing my maiden name Polk.

After lots of photos of our class, the screen flashed blue with the words “In Memory of Flight 800.” The auditorium grew silent. A photo montage of the six members of our class, Jessica Aikey, Jordan Bower, Amanda Karschner, Kim Rogers, Monica Weaver and Wendy Wolfson, was set to “One Sweet Day” by Mariah Carey and Boyz II Men. To see their baby and childhood pictures on the screen immediately set me off in tears. Near the end, I was surprised to see myself in a photo with Jess and Kim from about 8^th grade, and then when a photo of Monica and I flashed on the screen from the last day of our junior year, I could hardly take it. After the slide show ended, you could have heard a pin drop (if it weren’t for those of us crying) until loud, clear applause broke through the silence.

Then it was time to take the stage to sing our class song, “These Are Days” by 10,000 Maniacs (which I hated before that… but now hold dear for sentimental reasons). I was a wreck but pulled myself together to enjoy the moment. The juniors sang us the Beatles’ version of “With a Little Help From My Friends” (and adding on “Hit the Road Jack” at the end—we poked some fun at their class that day as we thought they were a little more favored by the faculty).

I heard some people from my class were going to take the roses up to the cemetery where our classmates were laid to rest. I knew I couldn’t go up there as I rarely visited the cemetery that year. But as I drove out of the high school parking lot and saw my classmates up on the hill, I turned up the road towards them. Arriving up there, seeing my classmates arm in arm, each group of friends by the headstone of their dearest friend, crying… I realized I was not alone in my grief nearly 11 months after the incident. I sat in front of Monica’s grave, sobbing, while a couple of my friends consoled me. We started talking about Flight 800, our friends lost, our senior year, saying good-bye, and before we knew it, there were only five of us left up on that hill. One of my friends commented that he never realized how hard it would be to say good-bye.

Two days later would be our final farewell to MHS at graduation. We were stuck indoors as we were told the football field had just been re-sodded (or whatever you do to keep football fields nice), but we were all pretty much convinced that the administration did not want us outside due to a media frenzy over our class being the first to graduate after Flight 800. We didn’t think it was going to be a big deal for the media. But wouldn’t you know it? When we pulled in to the parking lot, there were cameras lined up the street. I heard one classmate went as far to unplug some of them.

It was a fitting ceremony; the top three guys in our class spoke about our time at MHS, Flight 800 was not forgotten, but yet the living were much celebrated. Soon we were lined up to receive our diplomas. When my name was called, I learned I was also receiving the Monica M. Weaver Memorial Award. It seemed surreal to be receiving an award in honor of the friend who I expected would be receiving her diploma with me, so it was a bittersweet moment. After our row got their diplomas, I looked inside the shell and nearly panicked when I did not see my diploma. My friend next to me whispered that we would get them after we turned in our caps and gowns, remember? Must not have been paying attention to that one. Alas I had to have one more stupid moment before I left school.

The six in our class that died on Flight 800 received their diplomas posthumously. I could not imagine being in our class president’s shoes as she had to read those six names, each responded to with thunderous applause.

Thirteen years from the time (most of us) started Kindergarten in 1984, and it was over just like that. And now 15 years have flown by! I find it hard to swallow that so much time has passed, and yet sometimes, I don’t feel any different than I did back then. I would like to think I’m a little bit cooler than I was, but in reality, probably not. While I had no serious career ambitions (and that is how one ends up a pharmacy technician!), I knew more than anything I wanted to get married and be a mom. Well, I certainly filled in that blank, just not in a way I ever expected.

Some people look back on their high school days with pain, some look back in laughter, some look back in regret, and some look back to reminisce. I can say that I do all of those. My senior year truly encompassed all of those emotions. In some aspects, I was glad to leave, but for awhile, I did have a hard time letting go. I figured someday I would settle back in Montoursville, but it was not meant to be. I view that as a good thing for me—I needed to get away and move on. While the path I traveled was a bit crooked and unconventional, I am grateful to be living in State College now. Far enough away, but close enough that we can still enjoy a visit (and that my parents can come and see their grandchildren). I am thankful for the life I had in Montoursville, but even more so that my narrow teenage eyes have been able to see greater things than I imagined possible as I left Montoursville High School for the last time.

Reflecting on Those High School Years...

Jake and I mark a small milestone this year: we’ve been out of high school for 15 years. Seriously? I can remember when my mom was out of high school for 15 years. It was 1988, and she got a booklet in the mail that listed all of her classmates and what they’d been up to since 1973. I was fascinated by this and would delve into her yearbook and match up the people with their pictures. I had nine years before I would graduate high school, and it seemed so far away. Over the years, I would look at my mom’s yearbooks again and have a good chuckle at her pictures, and the clothing and hairstyles. She warned me that I too would laugh at my yearbooks someday. Fifteen years later, I still don’t think I look quite as ridiculous as my mom, even if I was totally rocking the Jennifer Aniston ‘do in my senior pictures...

I look back on high school with some fond memories. Jake, on the other hand, was glad to leave. I graduated in a class of 170 people; Jake graduated with over 400. I didn’t know every single person in my class, but I at least knew their names. I don’t even know how you could begin to find your place in a class that large. Other than the fact that Jake was tall (people mistake him for being a football player all the time) and teachers knew his brother (which occasionally was a strike against him), he skated through State College High School under the radar (which is something he didn’t seem to mind). When we talk about our high school days, the only regret he seems to have is that he didn’t work to his full potential. Maybe.

I can’t say I have numerous regrets about high school. When I take the time to read old journal entries, I sometimes cringe at things I said or did and can’t believe how stupid I could be. But I guess that’s all part of growing up and maturing. Other than the choice of some of my classes during my senior year (I so wish I would’ve taken more art classes than the unnecessary Advanced Chem and Pre-Cal, which just made me feel dumb), knowing I could have done better in some classes, and perhaps more involved in activities, I’m pretty satisfied with my high school career. And really, 15 years later, how much of it even matters anymore?

I had a good group of friends over the years, and I wasn’t much for teenage rebellion since I didn’t want any privileges taken away. I was (and still am) a horrible liar. I never could’ve pulled off lying to my parents… oh, I’m sure there’s a couple things I got away with, but I didn’t sneak out, the parties I attended were sans alcohol, and I paid enough attention in health class that I feared ever trying any illegal substance. (And still do to this day.) I focused my dramatics on boys. I was never quite happy with my appearance since I wore glasses through 8^th grade (and glasses from the late '80s and early '90s were anything but cool), and even contact lenses didn’t make me feel any less of an ugly duckling. I was never without makeup, and even when my friends were kind enough to tell me my lipstick was waaaay too bright, I perceived that as an insult to my appearance. It didn’t help that my complexion was anything but clear and had the tetracycline/Retin-A combo to treat my acne. Thankfully, I didn’t have the super-visible-not-able-to-cover-up-with-makeup-acne, but a lot of it was my own fault since I liked (and still have this terrible habit) to pick. The bright side to my (still) oily face is that my mom constantly reminds me that I won’t have wrinkles when I get older since I was lucky (?) enough to inherit her oily genes. Not what you want to hear at 16 though. Nor did I enjoy hearing friends say, “Oh my gosh, I have A zit!” I’m like, “Okay, let me show you all of mine. I can play connect-the-dots!”

Being a high-schooler in the mid-‘90s was pretty carefree. Not that I can speak for everyone. I was fortunate enough to have a decent home life, and in spite of getting doses of real life through seventeen magazine (no cable at my house), I lived in my own little world. I didn’t give much thought about college, and after a sampling of dorm life at Penn State during 4-H State Days, I was a little uneasy about attending college. I knew it was what I was supposed to do after high school, but I had no idea what I wanted to be when I grew up. (Oh wait, I still don’t!)

I am very nostalgic about the ‘90s. The movies I watched repeatedly (Clueless, Dumb & Dumber), the music I overplayed (Live, Alanis Morissette), the TV shows I obsessed over (Friends, hence the haircut)… I’m sure my kids will make fun of me someday for all of that stuff, and not to mention some of my clothes (I’m making fun of me too for some of those outfit choices—yikers!), but those things will always remind me of my teenage life, which in all honesty, was pretty darn easy compared to some of the stuff I’ve dealt with as an adult.

But were they the best years of my life? As I'm a working mom and a wife and just trying to keep up with housework, bills and remembering all the things that need to get done for the day... not even close. I am blessed to be at this point, something that was so difficult to imagine 15 years ago.