By Shari Puterman @shariputerman
With my son’s second birthday less than two months away, I’ve found myself thinking a lot about my pregnancy.
It’s hard to believe that it’s been almost three years since I first discovered he was on the way. My life has been a whirlwind ever since — in more ways than I could possibly touch upon in today’s column — but over time, I’d like to reach a place where I feel comfortable sharing with you the ups and downs that have put my strength to the test.
I have never been one to make private matters public, but as I’ve stated before, I do not believe in sugar-coating, especially if others can relate to or benefit from parts of my journey through the “Three Major Ms” — motherhood, marriage and money matters — all interrelated, yet huge undertakings on their own.
Let’s start from the beginning and take it from there.
It was 6 a.m. on a Tuesday morning when I took the test that changed my life and found out I was pregnant with Dylan. I stared at that little line for a good 10 minutes, exploding with every feeling on the emotional spectrum: I can’t believe I am going to be holding my angel in nine months, I thought to myself, but what if this is just a repeat of what happened three months ago, and it ends in heartbreak?
I went from elated to petrified, with every flashback and fast-forward that raced through my mind. Becoming a mother was my almost-unattainable dream, and now that I was so close — for the second time — the confidence I always exuded was missing in action.
It was far too early to feel my baby moving, but all of a sudden, protective Mommy mode kicked into gear. I knew some things were beyond my control, but I was going to do everything I possibly could to ensure my little man had a perfect place to grow for the duration. I went above and beyond with my preventative measures, but, you know what? They gave me a sense of peace that I desperately needed at the time.
I quit caffeine cold-turkey, my laptop never went within a two-foot radius of my belly, and, as a seafood lover, I researched the mercury content of all my favorite fish and made a list of what was safe for “us” to consume.
About three months into the pregnancy, before I could feel any flutters of fetal movement, I purchased a Doppler device which I used each night after work to listen for the sound of Dylan’s heartbeat. I got a lot of criticism for this because it’s not always easy to pick up the signal, which could lead to false alarms and unnecessary angst. Me, being the determined perfectionist that I am, never had this problem and breathed a deep sigh of relief each time I heard the pitter-patter of my baby boy’s heart.
The morning I took that first pregnancy test, I got dressed for work in white Capri pants that were one size too big because, Heaven forbid, they would otherwise crush my little miracle, and I waited for my mother’s daily phone call. We had plans to go into Red Bank that night; our weekly ritual consisted of a happy-hour martini at Red, followed by a meal at the Bistro, where we always shared the calamari salad and Chilean sea bass.
When I saw her number illuminate my cell phone, the excitement and angst brought on major butterflies. Maybe it was the early pregnancy hormones, but either way, the anticipation of her reaction was overwhelming.
My mother and I share a very close bond, and ever since the miscarriage, she went into protective Mommy mode herself, never wanting me to feel that type of pain again. I took a deep breath and told her about the “test” I aced earlier that morning.
“I guess we’re not going out to Red Bank tonight,” she responded with a laugh.
After I left the office that evening, I headed to my parents’ Eatontown home unannounced, picked up my mother, and we continued our tradition.
I needed a constant in my life throughout that amazing, yet uncertain time.
Our weekly night out, filled with gossip, laughter and great food, remained unchanged, minus the mercury-laden Chilean sea bass — and, of course, the martini.