Tag: pregnancy journey

I’m trying to order the food for the baby shower and have come across the ultimate question.

How much food is too much food for a baby shower?

The plan sounds simple, but somehow it feels so complicated to actually execute. I’ve had the menu planned since May, and now I’m revising it because apparently I have no concept of how much food a four-hour baby shower actually needs.

I wanted everything to be based on my pregnancy cravings, so we’re doing tea sandwiches, pinwheels, chicken salad, and a fruit table with apples, watermelon, honeydew, grapes, and cucumbers with chamoy and Tajín. Because honestly, a fruit table feels way better than making a sad salad that nobody is going to eat. And that red dye 40 is basically what got me through the beginning of my pregnancy.

I’m also doing nachos because it should’ve been a pretty obvious sign that I was pregnant when I was eating four plates of nachos with Hot Cheetos, cookies, and cupcakes back in February.

Originally, I was going to add ribs, potato salad, AND chicken… but that is just way too much food. This is a baby shower, not Thanksgiving.

And honestly, this is the exact same thing I did when I was planning the wedding. I went completely overboard with the food. Apparently, I have learned absolutely nothing.

The party is only four hours. It’s supposed to be a cute little lunch, not an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Someone please tell me… when is the nesting phase supposed to kick in?

Because I’m 30 weeks pregnant, and all I want to do is sleep or eat.

That’s it.

If I’m not scrolling TikTok or Instagram, there’s a 95% chance I’m unconscious. I swear I sit down thinking, I’ll just rest my eyes for five minutes, and suddenly it’s an hour later and I’ve somehow time-traveled into the future.

Everyone talks about this magical nesting instinct like one day you wake up possessed by the spirit of Martha Stewart. Suddenly you’re organizing baby clothes by size, labeling bins, deep-cleaning baseboards, sanitizing bottles, and meal-prepping enough freezer meals to survive both postpartum and the zombie apocalypse.

Meanwhile…

I’m over here celebrating because I remembered to load the dishwasher.

Gold star for me.

I think part of it is just that the third trimester is genuinely exhausting. Growing an entire human being is apparently a full-time job that forgot to mention overtime pay.

But I also think I’m still mentally catching up.

I only found out I was pregnant 12 weeks ago.

Twelve.

Weeks.

One minute I wasn’t pregnant, and the next thing I knew I was somehow already well into my second trimester. There wasn’t a slow build-up or months of anticipation. It felt like the universe skipped the tutorial level and threw me straight into Chapter 12.

Then there’s the fact that I had to move in the middle of my pregnancy.

I’m incredibly grateful my parents opened their home to me, and I know how lucky I am to have that support. But as thankful as I am, it doesn’t quite feel like my home. Hector and I are still living apart while we figure out our next place, and everything feels temporary.

It’s hard to feel inspired to organize a nursery when you don’t know where the nursery is going to be.

You can’t really “nest” when you’re still looking for the nest.

I’m hoping that once Hector and I get our own place—hopefully by August or, at the very latest, the beginning of September—that little nesting switch finally flips. Maybe I’ll suddenly become one of those women who spends an entire Saturday folding tiny onesies while debating the optimal drawer organization system.

Maybe.

Right now, though?

I’d rather take a nap.

Honestly, this whole pregnancy has felt like the beginning of a sci-fi novel.

You know those stories where pregnancies are weirdly accelerated and everyone acts like that’s completely normal?

That’s been my life.

I blinked and somehow I’m 30 weeks pregnant.

The symptoms have been just as dramatic. I went from wanting to eat literally everything to somehow being starving while also getting sick over the most random foods. My ribs constantly feel bruised, my back feels like it got into a fight with a Greyhound bus, and every day one of my ribs seems to announce that it’s filing for resignation.

It’s very rude of my skeleton, honestly.

Basically, I got the Twilight pregnancy experience… just without the craving for raw meat or blood.

And unlike Bella Swan, let’s all hope I make it through childbirth without needing to become a vampire afterward.

So if anyone is expecting me to suddenly alphabetize diapers, color-code baby socks, and reorganize every cabinet in the house…

We’re still waiting.

Maybe my nesting instinct is just running late.

Or maybe my version of nesting looks a little different. Maybe it’s making sure I always have ice water, snacks within arm’s reach, and the world’s comfiest pillow before settling in for Nap Number Three.

Honestly?

That feels like preparing for motherhood too.

If the nesting instinct decides to show up before this baby does, I’ll gladly welcome it.

Until then, I’ll be over here… resting my eyes.

I don’t know how I used to do this.

I’m currently on a Greyhound from Las Vegas to California, seven months pregnant, and my back is screaming. These bus rides are only about five hours, and there was a time when I’d climb on, put my headphones in, fall asleep, and wake up when we got there.

Today? Absolutely not.

Every position hurts. Sitting hurts. Leaning hurts. Existing hurts. Pregnancy has officially made me the most high-maintenance passenger on this bus.

And then there are… the people.

The woman traveling with her baby? She wasn’t the problem. In fact, I felt bad for her because everyone kept complaining every time the baby cried. The poor little one cried for maybe 30 minutes before completely knocking out for the rest of the trip. Babies cry. That’s literally part of being a baby. The adults complaining were honestly more annoying.

Then there’s the group of men talking at the complete opposite end of the bus somehow loud enough for everyone in the front to hear every single word. I don’t know how that’s even possible, but congratulations on your impressive lung capacity.

And let’s not forget the guy who fell asleep while playing the same TikTok over and over. If I hear that audio one more time, I may lose what’s left of my sanity.

Of course, my anxiety also decided to make an appearance. Usually I travel with my suitcase that’s covered in a million stickers, making it easy to spot. This time I brought a plain black duffel bag because all I’m carrying is dirty laundry. My mom’s washing machine is broken, so I’m taking my clothes to my friend’s house to wash them. Not the point of the trip but a key role in the story. 

There is absolutely nothing valuable in the bag.

Literally just dirty clothes.

Yet somehow I’ve convinced myself someone is going to steal it.

To make the trip even longer, we ended up delayed leaving Las Vegas because there was a truck on fire near the highway. Definitely not something you expect to see before starting a five-hour bus ride.

Then came my favorite part.

I pulled out my snacks because, newsflash, I’m seven months pregnant. I cannot go hours without eating something. Apparently the woman sitting across from me felt the need to comment on how often I was snacking.

Ma’am…

I’m growing an entire human.

My doctor would probably be more concerned if I wasn’t eating every couple of hours.

I promise my Goldfish crackers and granola bar aren’t affecting your trip.

At this point, all I want is to get to California, do my laundry, stretch my back, and never see the inside of a Greyhound again.

At least until I inevitably book another trip back home to Vegas. Let’s hope by then I completely forget how miserable this trip was.

Being plus size and pregnant is really hard, and lately it feels like no matter what I do, I’m being told it’s not enough.

At my appointment yesterday, my regular OB-GYN wasn’t there, so I ended up seeing a different doctor. That conversation left me feeling frustrated, so I wanted to share a little background.

Before I got pregnant—or at least before my doctors realized I was pregnant—I had been working really hard to lose weight. Back in December, I weighed 210 pounds. I was eating in a calorie deficit, staying consistent, and by February I had gotten down to 205 pounds.

Then life got stressful. I gave up on my diet because I just wasn’t feeling right. Looking back, that “off” feeling turned out to be pregnancy. By the time I went to the doctor in April, I weighed 207 pounds, and that’s when my pregnancy was officially confirmed.

Now I’m almost seven months pregnant, and I weigh 217 pounds.

When you’re plus size, doctors generally recommend gaining between 11 and 20 pounds during pregnancy. I’ve gained 10 pounds so far. The problem is that my doctor is only looking at my April weight because that’s when my pregnancy was confirmed. To them, it looks like I’ve gained those 10 pounds very quickly over the past couple of months, and they’re worried about my baby’s growth.

What makes this even more confusing is that they keep bringing up gestational diabetes, even though all of my glucose tests have come back looking pretty normal.

I honestly don’t know what I’m doing wrong.

The doctor keeps telling me to eat keto, but everything I’ve read in my pregnancy books says that a strict keto diet isn’t recommended during pregnancy. Even if I wanted to go low-carb, it’s not that simple. My baby has made it very clear what she will and won’t let me eat.

She’ll tolerate chicken, seafood, and an occasional burger, but steak, ground beef, and pork are completely off the table. Right now, most of my protein comes from eggs and beans. But then I’m told that while beans are a good source of protein, they’re also high in carbohydrates.

So it feels like I can’t win.

No matter what I eat, someone tells me it’s wrong. I’m trying my best to nourish my baby while also listening to what my body can actually handle, and that’s not always easy. Pregnancy is already challenging, but being plus size adds another layer of pressure that can make every appointment feel like you’re being judged instead of supported.

I’m doing the best I can, and I hope that’s enough.