First, if you haven't already, you should read Pebbles' birth story here (for those of you confused, I am "Mary.") It's the most accurate version, as there are whole periods that aren't really seared in detail in my memory. Mountains of gratitude to Heidi for blogging the story (and writing it in Pebbles' journal), but more than that, I owe her a debt of gratitude for being there with me during Pebbles' birth.
Heidi (and my mother) are right when they say I attract (create?) drama. I can't do anything without high drama. Including, as it turns out, birthing my second child.
Last Sunday promised to be a quiet reprieve from the chaos of Saturday. I was to babysit two neighbor boys so their parents could attend the dedication of the Oquirrh Mountain Temple. In exchange, their parents would watch Woodstock so I could attend. I have longed to attend a dedicatory session for years, and never have logistics worked out in my favor. I was so proud of myself when I made the arrangements this time for making it happen.
I spent the morning playing blocks and trucks and watching Bob the Builder with Woodstock and the two little boys. I returned home, feeling crampy and exhausted. I flirted with the idea of calling the neighbors and telling them I wasn't going to attend, but talked myself out of it once I thought about how disappointed I would be if I didn't go. I put a roast on and decided to lie down while Woodstock was napping, after which I would tackle the laundry and bedroom that I'd left undone the previous day before heading to the dedication.
I laid down with a book and five minutes later, just as I was beginning to drift off, my water broke. I sat still for another 5 minutes hoping against hope it wasn't really my water breaking. Unable to come up with another option, however, I resigned myself to semi-panic mode. I showered, dressed and began the first of the 37 phone calls it would take to implement (or try to implement) the "How Sara is getting to the hospital and who is going to watch Woodstock and Grover since Himself is out of town plan." As it turns out, it took me clear until contingency plan F and nearly two hours to put plans into place.
My first call was to Himself, who was in the Pacific Northwest visiting his dying father. We knew when we sent him that me going into labor while he was gone was a possibility, since I was 39 weeks pregnant, but I never actually thought it would happen. I cried. I cried because I knew the chances of Himself missing Pebbles' birth were astronomically high. I cried because the last thing I wanted to do was birth my second child alone. I cried because I didn't want to be a burden to all the people I was trying to chase down to help me. I cried because, deep down, as much as I was physically ready to give birth, I was nowhere near emotionally ready.
Heidi arrived at the hospital before I did, effectively making me late to my own child's birth. Not a shocker, since I was also late to my wedding.
You have all the details from Heidi's post ... I spent the first 6 hours trying not to go out of labor and the next 5 trying to be done with labor. At some point I hit a mental/emotional wall when I realized Himself was really going to miss the birth and my inner strength crumbled. I lost my focus and panicked.
Fortunately, I was surrounded with three strong compassionate women - Heidi, my midwife and my nurse, who didn't believe what I was saying and made an epidural-free delivery happen anyway. I think my first words were, "I'm never having another child!" But after having a so-far not-too-painful-complicated recovery, I might reconsider going through all that again.
At 2:43 a.m., August 24, Pebbles arrived - perfect, healthy and wide awake (and hungry!). She has the most delicate features, brown hair, hazel eyes and was nearly a full pound (and a full inch) longer than Woodstock was. 7 pounds, 1 oz. 20".
So far, she is the most calm, content baby I've ever seen - beating even her older sister, who was also born with a very serene disposition. It is a bit surreal to snuggle with Pebbles and realize that she is also my child. It's an odd feeling to realize that one can love two offspring equally, and yet so differently.
Pebbles is here. After eight months of drama and a last week of complete insanity, our perfect little miracle is in my arms - quite litterally.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
From the Mixed-Up Weekend Files
Exhaustion and boredom and gratitude and overwhelming surges of every emotion known to man (or woman) would sum up the last few days of this past week.
Starting with the whole "Drama Tuesday" that included a sideways Pebbles and a dying father-in-law I have rocketed through the rest of the week with Himself's last-minute gold-plated (or cost enough it should have been) flight to (and 5-day stay in) the Pacific Northwest, a car rental employee who hooked Himself up with a 5-day rental for a total of $72, including tax, twice-a-day chiropractic visits (which, even with the co-pay each day, are still cheaper than whatever my share of a c-section would be), another midwife/OB consult (in tandem, since my midwife leaves for vacation in three days and doesn't handle breech babies anyway), a massive work project that has consumed me, my intern leaving, an inability to sleep or eat much, a networking gig I had to staff, a toddler whose vocabulary has grown to include the mysterious phrase "shame on you!", a near record-breaking heat wave and a house set to self-destruct.
This morning, I woke up at 3:30 a.m. I'd felt very little fetal movement the night before and none in the quiet hours of the obscenely early morning. Because Pebbles position (while back to head down on Thursday) is tenuous and there is some concern regarding the cord position, my instructions are to "Head to L&D the minute your contractions become regular, your water breaks or you stop feeling movement." I lie in bed for an hour, wondering who on earth I'd call at 4:30 in the morning to watch Woodstock while I drove myself to L&D for lack of fetal movement. I then realized that I'd left two days' of kitchen mess, and there was no way I could possibly admit anyone to the house who could witness that.
So I got up. I scrubbed the kitchen, re-organized two cupboards, unloaded and re-loaded the dishwasher and cleaned the guest bathroom before Woodstock decided to get up at 6:30 a.m. - a full hour early. By this point, one thing had led to another, and I needed to get her fed, dressed and presentable if I needed a sitter. She then "helped" me water the lawn, sweep and half-heartedly mop the kitchen/dining room, straighten the upstairs rooms and throw the kitchen rugs in the washing machine.
By 8 a.m., I was ready for a nap. Besides, I still had to try the sugary drink (oj) and food trick and lie down on my left side to get the baby to move. I fell asleep on the couch before Pebbles even woke up. Woodstock, free to roam the house, got bored with the Food Network programming I had selected and wandered into the dining room. I woke up 20 minutes later covered in spread-out napkins. Woodstock, who was sitting next to me calmly said, "Go to bed, mama. Woodstock cover you up." Hard to be too grumpy about picking up 20 napkins and re-folding them (in addition to the trail of napkins left from the dining room to the living room) when one's child has done it to make sure one is "covered up" for one's nap.
With slightly more energy (and slightly less sanity), I decided to quickly tackle the basement bathroom and take a shower before I started calling to find a sitter. Mostly because I really just wanted Pebbles to move on her own. I straightened the family room, ran a batch of towels through the wash, scrubbed the basement bath (minus the tub - my belly is too big to effectively lean over the tub to scrub it) and vacuumed. I threw the last stray items into my hospital bag - just in case. I showered, much to the delight of Woodstock, who kept pulling back the shower curtain to peer through the sheer plastic curtain and exclaiming, "Mama's naked!" while giggling.
At that point, it was 11:30 a.m. and Woodstock was starving. Feeling the need to make sure she was fed before I called anyone, I made lunch for both of us. She sat in "Grover's chair" across from me at the table, chin resting on its surface, and kept up a running commentary. I focused on eating more than I had at breakfast.
Whether it was the work or the food and the nearly 60 ounces of water consumed in a few hours' time, Pebbles woke up, did a dance and stayed fairly active for half an hour.
The relief was palpable. Woodstock and I celebrated by taking a long early afternoon nap.
I'm now trying to get up the energy to inflate and fill Woodstock's pool for an afternoon diversion (curses to Himself who couldn't get the $6 plastic kiddie pool and had to get the fancy inflatable one that requires an army - not to mention a whole lot of patience - to set up).
It's the strangest week/weekend I've had in recent memory.
Starting with the whole "Drama Tuesday" that included a sideways Pebbles and a dying father-in-law I have rocketed through the rest of the week with Himself's last-minute gold-plated (or cost enough it should have been) flight to (and 5-day stay in) the Pacific Northwest, a car rental employee who hooked Himself up with a 5-day rental for a total of $72, including tax, twice-a-day chiropractic visits (which, even with the co-pay each day, are still cheaper than whatever my share of a c-section would be), another midwife/OB consult (in tandem, since my midwife leaves for vacation in three days and doesn't handle breech babies anyway), a massive work project that has consumed me, my intern leaving, an inability to sleep or eat much, a networking gig I had to staff, a toddler whose vocabulary has grown to include the mysterious phrase "shame on you!", a near record-breaking heat wave and a house set to self-destruct.
This morning, I woke up at 3:30 a.m. I'd felt very little fetal movement the night before and none in the quiet hours of the obscenely early morning. Because Pebbles position (while back to head down on Thursday) is tenuous and there is some concern regarding the cord position, my instructions are to "Head to L&D the minute your contractions become regular, your water breaks or you stop feeling movement." I lie in bed for an hour, wondering who on earth I'd call at 4:30 in the morning to watch Woodstock while I drove myself to L&D for lack of fetal movement. I then realized that I'd left two days' of kitchen mess, and there was no way I could possibly admit anyone to the house who could witness that.
So I got up. I scrubbed the kitchen, re-organized two cupboards, unloaded and re-loaded the dishwasher and cleaned the guest bathroom before Woodstock decided to get up at 6:30 a.m. - a full hour early. By this point, one thing had led to another, and I needed to get her fed, dressed and presentable if I needed a sitter. She then "helped" me water the lawn, sweep and half-heartedly mop the kitchen/dining room, straighten the upstairs rooms and throw the kitchen rugs in the washing machine.
By 8 a.m., I was ready for a nap. Besides, I still had to try the sugary drink (oj) and food trick and lie down on my left side to get the baby to move. I fell asleep on the couch before Pebbles even woke up. Woodstock, free to roam the house, got bored with the Food Network programming I had selected and wandered into the dining room. I woke up 20 minutes later covered in spread-out napkins. Woodstock, who was sitting next to me calmly said, "Go to bed, mama. Woodstock cover you up." Hard to be too grumpy about picking up 20 napkins and re-folding them (in addition to the trail of napkins left from the dining room to the living room) when one's child has done it to make sure one is "covered up" for one's nap.
With slightly more energy (and slightly less sanity), I decided to quickly tackle the basement bathroom and take a shower before I started calling to find a sitter. Mostly because I really just wanted Pebbles to move on her own. I straightened the family room, ran a batch of towels through the wash, scrubbed the basement bath (minus the tub - my belly is too big to effectively lean over the tub to scrub it) and vacuumed. I threw the last stray items into my hospital bag - just in case. I showered, much to the delight of Woodstock, who kept pulling back the shower curtain to peer through the sheer plastic curtain and exclaiming, "Mama's naked!" while giggling.
At that point, it was 11:30 a.m. and Woodstock was starving. Feeling the need to make sure she was fed before I called anyone, I made lunch for both of us. She sat in "Grover's chair" across from me at the table, chin resting on its surface, and kept up a running commentary. I focused on eating more than I had at breakfast.
Whether it was the work or the food and the nearly 60 ounces of water consumed in a few hours' time, Pebbles woke up, did a dance and stayed fairly active for half an hour.
The relief was palpable. Woodstock and I celebrated by taking a long early afternoon nap.
I'm now trying to get up the energy to inflate and fill Woodstock's pool for an afternoon diversion (curses to Himself who couldn't get the $6 plastic kiddie pool and had to get the fancy inflatable one that requires an army - not to mention a whole lot of patience - to set up).
It's the strangest week/weekend I've had in recent memory.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Enter the Drama Queen
My mother finds it a very amusing thing to tell her friends that I attract drama like honey attracts flies. I, of course, find it not-quite-as-amusing, though at least she says "attracts" and not "creates," because I do not actually create drama, it just sort of follows me around incessently - like a puppy or a toddler.
Heidi would call it being a "crap magnet" - although not all of my drama is of the bad sort, just, well ... dramatic.
Unfortunately, I have to agree. Especially after this week. This week was going fine until I mentioned I felt a gut feeling that something was "off" and the midwife ordered a non-stress test and ultra sound so I didn't drive myself crazy.
As it turns out, Pebbles, after being compliant and facing head down since 29 weeks, is now BREECH - lying sideways across my belly and trending toward moving vertical - only with her head UP. Woodstock was breech, but she was breech the entire time until 37(ish) weeks when she turned. I'm due in EIGHT DAYS and my child turned breech sometime in the last week when I wasn't paying attention.
Transverse babies cannot be delivered vaginally, for obvious reasons. On the flip side, doctors normally quite happy to "prescribe" a c-section don't want to, because who wants to perform surgery on a patient fully anti-coagulated? Not only that, but if I went into labor I would then need an emergency c-section with general anesthesia (no time to un-anti-coagulate, eliminating all spinal anesthesia possibilities). Two bad things about this: a. I miss the birth entirely. b. Me and general anesthesia are better off staying far, far away from each other. Five surgeries. four had complications. two had life-threatening complications. The odds aren't so fabulous. Never mind the fact that I DO NOT WANT a c-section.
This sent my perfectly planned world into a tailspin. Suddenly I can no longer wish to wake up in the throes of labor pains. Suddenly I have to sit with my rear in the air and tilted right, holding a bag of frozen spinach to Pebbles' head in hopes of persuading her to relocate to another position. Often. Repeatedly. Suddenly, I'm going to the chiropractor's office twice a day to fix my badly misaligned pelvis in hopes that will coax Pebbles to settle down and cooperate. Suddenly, it's twice-a-week non-stress tests and ultrasounds and midwife visits to "keep an eye on" the baby so when she turns we can take action (I'm very empathetic to Kristin at the moment). Suddenly, while I'm still technically "working" I'm spending most of my day driving all over The Frontier.
Then the phone rings at 1:30 a.m. It was Himself's sister letting him know that FIL1 had had a heart attack, was rushed to the hospital and had a second one - it's related to his cancer treatments, they're not sure he'll make it. Himself so eloquently put it at 2 a.m., "He's not dead ... yet."
Up until 3 getting updates and dealing with the adrenaline that comes from being woken up mid-sleep cycle. Himself went back to sleep. There was to be no more sleep for me - once I'm woken up, I'm up. I did the dishes, straightened the kitchen, checked my e-mail, found a chiropractor and played solitaire. I fell asleep watching some baby show at 5:30, only to have to wake up at 6:30.
Today I've spent the day coordinating with the midwife and perinatologist and chiropractor and waiting for updates from Himself and surfing for cheap tickets to the northwest in case he decides to see his dad this weekend. And trying to concentrate on the never-ending "to do list" I have at work.
Maybe mom is right - I may not create drama, but I certainly seem to attract it. I'll gladly share, if anyone is feeling left out and getting too comfortable in the "life is grand, nothing ever changes" stage.
Heidi would call it being a "crap magnet" - although not all of my drama is of the bad sort, just, well ... dramatic.
Unfortunately, I have to agree. Especially after this week. This week was going fine until I mentioned I felt a gut feeling that something was "off" and the midwife ordered a non-stress test and ultra sound so I didn't drive myself crazy.
As it turns out, Pebbles, after being compliant and facing head down since 29 weeks, is now BREECH - lying sideways across my belly and trending toward moving vertical - only with her head UP. Woodstock was breech, but she was breech the entire time until 37(ish) weeks when she turned. I'm due in EIGHT DAYS and my child turned breech sometime in the last week when I wasn't paying attention.
Transverse babies cannot be delivered vaginally, for obvious reasons. On the flip side, doctors normally quite happy to "prescribe" a c-section don't want to, because who wants to perform surgery on a patient fully anti-coagulated? Not only that, but if I went into labor I would then need an emergency c-section with general anesthesia (no time to un-anti-coagulate, eliminating all spinal anesthesia possibilities). Two bad things about this: a. I miss the birth entirely. b. Me and general anesthesia are better off staying far, far away from each other. Five surgeries. four had complications. two had life-threatening complications. The odds aren't so fabulous. Never mind the fact that I DO NOT WANT a c-section.
This sent my perfectly planned world into a tailspin. Suddenly I can no longer wish to wake up in the throes of labor pains. Suddenly I have to sit with my rear in the air and tilted right, holding a bag of frozen spinach to Pebbles' head in hopes of persuading her to relocate to another position. Often. Repeatedly. Suddenly, I'm going to the chiropractor's office twice a day to fix my badly misaligned pelvis in hopes that will coax Pebbles to settle down and cooperate. Suddenly, it's twice-a-week non-stress tests and ultrasounds and midwife visits to "keep an eye on" the baby so when she turns we can take action (I'm very empathetic to Kristin at the moment). Suddenly, while I'm still technically "working" I'm spending most of my day driving all over The Frontier.
Then the phone rings at 1:30 a.m. It was Himself's sister letting him know that FIL1 had had a heart attack, was rushed to the hospital and had a second one - it's related to his cancer treatments, they're not sure he'll make it. Himself so eloquently put it at 2 a.m., "He's not dead ... yet."
Up until 3 getting updates and dealing with the adrenaline that comes from being woken up mid-sleep cycle. Himself went back to sleep. There was to be no more sleep for me - once I'm woken up, I'm up. I did the dishes, straightened the kitchen, checked my e-mail, found a chiropractor and played solitaire. I fell asleep watching some baby show at 5:30, only to have to wake up at 6:30.
Today I've spent the day coordinating with the midwife and perinatologist and chiropractor and waiting for updates from Himself and surfing for cheap tickets to the northwest in case he decides to see his dad this weekend. And trying to concentrate on the never-ending "to do list" I have at work.
Maybe mom is right - I may not create drama, but I certainly seem to attract it. I'll gladly share, if anyone is feeling left out and getting too comfortable in the "life is grand, nothing ever changes" stage.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Note to Self: Read the Label, Dummy!
When all else fails, read the drug label.
Normally I obsessively read the drug insert label on new prescriptions. And I look it up in the Physician's Desk Reference. But when I filled my prescription a week or so ago, I didn't bother, after all I've been on it several times and so I know (more or less) what to expect, even if I haven't been on it in two years.
The last few days I've been complaining (excessively probably) to Himself about the extreme fatigue I've been feeling during the day - but especially between 8 a.m. and early afternoon (only then to run into my normal afternoon slumps, which lead into dinner time, then the exhaustive "I'm 9 months pregnant and need to go to bed two hours early" tired spells, which effectively makes me fatiqued all day long).
I've also felt "off" - just slightly - like everything is a little fuzzy around the edges - especially in the mornings.
I just read the drug insert. "May cause fatique and diziness."
I think I've found the answer - seeing as I take it every morning at breakfast, which is, hmmm .... right around 8 a.m.
I think I'll be taking it before bed from now on.
**(Side note: In my defense, I have never had this side effect before, but the side effects of the injection drug I'm on also list diziness and fatigue as potential side effects - I think the two together are maginifying the issue - well, that and Pebbles sucking the very life out of my brain, bones and energy stores).
Normally I obsessively read the drug insert label on new prescriptions. And I look it up in the Physician's Desk Reference. But when I filled my prescription a week or so ago, I didn't bother, after all I've been on it several times and so I know (more or less) what to expect, even if I haven't been on it in two years.
The last few days I've been complaining (excessively probably) to Himself about the extreme fatigue I've been feeling during the day - but especially between 8 a.m. and early afternoon (only then to run into my normal afternoon slumps, which lead into dinner time, then the exhaustive "I'm 9 months pregnant and need to go to bed two hours early" tired spells, which effectively makes me fatiqued all day long).
I've also felt "off" - just slightly - like everything is a little fuzzy around the edges - especially in the mornings.
I just read the drug insert. "May cause fatique and diziness."
I think I've found the answer - seeing as I take it every morning at breakfast, which is, hmmm .... right around 8 a.m.
I think I'll be taking it before bed from now on.
**(Side note: In my defense, I have never had this side effect before, but the side effects of the injection drug I'm on also list diziness and fatigue as potential side effects - I think the two together are maginifying the issue - well, that and Pebbles sucking the very life out of my brain, bones and energy stores).
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Woodstock at (almost) 2
Woodstock hit the 23-month mark on Sunday. Which means two things: a) I must figure out ASAP what on earth we're going to give her for her birthday and b) Pebbles is arriving SOON!
I don't blog often about Woodstock - her antics are, like any first-born child, typically trophy and giggle worthy (after all, the starry eyed first-time parent hasn't worn off yet), but no one else needs to agree (or labor painfully through my ruminations on how delightful she is).
But there are some things just too good to pass up:
Bless her little heart, Woodstock seems to be taking it all in stride - so far. After all, she's not quite 2 yet.
I don't blog often about Woodstock - her antics are, like any first-born child, typically trophy and giggle worthy (after all, the starry eyed first-time parent hasn't worn off yet), but no one else needs to agree (or labor painfully through my ruminations on how delightful she is).
But there are some things just too good to pass up:
- Recently, Woodstock has taken to vanishing for periods of time. For all of 5 minutes, I was concerned - how does one lose a toddler in one's not-terribly-big house?! I wandered into her room - no Woodstock. It was the last room I checked, so I said, "Woodstock? Where are you?" And a little voice from underneath the crib (which has a bedskirt, so one cannot immediately see under it), "Hiding mama!" As to what she was doing under there? Well, most times she is sneaking a hit on the binky (banned at all times of the day other than bedtime). Sometimes she is hiding with contraband (lately something she swiped from Grover). Sometimes she is simply hiding from bedtime or anything else she doesn't want to do. The good thing is, she always lets us know where she is - she hasn't quite figured out that "Hiding" means not admitting to it.
- On Sunday afternoon after her nap, Woodstock called to me, "Mama. Come in here." I followed her into Grover's room/toy room/guest room. She pointed at a spot on the floor and said, "Sit here mama. Project." Miss Jan has "project" bags - bags that contain a puzzle or alphabet letters or other such things - Woodstock loves them and now "project" is code word for "puzzle" at our house. She set me up with one of her puzzles, then grabbed my scripture bag and her (large) purse and her plastic keys, & hoisted all of them over her shoulder (leaving her to walk a little tipped to one side) and said, "Bye bye mama. Got to go." She got as far as the front door before she had to come back to check on my puzzle progress.
- On Saturday, I set up the bassinet in our bedroom and got out all the newborn diapering supplies for the bassinet changing table. Woodstock "helped" me put all the diapers in the drawer. Unfortunately, she figured out how to open the drawer - and newborn diapers are just so cute she can't keep her hands out of them. This morning I was dressing in my closet (she had shut me in). I hear her little voice on the other side of the door, "Mama, yie down (lie down). Yie down mama, change your butt." (Heaven bless Himself for teaching her the phrase "change your butt" - just what I want my daughter to be saying). I came out. She was convinced she was going to put the newborn diaper on my rear end. I was convinced if I lie down, there was no getting off the floor in my condition. She was not happy about that in the slightest.
- While camping, my mom kept Woodstock and my niece happily occupied by giving them baby wipes and letting them "clean" - the side of the truck, the camper windows, the table, etc. Woodstock found this delightful. Since then, she has demanded to wash the windows at least once a day. Of course a dry tissue is not acceptable. It must be a "wipey" like the ones Grammy gave her. I am hoping Grammy wants to wash the insides of my dining room windows when she comes up over Labor Day - since, after all, the whole cleaning toddler thing was her idea.
Bless her little heart, Woodstock seems to be taking it all in stride - so far. After all, she's not quite 2 yet.
Monday, August 10, 2009
The Good Stuff
Besides the obvious "good stuff" of pregnancy (ie the fact that it results in a baby - the end point I keep reminding myself is worth all the not-so-fabulous stuff one endures on the way there), there are a couple of really fabulous things about my body and pregnancy that I am definitely going to miss in a couple of weeks (?) when Pebbles makes her arrival official.
Like the hair/skin. Okay, I'm in dire need of seeing a stylist, as my hair last got cut two days BEFORE I found out I was pregnant, but pregnancy changes the composition somehow and my scalp doesn't get oily. In fact, I can only wash it twice a week, for the most part, or it gets too dry. I certainly enjoy the extra minutes in my day that affords me. Additionally, the same thing happens to my skin - pregnancy is the ONLY time in my life since hitting adolescence that I haven't had to contend with acne. It's the only time my hormones are balanced enough to have clear skin.
And the dairy. I have severe lactose intolerance - to the point where I can handle about 4 ounces of dairy a day, max. Some cheeses and most yogurt don't bother me, but I absolutely cannot drink milk. During pregnancy, it all goes away - Poof! I can drink milk (and chocolate milk, which I uniquely crave during pregnancy) to my heart's content. No ill effects. As I was lying in bed during one of my insomniac moments last week I thought how my milk-drinking days were nearing to a close soon, resulting in a drastic uptick in my dairy consumption the last couple of days - sort of an "eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we may give birth" sort of thing.
Allergies - or the lack of them. My normal, seasonal allergies, which are bad enough that I'm typically on round-the-clock medication (except while prengant/nursing) completely abate while I'm pregnant. Pollen? Bring it on. Grass? Nope. Not an issue (well, I still can't roll in it - pregnancy only "cures" my nasal allergies, not my skin/contact allergies). Springtime? It's lovely when you can see it through clear eyes and fairly clear nasal passages.
Headaches. I frequently suffer headaches. Last pregnancy? Three, total, in 9 months. This pregnancy? Two. Not such bad odds. Which is good, since I'm pretty much prohibited from taking anything medicinal while I'm anti-coagulating my blood and incubating a human being.
Sure pregnancy comes with injections, bruising, aches, pains, 32 weeks of morning sickness (that showed up again last week for another round - just for good measure), swelling, chronic stuffy nose, cramps and all the usual "symptoms" - but I definitely enjoy having the skin of a thirtysomething instead of a 13-year-old, the reduced-maintenance hair, the extra milk, the allergy-free springtime and the vanishing headaches.
Unfortunately, if it's anything like last time, all of the "good stuff" vanishes the moment the real "good stuff" shows up - I don't even get the 6-week postpartum window to adjust.
I've added chocolate milk to the grocery list for what is likely the very last time.
Like the hair/skin. Okay, I'm in dire need of seeing a stylist, as my hair last got cut two days BEFORE I found out I was pregnant, but pregnancy changes the composition somehow and my scalp doesn't get oily. In fact, I can only wash it twice a week, for the most part, or it gets too dry. I certainly enjoy the extra minutes in my day that affords me. Additionally, the same thing happens to my skin - pregnancy is the ONLY time in my life since hitting adolescence that I haven't had to contend with acne. It's the only time my hormones are balanced enough to have clear skin.
And the dairy. I have severe lactose intolerance - to the point where I can handle about 4 ounces of dairy a day, max. Some cheeses and most yogurt don't bother me, but I absolutely cannot drink milk. During pregnancy, it all goes away - Poof! I can drink milk (and chocolate milk, which I uniquely crave during pregnancy) to my heart's content. No ill effects. As I was lying in bed during one of my insomniac moments last week I thought how my milk-drinking days were nearing to a close soon, resulting in a drastic uptick in my dairy consumption the last couple of days - sort of an "eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we may give birth" sort of thing.
Allergies - or the lack of them. My normal, seasonal allergies, which are bad enough that I'm typically on round-the-clock medication (except while prengant/nursing) completely abate while I'm pregnant. Pollen? Bring it on. Grass? Nope. Not an issue (well, I still can't roll in it - pregnancy only "cures" my nasal allergies, not my skin/contact allergies). Springtime? It's lovely when you can see it through clear eyes and fairly clear nasal passages.
Headaches. I frequently suffer headaches. Last pregnancy? Three, total, in 9 months. This pregnancy? Two. Not such bad odds. Which is good, since I'm pretty much prohibited from taking anything medicinal while I'm anti-coagulating my blood and incubating a human being.
Sure pregnancy comes with injections, bruising, aches, pains, 32 weeks of morning sickness (that showed up again last week for another round - just for good measure), swelling, chronic stuffy nose, cramps and all the usual "symptoms" - but I definitely enjoy having the skin of a thirtysomething instead of a 13-year-old, the reduced-maintenance hair, the extra milk, the allergy-free springtime and the vanishing headaches.
Unfortunately, if it's anything like last time, all of the "good stuff" vanishes the moment the real "good stuff" shows up - I don't even get the 6-week postpartum window to adjust.
I've added chocolate milk to the grocery list for what is likely the very last time.
Friday, August 07, 2009
I Would Just Like to Point Out ...
...That I have, apparently, learned something in the last two years.
Two years ago, it took us forever to put together Woodstock's bassinet (recounted, along with the resulting ruined dinner, here). And that was with two people, the box and the instructions (which, in hindsight, might have actually been the problem to begin with!)
Wednesday night, in a fit of desperation more than true nesting (nesting has come and gone - it seems I have neither the fortitude or the energy I had last time), I decided someone had better get around to putting up the bassinet, just in case Pebbles decides to come in the next week or so (highly unlikely, but I am considered "full term" tomorrow). Of course, Himself was working, which left the bassinet assembly up to me.
Of course, I could find the instructions to the bouncy seat (not that it actually needed instructions, the stroller (but not the carseat - ack! - that's the next project, and the mobile, but not the pack-n-play bassinet. I was more than a little paranoid, remembering the adventure last time.
10 minutes later, I was ... done. DONE. DONE!!! I couldn't help but feel like I'd done something horribly wrong and the whole thing was going to collapse in a fit of poorly assembled (or engineered?) plastic, metal and fabric. I kicked it. I put my (half-packed) hospital bag in it. Nothing happened. I drug out the hand sanitizer, the not-at-all-scented baby lotion (anticipating she's as allergic to fragrances as Woodstock and I...), the bottom cream ... nothing happened. It remained standing.
I'm baffled. How is it that it could take us half and evening last time and less than a quarter of an hour this time? It just doesn't seem possible.
Then again, it does feel sort of nice to realize I have learned something since I've become a parent.
Two years ago, it took us forever to put together Woodstock's bassinet (recounted, along with the resulting ruined dinner, here). And that was with two people, the box and the instructions (which, in hindsight, might have actually been the problem to begin with!)
Wednesday night, in a fit of desperation more than true nesting (nesting has come and gone - it seems I have neither the fortitude or the energy I had last time), I decided someone had better get around to putting up the bassinet, just in case Pebbles decides to come in the next week or so (highly unlikely, but I am considered "full term" tomorrow). Of course, Himself was working, which left the bassinet assembly up to me.
Of course, I could find the instructions to the bouncy seat (not that it actually needed instructions, the stroller (but not the carseat - ack! - that's the next project, and the mobile, but not the pack-n-play bassinet. I was more than a little paranoid, remembering the adventure last time.
10 minutes later, I was ... done. DONE. DONE!!! I couldn't help but feel like I'd done something horribly wrong and the whole thing was going to collapse in a fit of poorly assembled (or engineered?) plastic, metal and fabric. I kicked it. I put my (half-packed) hospital bag in it. Nothing happened. I drug out the hand sanitizer, the not-at-all-scented baby lotion (anticipating she's as allergic to fragrances as Woodstock and I...), the bottom cream ... nothing happened. It remained standing.
I'm baffled. How is it that it could take us half and evening last time and less than a quarter of an hour this time? It just doesn't seem possible.
Then again, it does feel sort of nice to realize I have learned something since I've become a parent.
Thursday, August 06, 2009
Beware of 4 a.m.
One should beware of online activities at 4 a.m., especially if one's wallet is in reach.
This morning I woke up early, as usual. What wasn't usual was that I woke up at 3:30 a.m. Normally "early" involves a 5 in the hour. I had acid reflux (again) that was so bad I'd gross any of my 2.7 readers out if I was to describe it, so I'll refrain. Suffice it to say, it was miserably bad - bad enough that sleep just wasn't going to happen again. At 3:45, I heaved myself out of bed.
Since I was in a class all day yesterday, I logged on to check my work e-mail - in case anything specatularly interesting had happened that I just might have to deal with before I showed up at 9 a.m. While I was at it, I decided to browse for a few things we need, that we've been putting off because I just didn't have the energy to go to a furniture store and "browse."
So I browsed online. Read reviews, compared prices, clicked on buttons and made mathematical calculations in my sleep-addled brain.
By 4:30 a.m., my online shopping cart contained one full-sized mattress, one full-sized box spring, one bed frame and one 5.0 cubic foot chest freezer. Grand total: $530, plus tax and delivery ...I think the 5 showing up in my total (instead of in my awakening hour) was what did it ...
I woke up enough to realize that the delivery charge was more than it would cost us to rent a pick-up (or cajole a neighbor) for the day, and Himself and the two teenage boys inhabiting our house (Grover and Nephew) this week are more than enough manpower to move a full-sized bed and a small freezer into the 70s palace.
Never mind though. That wasn't enough to stop me, I reserved it for in-store pick up on Saturday.
Beware of 4 a.m. - suddenly your excuse for not buying Himself corn dogs (lack of freezer space) will no longer fly and your guests (and Grover) will have somewhere to sleep besides a trusty air mattress.
And your bank account will still be stinging.
This morning I woke up early, as usual. What wasn't usual was that I woke up at 3:30 a.m. Normally "early" involves a 5 in the hour. I had acid reflux (again) that was so bad I'd gross any of my 2.7 readers out if I was to describe it, so I'll refrain. Suffice it to say, it was miserably bad - bad enough that sleep just wasn't going to happen again. At 3:45, I heaved myself out of bed.
Since I was in a class all day yesterday, I logged on to check my work e-mail - in case anything specatularly interesting had happened that I just might have to deal with before I showed up at 9 a.m. While I was at it, I decided to browse for a few things we need, that we've been putting off because I just didn't have the energy to go to a furniture store and "browse."
So I browsed online. Read reviews, compared prices, clicked on buttons and made mathematical calculations in my sleep-addled brain.
By 4:30 a.m., my online shopping cart contained one full-sized mattress, one full-sized box spring, one bed frame and one 5.0 cubic foot chest freezer. Grand total: $530, plus tax and delivery ...I think the 5 showing up in my total (instead of in my awakening hour) was what did it ...
I woke up enough to realize that the delivery charge was more than it would cost us to rent a pick-up (or cajole a neighbor) for the day, and Himself and the two teenage boys inhabiting our house (Grover and Nephew) this week are more than enough manpower to move a full-sized bed and a small freezer into the 70s palace.
Never mind though. That wasn't enough to stop me, I reserved it for in-store pick up on Saturday.
Beware of 4 a.m. - suddenly your excuse for not buying Himself corn dogs (lack of freezer space) will no longer fly and your guests (and Grover) will have somewhere to sleep besides a trusty air mattress.
And your bank account will still be stinging.
Monday, August 03, 2009
"The End"
We had "the talk" this month. The one where we both confessed to each other, out loud, that this might be my very last pregnancy.
It's hard for me to imagine, less than 4 years after having "the talk" that determined we needed to try for a child, that we would be having the talk that would book-end it, discussing whether or not this second child would be "it" as in "the end."
I'm making no decisions, no promises, no anything else, for a couple of years, but I don't want to look back and mourn the fact that I didn't properly appreciate what may well be my final pregnancy. I don't want to lament that I didn't cherish the good parts of pregnancy - the internal acrobatics, spontaneous hiccups (except when they occur near a very full bladder), the feeling of being able to protect one's child from absolutely everything - even if for just 9 short months.
The whole thing has been on my mind a lot lately, as my pregnancy draws near to the end (3.5 weeks until the "estimated" day of delivery). Every time I outgrow another outfit, every time I lose my breath walking up the stairs, every time I look like a circus sideshow act putting on my granny hose in the morning (I can no longer reach - or see - my feet), every time I feel Pebbles kick ... I think, "this might be it." Yet, having the courage to voice it out loud has been nearly as difficult as finding a suitable real-life name for Pebbles.
Last night, we did it. We opened the door of possibility. I didn't know what to expect, how to feel - but a myriad of emotions washed over me. Tentative relief. A bit of sadness. A dose of selfishness and guilt. After all, my body is apparently (surprise, surprise) able to conceive and carry children. The same body, however, is apparently bound and determined to make it as difficult as possible each subsequent time. All of the testing indicates that all subsequent pregnancies would require the same treatment as a precaution - the 6+-month course of expensive, painful injections. The numerous lab visits, the coordination of care with a perinatal specialist, the side effects (extra fatigue and nausea). It all seems like such a small price, but I'm feeling barely human these days. Twice in the past two weeks I had to nap before I left for work at 8:30 a.m. One day I nearly danced in glee that I had to stay home with Woodstock who had a mysteriously high fever for a single day - because it meant a 2-hour afternoon nap.
I worry constantly about what all the medications are doing to Pebbles. I know statistically she'll likely be fine. But neither drug was studied for long-term use, and drugs, as a general rule, aren't studied using pregnant people as subjects. I worry about what they are doing to MY body - and then feel guilty. Anything that has "death" listed as a side effect tends to make one a bit queasy, but there is an internal component built into mothers that automatically makes them sacrifice for the good of their child. I just don't want my sacrifice to be so great I leave two little girls without a healthy, fully functioning, stable mother.
And then there is the anxiety - the feeling of losing absolute control when there are more than 3.5 people in the room at any given time (it is artifically high this week, given I have charge over two teenage boys and a toddler while 9 months pregnant). Chaos makes me physically ill - completely unable to function. We already guessed this would limit our "creating humans" capacity, but I'm only beginning to bring it out into the light of reality to examine it.
I knew the minute I gave birth to Woodstock that I wanted another child. I had baby lust FAR more after giving birth than I ever had before. Pregnant women, women with new babies, women planning on more babies, all made me pine for another one - even when I had a barely-sleeping-through-the-night infant of my own at home. I knew as strongly as I knew anything that there was another child waiting for me. It makes me wonder what crazy emotion will wash over me this time in the after-delivery delirium that makes women insane enough to think "it wasn't so bad, I can totally do this again!"
If it says, "Have another one," so be it, but I have to be prepared to give the "okay" to myself, to my body, if it doesn't. If Pebbles really is my last baby, I resolve to be the best two-child mother I can be and focus on those delightful spirits entrusted me, knowing I left no one out.
Still, there is something so ... final, so emotionally draining about even uttering the words, "The End."
It's hard for me to imagine, less than 4 years after having "the talk" that determined we needed to try for a child, that we would be having the talk that would book-end it, discussing whether or not this second child would be "it" as in "the end."
I'm making no decisions, no promises, no anything else, for a couple of years, but I don't want to look back and mourn the fact that I didn't properly appreciate what may well be my final pregnancy. I don't want to lament that I didn't cherish the good parts of pregnancy - the internal acrobatics, spontaneous hiccups (except when they occur near a very full bladder), the feeling of being able to protect one's child from absolutely everything - even if for just 9 short months.
The whole thing has been on my mind a lot lately, as my pregnancy draws near to the end (3.5 weeks until the "estimated" day of delivery). Every time I outgrow another outfit, every time I lose my breath walking up the stairs, every time I look like a circus sideshow act putting on my granny hose in the morning (I can no longer reach - or see - my feet), every time I feel Pebbles kick ... I think, "this might be it." Yet, having the courage to voice it out loud has been nearly as difficult as finding a suitable real-life name for Pebbles.
Last night, we did it. We opened the door of possibility. I didn't know what to expect, how to feel - but a myriad of emotions washed over me. Tentative relief. A bit of sadness. A dose of selfishness and guilt. After all, my body is apparently (surprise, surprise) able to conceive and carry children. The same body, however, is apparently bound and determined to make it as difficult as possible each subsequent time. All of the testing indicates that all subsequent pregnancies would require the same treatment as a precaution - the 6+-month course of expensive, painful injections. The numerous lab visits, the coordination of care with a perinatal specialist, the side effects (extra fatigue and nausea). It all seems like such a small price, but I'm feeling barely human these days. Twice in the past two weeks I had to nap before I left for work at 8:30 a.m. One day I nearly danced in glee that I had to stay home with Woodstock who had a mysteriously high fever for a single day - because it meant a 2-hour afternoon nap.
I worry constantly about what all the medications are doing to Pebbles. I know statistically she'll likely be fine. But neither drug was studied for long-term use, and drugs, as a general rule, aren't studied using pregnant people as subjects. I worry about what they are doing to MY body - and then feel guilty. Anything that has "death" listed as a side effect tends to make one a bit queasy, but there is an internal component built into mothers that automatically makes them sacrifice for the good of their child. I just don't want my sacrifice to be so great I leave two little girls without a healthy, fully functioning, stable mother.
And then there is the anxiety - the feeling of losing absolute control when there are more than 3.5 people in the room at any given time (it is artifically high this week, given I have charge over two teenage boys and a toddler while 9 months pregnant). Chaos makes me physically ill - completely unable to function. We already guessed this would limit our "creating humans" capacity, but I'm only beginning to bring it out into the light of reality to examine it.
I knew the minute I gave birth to Woodstock that I wanted another child. I had baby lust FAR more after giving birth than I ever had before. Pregnant women, women with new babies, women planning on more babies, all made me pine for another one - even when I had a barely-sleeping-through-the-night infant of my own at home. I knew as strongly as I knew anything that there was another child waiting for me. It makes me wonder what crazy emotion will wash over me this time in the after-delivery delirium that makes women insane enough to think "it wasn't so bad, I can totally do this again!"
If it says, "Have another one," so be it, but I have to be prepared to give the "okay" to myself, to my body, if it doesn't. If Pebbles really is my last baby, I resolve to be the best two-child mother I can be and focus on those delightful spirits entrusted me, knowing I left no one out.
Still, there is something so ... final, so emotionally draining about even uttering the words, "The End."
Sunday, August 02, 2009
The One Where the Pregnant Lady Ventures Into the Wilderness
Again.
No, the camping trip 4 weeks ago didn't cure me of my need to commune with the great outdoors this summer - though it did cure me of wanting to sleep on the ground the rest of the pregnancy. Himself's work schedule is a mess, so he couldn't get off. Grover was visiting relations in the Great Frozen North, so I took Woodstock and we set off on a 230-mile journey (36.5 miles of it on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere) to join up with The Parentals, my sister/bro-in-law/niece and a couple of other family members for four days of "luxury" camping.
It is "luxury" because I got to sleep in my parents' trailer. Although don't be too jealous - the bed was only slightly softer than the ground, and I did have to share a sleeping space with Woodstock, who would wake up each morning with the sun at 5:45 a.m. and declare, "All done sleeping mommy!" Um, sure. Me too ... I guess. It was also "luxury" because on this annual camping trip (I've gone 25 or so of my 30+ years), we eat like queens - an abudance of food was available at all times of night or day, in addition to the fabulous meals whipped up by The Parentals and my sister.
The only problem was at 36 weeks pregnant I got the a-okay to go from my Midwife only if I promised to not hike or take "long walks that other people would consider hiking" or do too much. The Parentals translated this as, "Sara should do nothing." Aggravation. I felt alternately useless and exhausted. The Parentals waivered between grateful I could come and paranoid that I'd go into labor at 9,000 feet, 2+ hours from the nearest (small) hospital.
On the way down, under strict instructions from The Parentals, I caravanned with my aunt who was also joining the family camping trip in the camping spot across the street. She told me I had to navigate, as she never could remember exactly how to get there. I joked that once we hit the dirt road, you spend the first 20 miles convinced you're on the wrong road (little to no signage) and the last 16 miles or so convinced you've passed the campground because the mileage sign (the ONE mileage sign) is wrong. I will admit, as fiercely independent as I am, I was a little nervous making the return trip today sans an escort - through nearly 40 miles of barren wilderness with no cell phone signal. I could just imagine getting a flat tire, being unable to change it due to my "condition" and having to hike (er, walk) the remaining lonely miles to the nearest town - population a few hundred people - with Woodstock on my back and a 9-month-pregnant belly.
Fortunately, lots of prayers and good fortune abounded and we made it home filthy, safe and only slightly grumpy.
Six hours later, I've unpacked, done three batches of laundry, bathed, gone to the grocery store (clean but unkempt), ordered Chinese food and tried not to think about how exhausted I am after four days of doing nothing but chasing Woodstock and sitting on my tail end.
Four weeks left (approximately), and I think I'm all adventured out.
No, the camping trip 4 weeks ago didn't cure me of my need to commune with the great outdoors this summer - though it did cure me of wanting to sleep on the ground the rest of the pregnancy. Himself's work schedule is a mess, so he couldn't get off. Grover was visiting relations in the Great Frozen North, so I took Woodstock and we set off on a 230-mile journey (36.5 miles of it on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere) to join up with The Parentals, my sister/bro-in-law/niece and a couple of other family members for four days of "luxury" camping.
It is "luxury" because I got to sleep in my parents' trailer. Although don't be too jealous - the bed was only slightly softer than the ground, and I did have to share a sleeping space with Woodstock, who would wake up each morning with the sun at 5:45 a.m. and declare, "All done sleeping mommy!" Um, sure. Me too ... I guess. It was also "luxury" because on this annual camping trip (I've gone 25 or so of my 30+ years), we eat like queens - an abudance of food was available at all times of night or day, in addition to the fabulous meals whipped up by The Parentals and my sister.
The only problem was at 36 weeks pregnant I got the a-okay to go from my Midwife only if I promised to not hike or take "long walks that other people would consider hiking" or do too much. The Parentals translated this as, "Sara should do nothing." Aggravation. I felt alternately useless and exhausted. The Parentals waivered between grateful I could come and paranoid that I'd go into labor at 9,000 feet, 2+ hours from the nearest (small) hospital.
On the way down, under strict instructions from The Parentals, I caravanned with my aunt who was also joining the family camping trip in the camping spot across the street. She told me I had to navigate, as she never could remember exactly how to get there. I joked that once we hit the dirt road, you spend the first 20 miles convinced you're on the wrong road (little to no signage) and the last 16 miles or so convinced you've passed the campground because the mileage sign (the ONE mileage sign) is wrong. I will admit, as fiercely independent as I am, I was a little nervous making the return trip today sans an escort - through nearly 40 miles of barren wilderness with no cell phone signal. I could just imagine getting a flat tire, being unable to change it due to my "condition" and having to hike (er, walk) the remaining lonely miles to the nearest town - population a few hundred people - with Woodstock on my back and a 9-month-pregnant belly.
Fortunately, lots of prayers and good fortune abounded and we made it home filthy, safe and only slightly grumpy.
Six hours later, I've unpacked, done three batches of laundry, bathed, gone to the grocery store (clean but unkempt), ordered Chinese food and tried not to think about how exhausted I am after four days of doing nothing but chasing Woodstock and sitting on my tail end.
Four weeks left (approximately), and I think I'm all adventured out.
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