There were three reasons I went with a midwife for this pregnancy:
1. I had a virtually complication-free pregnancy/labor/delivery with Woodstock.
2. The doctor billed me $2,500 just for delivering Woodstock. It wasn't even my doctor who delivered her, but one of the partners. He was around for only a few minutes total. My midwife charged $2,600 for the ENTIRE pregnancy, delivery and post-partum care.
3. I wanted to write my own labor/delivery show (as it turns out, I should go into writing ridiculously "truth is more exciting than fiction" screenplays, given the drama I managed to conjure up).
When I first got pregnant with Woodstock, I had virtually no opinion on the subject - which was probably for the best, since I also had virtually no knowledge of the subject either. Over the course of 9 months, I read a lot, talked to a lot of people and began to form opinions. Between my pregnancies, I continued to read and learn. My pregnancy with Pebbles' brought on a whole new dimension of learning.
Through it all, I've determined one thing - women should be given (and should take) the opportunity to direct their own childbirthing experience, medical complications notwithstanding.
My midwife and I talked a lot about what I wanted Pebbles' birth to be like. I had a great birth experience with Woodstock, but knew I wanted something more this time - more control, more intimacy and more dialogue with the medical establishment. We talked about my birth plan. We talked about my reasons for refusing a 39-week induction - standard procedure for patients on Heparin (standard only because it ensures the patient can have an epidural). We talked about how, after a pregnancy full of drugs, I wanted Pebbles to not have any more drugs in her system than necessary. We talked - and that was the most important thing. We had a dialogue, I expressed my concerns, desires, opinions and questions and she did the same. If she didn't have answer, we turned to the OB and the perinatologist I was also seeing throughout the course of my pregnancy.
It made me feel empowered - even through a pregnancy filled with all kinds of "surprises" (of mostly the not-so-fabulous kind). It made me feel like I was in control of things, which, for a reforming control freak is rather obligatory.
In the end, that sense of empowerment, that sense of directing my child's entrance into the world, proved to be almost divine. There is nothing like childbirth in the world. If you haven't given birth or been at the side of someone who has, you have missed out on one of the greatest moments life affords - because nothing comes close to replicating it. The births of both of my children were incredibly emotional and powerful. However, Pebbles' birth - nearly perfect were it not for Himself's absence - brought with it a whole new sense of power and awe and emotion.
Woodstock entered the world with me relatively calm - mostly because at the last moment, I'd opted for an epidural and could no longer feel anything but pressure below my belly button. I, however, was the only calm thing in the room. The lights were bright (it was, after all 9 in the morning), there seemed to be a dozen people, and the whole thing felt chaotic when she emerged with the cord around her neck. The resident snapped the cord, spraying us with blood. Woodstock was whisked away to help her breathing, then was weighed, measured, cleaned, wrapped and made "pretty" before I got to hold her.
With Pebbles, it was entirely different. I was in agony. No one seems to remember how bad childbirth is and therefore forgets to tell you (or opts not to). I'd forgone the epidural - not out of some hero complex, but because I really wanted to know what it was like to bear a child without having the lower half of my body deadened. I now know. And, truthfully, I really would do it again. It was hell, but it was the good kind - the kind that fills you with power and amazement and love and awe at the end, all of which cloud one's sanity and make you think it's possible to do it all over - just several years down the road.
Pebbles arrived with me the only one in chaos. I remember thinking I hoped the delivery room was sound proof because I was yelling like a banshee. In truth, it helped provide an outlet for my tense emotions so the lower half of me didn't tighten up and keep Pebbles hostage. But it sounded like I was dying. Everything else, however, was calm - almost serene. The room was dim - only one light. The pediatric team (I didn't even realize they were in the room) had been banished to the corner and was banished completely upon Pebbles' arrival. I witnessed the entire birth and felt the miracle of one's body doing everything just right. I watched as the little girl I had co-created entered the world - red, breathing and perfect.
One thing I had mourned with Woodstock's birth was not being able to hold her immediately - it was one of the most important parts of my birth plan. "If she's fine," I told my midwife in one of my prenatal appointments, "I want to hold her immediately. Everything else - including cutting the cord - can wait."
They cleaned Pebbles off as I cradled her in my arms. Eventually, Heidi cut the cord. Eventually, they weighed her and measured her and wrapped her in a cute blanket. But before all of that, I got to sit in the dim room, with angelic lighting, and marvel at the miracle of creation and birth and life. I didn't cry. If I cried, I wouldn't stop. The adrenaline prevented me from mourning the absense of Himself - only when it wore off would I profoundly mourn the one less-than-perfect part of Pebbles birth.
I felt good. (To be entirely truthful, I also felt a lot of pain - no one told me how many painful things happen AFTER the baby arrives!) I felt like I had made the right choice in birthing, the right choice in medical provider, the right choice in birth coach - and once again, I had drawn the right lucky straw in the nurse who spent the night by my side.
It will forever be one of the greatest memories of my entire life.
The experience made me realize just how much childbirth plays into the physical and emotional well-being of a mother, the bonding between mother and child and how empowering motherhood can really be. Motherhood isn't about being susurvient or losing oneself in dirty diapers, baby puke and sleep depravation. It is about holding hands with God, walking the fine line between heaven and earth for a few short hours. It is about creating and delivering the world's most precious resource. It is about being strong, believing in one's body and marveling at the miracle of biology.
It came from feeling empowered. It came from feeling in control and on top of the world. It came from the pain, the discomfort, the yelling - all centered in an oasis of strong, calm women - my village. It came from realization that there is an inherent bond among women when they experience childbirth together. It came from the sense of peace that flooded me as I held Pebbles in my arms - still warm and wet and sticky from her sojourn next to my soul.
For me, it was as close to the divine as I will likely get during my mortal journey. For that morning, I felt as if the veil drawn between heaven and earth was paper thin, and I was at peace.
Showing posts with label Pregnancy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pregnancy. Show all posts
Sunday, September 06, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Bittersweet: Pebbles Joins The Family
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.
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.
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).
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.
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.
Monday, July 27, 2009
The One Where The Pregnant Lady Ventures to the Pool
There comes a time in every mother's life where she must risk personal humiliation to provide a stimulating activity for her child. It would do said child a great deal of good to remember this when she believes at the wise old age of 13 that her mother is purposely trying to humiliate her. Turnabout is fair play.
Grover is here for his summer visit. In an attempt to engage both he and Woodstock in an activity suitable for a toddler and a teen (and a pregnant woman), I brought up the idea of venturing to the neighborhood aquatic center for a few hours over the weekend. Both kids loved the idea. Woodstock exclaimed happily over and over "poo! poo! poo!" (not to self: work on pronunciation of the letter "L").
An hour before our departure time on Saturday morning, I began to panic. Taking a teen to the pool is no big deal - at nearly 13 SS is old enough to merely be in the same room, not under constant eyeballing. However, taking a toddler to the pool would require that I myself get into the pool - 8 1/2 month pregnant belly and all.
The first challenge was finding a suitable bathing suit option. Since it is quite likely that I will not venture into a swimming pool more than a handful (if that) times in the next 5 weeks, buying a maternity suit was quite out of the question. Last year's ridiculously ugly tankini was also out, because it looked like Hilda the Hippo was trying to cram herself into someone's itsy-bitsy-teeny-weeny-yellow-polka-dot-bikini. (Not that it was either a bikini, polka-dotted or yellow, but the general effect was the same).
I ended up fishing a two-piece out from the depths of the garage that I bought back in college and wore for years pre-childbirthing/stretchmarks/poochy stomach days. It fit (if you consider "fitting" to mean it stayed on my body without glue, suspenders or looking like it shrunk in the wash). Of course, there was no way on earth I was parading my large, late-pregnancy belly (complete with stretch marks - old and new - and enough heparin bruises to make me look like a bad accident victim) in a two piece to a community pool (I wouldn't even wear it in my fenced-in backyard, after all). I dug deeper into the garage and came out with a long tank that covered everything from my neck to my upper legs.
But, oh, the legs. In my haste to be maternal-figure-of-the-year, I had neglected to think about the fact that there was no way to escape my legs being the object of attention during this venture. They are lily white. As white as Woodstock's, who have never seen the light of day without being slathered in sunscreen repeatedly. And my skin is translucent, which means you can see every vein, scar, spot and ... every single spontaneous heparin bruise. Not to mention I hadn't shaved my legs in recent memory - thanks to the fact that they are stuffed into granny socks for 15ish hours a day.
I set out to rectify the problem, forgetting that I can't even see my legs when I look down, let alone maneuver well enough to get a razor to be effective at all. Not to mention I'm currently mildly phobic about razors, given my propensity to nick my ankles and my current regiment of anti-clotting drugs. After 30 minutes of trying, I gave up. I have no idea what the end result looked like, and at that point, it didn't really matter anyway. What with the ghetto bathing suit get up, the big belly and the white, bungled legs - a little bit of hair on my lower legs certainly couldn't make me look that much worse ... could it?
It was about this point when Grover declared he had a headache and was no longer interested in this mixed-up family outing. I considered calling the whole thing off until Woodstock ramped up her pleas of "poo! poo" which were unsatisfied by her baby pool on the back lawn.
I schlepped us both to the aquatic center, where Woodstock promptly decided the water was better from a distance and clung to me like lint on a sweater for the first 30 minutes. While the water helped buoy up her 25 pound bulk, it did nothing for my image as an uber-cool mom ... standing there in knee-deep water with a toddler suctioned to my right hip, my belly sticking out under a wet tank and my spotted legs available for closer inspection.
About 30 minutes in, Woodstock abruptly changed course and decided that pools were fine as long as she could WALK by herself, sans parental supervision. This would have been fine in the zero-depth entry portion, but she wasn't content to stay where she could actually touch the bottom with reliability. I spent the remainder of the time praying that I would be able to move as fast as my lightening-quick toddler, who suddenly delighted in the "poo" and the water and the other kids and felt she was much too advanced to be tethered to her mother. I'm sure the lifeguard kept her eye on us, just waiting for me to do a belly flop as I dove after Woodstock, wondering what kind of sane pregnant woman dons a bathing suit and takes a toddler to the pool by herself.
I myself was wondering the exact same thing. I'm filing this under "things to think about more thoroughly next time before commencing activity."
Grover is here for his summer visit. In an attempt to engage both he and Woodstock in an activity suitable for a toddler and a teen (and a pregnant woman), I brought up the idea of venturing to the neighborhood aquatic center for a few hours over the weekend. Both kids loved the idea. Woodstock exclaimed happily over and over "poo! poo! poo!" (not to self: work on pronunciation of the letter "L").
An hour before our departure time on Saturday morning, I began to panic. Taking a teen to the pool is no big deal - at nearly 13 SS is old enough to merely be in the same room, not under constant eyeballing. However, taking a toddler to the pool would require that I myself get into the pool - 8 1/2 month pregnant belly and all.
The first challenge was finding a suitable bathing suit option. Since it is quite likely that I will not venture into a swimming pool more than a handful (if that) times in the next 5 weeks, buying a maternity suit was quite out of the question. Last year's ridiculously ugly tankini was also out, because it looked like Hilda the Hippo was trying to cram herself into someone's itsy-bitsy-teeny-weeny-yellow-polka-dot-bikini. (Not that it was either a bikini, polka-dotted or yellow, but the general effect was the same).
I ended up fishing a two-piece out from the depths of the garage that I bought back in college and wore for years pre-childbirthing/stretchmarks/poochy stomach days. It fit (if you consider "fitting" to mean it stayed on my body without glue, suspenders or looking like it shrunk in the wash). Of course, there was no way on earth I was parading my large, late-pregnancy belly (complete with stretch marks - old and new - and enough heparin bruises to make me look like a bad accident victim) in a two piece to a community pool (I wouldn't even wear it in my fenced-in backyard, after all). I dug deeper into the garage and came out with a long tank that covered everything from my neck to my upper legs.
But, oh, the legs. In my haste to be maternal-figure-of-the-year, I had neglected to think about the fact that there was no way to escape my legs being the object of attention during this venture. They are lily white. As white as Woodstock's, who have never seen the light of day without being slathered in sunscreen repeatedly. And my skin is translucent, which means you can see every vein, scar, spot and ... every single spontaneous heparin bruise. Not to mention I hadn't shaved my legs in recent memory - thanks to the fact that they are stuffed into granny socks for 15ish hours a day.
I set out to rectify the problem, forgetting that I can't even see my legs when I look down, let alone maneuver well enough to get a razor to be effective at all. Not to mention I'm currently mildly phobic about razors, given my propensity to nick my ankles and my current regiment of anti-clotting drugs. After 30 minutes of trying, I gave up. I have no idea what the end result looked like, and at that point, it didn't really matter anyway. What with the ghetto bathing suit get up, the big belly and the white, bungled legs - a little bit of hair on my lower legs certainly couldn't make me look that much worse ... could it?
It was about this point when Grover declared he had a headache and was no longer interested in this mixed-up family outing. I considered calling the whole thing off until Woodstock ramped up her pleas of "poo! poo" which were unsatisfied by her baby pool on the back lawn.
I schlepped us both to the aquatic center, where Woodstock promptly decided the water was better from a distance and clung to me like lint on a sweater for the first 30 minutes. While the water helped buoy up her 25 pound bulk, it did nothing for my image as an uber-cool mom ... standing there in knee-deep water with a toddler suctioned to my right hip, my belly sticking out under a wet tank and my spotted legs available for closer inspection.
About 30 minutes in, Woodstock abruptly changed course and decided that pools were fine as long as she could WALK by herself, sans parental supervision. This would have been fine in the zero-depth entry portion, but she wasn't content to stay where she could actually touch the bottom with reliability. I spent the remainder of the time praying that I would be able to move as fast as my lightening-quick toddler, who suddenly delighted in the "poo" and the water and the other kids and felt she was much too advanced to be tethered to her mother. I'm sure the lifeguard kept her eye on us, just waiting for me to do a belly flop as I dove after Woodstock, wondering what kind of sane pregnant woman dons a bathing suit and takes a toddler to the pool by herself.
I myself was wondering the exact same thing. I'm filing this under "things to think about more thoroughly next time before commencing activity."
Monday, July 20, 2009
Moon Walks and Vampires
On Moon Walks
20 years ago today, I made my first trek to the National Air & Space Museum in downtown D.C. I was spending the summer at my aunt and uncle's house in Virginia, and was mid-way through indulging myself in what would ultimately end up being a life-changing experience.
We had made several trips downtown in previous weeks - the first being for the not-to-be-missed 4th of July celebration on the National Mall - but we hadn't yet ventured to the Smithsonian museums on the mall's south side.
I certainly didn't recognize the significance of the day until my arrival (with hundreds of thousands of other people) at the air and space museum that day - the 20th anniversary of man's first walk on the moon. I touched a moon rock, gazed at real and replicated space craft and learned more about space in a few hours of reading every museum sign I could lay my eyes on than I had in all my nearly 11 years of life up to that point. It was, after all, only 3 short years after the Challenger disaster, my last real interaction with space, which had left me a bit skeptical and slightly bruised.
I remember feeling kind of important for being in a place so significant on the anniversary of such a great historical event. It was, ultimately, one of the things that gave D.C. such an incredible pull over my psyche. Standing in the middle of history was intoxicating - so intoxicating that it never quite left me, until I migrated back as an adult resident.
It's hard to believe 20 years - and so much more history - has passed. Today, as I listen to the recaps of the 40th celebration of man's walk on the moon, I can't help but reflect that for me, the lunar landing happened not on July 20, 1969, but on July 20, 1989, as I had the chance to re-live a piece of history in a city known for staging some of the most significant historical, political and social acts of the 20the 20th century.
That day, D.C. became my town.
On Vampires.
It surprises me, looking back, that the thing that terrified me most about my first surgery (at age 14) was not the surgery itself, or even the anesthetic (something I learned to fear with the next surgery, which left me in critical care on life support). Rather, my greatest fear was having my blood drawn and typed the week before surgery. It wasn't the needle so much as it was the fact that I had to sit and watch vials upon vials (or so it felt) of my blood leak out of my arm.
Today, as I journeyed to the hospital lab for my fourth blood draw in 12 days, I realized just how grateful I was that I go over the whole thing a long time ago. As it turns out, if one ends up with a blood clot while pregnant, one ends up spending a significant amount of time getting to knowvampires phlebotomists on a first-name basis. I have one more draw this week until the doctors determine if I am medicated at the correct level. Then I get to repeat the whole process in 10 days when I begin another drug that may or may not interact with the first one, requiring another two weeks of vampire lab visits every three days.
The whole experience has taught me something though - if you have to go in for frequent lab work, go to a hospital. Himself confessed that hospitalvampires phlebotomists generally have more experience overall (not to mention much more experience with difficult veins or people like me who now artificially bleed like a stuck pig upon the slightest abrasion) and are more skilled with a needle. I don't want to risk jeopardizing the streak yet, but so far, 5 sticks with needles (counting the one where I got stuck and didn't bleed - odd) and not a single, solitary bruise. A significant event, given the fact that this medication makes me bruise spontaneously.
It still doesn't make me terribly fond ofvampires blood draws, but at least it makes it tolerable. Plus, they give Woodstock a dum dum sucker if she happens to be with me, which makes her find my lab visits downright thrilling. And anything that makes a toddler happy, makes a toddler's mother very happy.
20 years ago today, I made my first trek to the National Air & Space Museum in downtown D.C. I was spending the summer at my aunt and uncle's house in Virginia, and was mid-way through indulging myself in what would ultimately end up being a life-changing experience.
We had made several trips downtown in previous weeks - the first being for the not-to-be-missed 4th of July celebration on the National Mall - but we hadn't yet ventured to the Smithsonian museums on the mall's south side.
I certainly didn't recognize the significance of the day until my arrival (with hundreds of thousands of other people) at the air and space museum that day - the 20th anniversary of man's first walk on the moon. I touched a moon rock, gazed at real and replicated space craft and learned more about space in a few hours of reading every museum sign I could lay my eyes on than I had in all my nearly 11 years of life up to that point. It was, after all, only 3 short years after the Challenger disaster, my last real interaction with space, which had left me a bit skeptical and slightly bruised.
I remember feeling kind of important for being in a place so significant on the anniversary of such a great historical event. It was, ultimately, one of the things that gave D.C. such an incredible pull over my psyche. Standing in the middle of history was intoxicating - so intoxicating that it never quite left me, until I migrated back as an adult resident.
It's hard to believe 20 years - and so much more history - has passed. Today, as I listen to the recaps of the 40th celebration of man's walk on the moon, I can't help but reflect that for me, the lunar landing happened not on July 20, 1969, but on July 20, 1989, as I had the chance to re-live a piece of history in a city known for staging some of the most significant historical, political and social acts of the 20the 20th century.
That day, D.C. became my town.
On Vampires.
It surprises me, looking back, that the thing that terrified me most about my first surgery (at age 14) was not the surgery itself, or even the anesthetic (something I learned to fear with the next surgery, which left me in critical care on life support). Rather, my greatest fear was having my blood drawn and typed the week before surgery. It wasn't the needle so much as it was the fact that I had to sit and watch vials upon vials (or so it felt) of my blood leak out of my arm.
Today, as I journeyed to the hospital lab for my fourth blood draw in 12 days, I realized just how grateful I was that I go over the whole thing a long time ago. As it turns out, if one ends up with a blood clot while pregnant, one ends up spending a significant amount of time getting to know
The whole experience has taught me something though - if you have to go in for frequent lab work, go to a hospital. Himself confessed that hospital
It still doesn't make me terribly fond of
Thursday, July 09, 2009
50 Days
Okay, really I have 49.5, but who is counting?
This baby will be "fully cooked" in 49(ish) days. 7 weeks.
Nesting has still not kicked in. I haven't done more than surface clean in several weeks (other than the bathrooms, since I've had a slew of house guests who are fortunately quite tolerant of the random non-organizational chaos of the 70s Palace). I haven't cooked a meal all week. And I just realized that the ground beef I took out for dinner tonight got left out all day, which means we won't be eating anything fabulous tonight either.
I did get to check one thing off my very long ridiculous list of things to accomplish yesterday: Buy coming home outfit for baby.
If baby is a boy, we're in big trouble. It's pink and has fuzzy bears.
The list of things to accomplish in the next 49 (ish) days however, looms long, including:
We do not have a name for Baby. Not even a list to narrow down. We just can't seem to motivate ourselves to discuss it. And the semi-proposed middle name isn't the most user-friendly name, further limiting choices. Baby does, however, have a screen name. We're happy to announce that Sara, Himself, Grover and Woodstock will be welcoming Pebbles to the family.
We also don't have a clue where Pebbles will be sleeping when she arrives - other than in her bassinet - because wherever she goes requires re-arranging furniture, and I'm too tired to think about it, let alone actually DO it.
I have not taken any childbirth classes. Ever. Yes, this is my second child. The first one I kind of winged it. I don't have that luxury this time. I do not want to be induced, which means I cannot have an epidural, even if I decide 80% of the way through labor that I want one like last time. I hated the way it made me feel, so I have no regrets about limiting my epidural options, but I am a bit clueless in the pain management techniques of labor. I've read a lot of books. I will be reading more over the next 7 weeks, I believe.
I'm torn as to whether I'm ready or not for this to be done. This may well be it for us. It may well be my last pregnancy (my body is rather hoping so, but the rest of me refuses to commit to any decision regarding further children for a minimum of 2 years post-delivery). Given that, I'm loathe to say I'm ready to be done, but I am ready to no longer feel as if I'm carrying a bowling ball between my legs. Woodstock never dropped until I was in transition. Pebbles has been riding with her head practically engaged for the last four weeks. And, if I'm being totally honest, after 5 1/2 months of injections twice a day, I really could do without the needles. But I want a healthy, happy baby, so I'm not ready to have her quite yet.
Besides, I still have 49 days and at least that many things on my list.
This baby will be "fully cooked" in 49(ish) days. 7 weeks.
Nesting has still not kicked in. I haven't done more than surface clean in several weeks (other than the bathrooms, since I've had a slew of house guests who are fortunately quite tolerant of the random non-organizational chaos of the 70s Palace). I haven't cooked a meal all week. And I just realized that the ground beef I took out for dinner tonight got left out all day, which means we won't be eating anything fabulous tonight either.
I did get to check one thing off my very long ridiculous list of things to accomplish yesterday: Buy coming home outfit for baby.
If baby is a boy, we're in big trouble. It's pink and has fuzzy bears.
The list of things to accomplish in the next 49 (ish) days however, looms long, including:
We do not have a name for Baby. Not even a list to narrow down. We just can't seem to motivate ourselves to discuss it. And the semi-proposed middle name isn't the most user-friendly name, further limiting choices. Baby does, however, have a screen name. We're happy to announce that Sara, Himself, Grover and Woodstock will be welcoming Pebbles to the family.
We also don't have a clue where Pebbles will be sleeping when she arrives - other than in her bassinet - because wherever she goes requires re-arranging furniture, and I'm too tired to think about it, let alone actually DO it.
I have not taken any childbirth classes. Ever. Yes, this is my second child. The first one I kind of winged it. I don't have that luxury this time. I do not want to be induced, which means I cannot have an epidural, even if I decide 80% of the way through labor that I want one like last time. I hated the way it made me feel, so I have no regrets about limiting my epidural options, but I am a bit clueless in the pain management techniques of labor. I've read a lot of books. I will be reading more over the next 7 weeks, I believe.
I'm torn as to whether I'm ready or not for this to be done. This may well be it for us. It may well be my last pregnancy (my body is rather hoping so, but the rest of me refuses to commit to any decision regarding further children for a minimum of 2 years post-delivery). Given that, I'm loathe to say I'm ready to be done, but I am ready to no longer feel as if I'm carrying a bowling ball between my legs. Woodstock never dropped until I was in transition. Pebbles has been riding with her head practically engaged for the last four weeks. And, if I'm being totally honest, after 5 1/2 months of injections twice a day, I really could do without the needles. But I want a healthy, happy baby, so I'm not ready to have her quite yet.
Besides, I still have 49 days and at least that many things on my list.
Thursday, July 02, 2009
The Great American Vacation
Himself and I have not taken a vacation in 34 months - not since we went to Boston to see Boston College take three overtimes to beat BYU in September 2006. Prior to that, we took a vacation to Newport, RI, in 2005. Before that our last vacation was our New England honeymoon in 2003.
Oh sure, we've visited family several times during the course of the last 34 months. Little road trips here and there (or long airplane treks before relocating to The Frontier), but while we love our families, it's not exactly going on vacation.
Therefore, I have been hellbent on having a real family vacation this year. I didn't care if it was overnight as long as it was not within 100 miles of The Frontier and didn't involve staying at a relative's house.
Given the fact that we have a baby arriving sometime in the next 8 weeks (ish), with all of the accompanying financial output, this vacation had to be cheap (not that I'm not already the queen of cheap vacations). And, given the fact that I'm chronically exhausted, it really couldn't involve a long distance, because who wants to spend the entire vacation sleeping?
Sometime this spring I hit on the (then) fabulous idea of heading to Yellowstone for a long weekend. Cooler temperatures, close enough to drive, cheap (National Parks Pass doesn't expire until month's end, camping is $12/night, etc.) and beautiful. The original plan was to do it sometime in June - but then June was the Great Job Quandry where we weren't exactly sure what was going on and Himself's schedule was about as predictable as the weather report.
So it got moved to the only other weekend available with three open days prior to me becoming as big as a whale and no longer interested in leaving the basement of the 70s palace (too hot to stay upstairs)...of course, it coordinates with the same weekend the rest of America converges on the Great American Roadtrip, but having endured the I-95 corridor during every major holiday possible, we figure it couldn't be that bad.
Then Himself, who has long professed to be a camper but in reality actually rarely camps, confessed that camping was fine as a kid, but as an adult "it's entirely too much work." DESPERATE for a vacation, I made a deal with the devil: I would do all of the trip preparation/packing myself if he would go and act excited. He agreed.
It sounded easy enough: all the camping gear is in one confined spot. It's only for 3 days and 2 nights. We're eating basic camp food, in order to limit our pot-packing to one and our cooler space to the Igloo in the garage.
Sometime around 7 p.m. last night I realized I'm probably insane. I started with the clothes - that would be easy. Except, Yellowstone is 30 degrees cooler than The Frontier and will require jackets/long sleeves/long pants in the cool morning and late evening hours. I had to climb up to retrieve Woodstock's fall clothing from the top of her closet, then make her play mannequin as I tried them on to see if there were any camping-appropriate pants that wouldn't droop around her ankles. She thought it was fun - except each clothing changed involved her racing through the basement saying, "Cute clothes, mama!" and giggling as she tried to out-maneuver me in order to not have to change. Then came packing for me. Trouble is, I've never been 8 months pregnant in cold weather before, limiting me to about 1.5 pieces of clothing that actually fits and is appropriate for camping.
As of this morning, less than 24 hours before our slated departure, the camping gear is packed (tarps, tent, sleeping bags, sleeping pads, thermarest pad, lantern, batteries, etc.). The non-perishable food is packed (hot dog buns, marshmallows, instant oatmeal, cereal bars, granola bars, goldfish, fruit, and other assorted edibles). The clothing is (mostly) packed ... still trying to figure out how not to be naked on top this weekend and wondering how silly I'd look in one of Himself's shirts which are 4 sizes too big even while pregnant. Woodstock's diaper bag/backpack is packed (diapers, wipes, changing pad, epi pen, benadryl, etc.).
It's all piled on the living room couch - making it slightly less possible for Woodstock to re-arrange the piles. Problem is, I'm so tired, I'm ready to come home already, and we haven't even left yet.
Then I glanced at the weather ... it is one of those times I'm really praying that the weatherman is wrong in his assessment of this weekend. I might be crazy, camping in a tent at 32 weeks pregnant, but I'm not crazy enough to want to do it in a soggy tent.
Next time, we're picking a vacation destination that involves a massage, a butler, a maid and a personal chef.
Oh sure, we've visited family several times during the course of the last 34 months. Little road trips here and there (or long airplane treks before relocating to The Frontier), but while we love our families, it's not exactly going on vacation.
Therefore, I have been hellbent on having a real family vacation this year. I didn't care if it was overnight as long as it was not within 100 miles of The Frontier and didn't involve staying at a relative's house.
Given the fact that we have a baby arriving sometime in the next 8 weeks (ish), with all of the accompanying financial output, this vacation had to be cheap (not that I'm not already the queen of cheap vacations). And, given the fact that I'm chronically exhausted, it really couldn't involve a long distance, because who wants to spend the entire vacation sleeping?
Sometime this spring I hit on the (then) fabulous idea of heading to Yellowstone for a long weekend. Cooler temperatures, close enough to drive, cheap (National Parks Pass doesn't expire until month's end, camping is $12/night, etc.) and beautiful. The original plan was to do it sometime in June - but then June was the Great Job Quandry where we weren't exactly sure what was going on and Himself's schedule was about as predictable as the weather report.
So it got moved to the only other weekend available with three open days prior to me becoming as big as a whale and no longer interested in leaving the basement of the 70s palace (too hot to stay upstairs)...of course, it coordinates with the same weekend the rest of America converges on the Great American Roadtrip, but having endured the I-95 corridor during every major holiday possible, we figure it couldn't be that bad.
Then Himself, who has long professed to be a camper but in reality actually rarely camps, confessed that camping was fine as a kid, but as an adult "it's entirely too much work." DESPERATE for a vacation, I made a deal with the devil: I would do all of the trip preparation/packing myself if he would go and act excited. He agreed.
It sounded easy enough: all the camping gear is in one confined spot. It's only for 3 days and 2 nights. We're eating basic camp food, in order to limit our pot-packing to one and our cooler space to the Igloo in the garage.
Sometime around 7 p.m. last night I realized I'm probably insane. I started with the clothes - that would be easy. Except, Yellowstone is 30 degrees cooler than The Frontier and will require jackets/long sleeves/long pants in the cool morning and late evening hours. I had to climb up to retrieve Woodstock's fall clothing from the top of her closet, then make her play mannequin as I tried them on to see if there were any camping-appropriate pants that wouldn't droop around her ankles. She thought it was fun - except each clothing changed involved her racing through the basement saying, "Cute clothes, mama!" and giggling as she tried to out-maneuver me in order to not have to change. Then came packing for me. Trouble is, I've never been 8 months pregnant in cold weather before, limiting me to about 1.5 pieces of clothing that actually fits and is appropriate for camping.
As of this morning, less than 24 hours before our slated departure, the camping gear is packed (tarps, tent, sleeping bags, sleeping pads, thermarest pad, lantern, batteries, etc.). The non-perishable food is packed (hot dog buns, marshmallows, instant oatmeal, cereal bars, granola bars, goldfish, fruit, and other assorted edibles). The clothing is (mostly) packed ... still trying to figure out how not to be naked on top this weekend and wondering how silly I'd look in one of Himself's shirts which are 4 sizes too big even while pregnant. Woodstock's diaper bag/backpack is packed (diapers, wipes, changing pad, epi pen, benadryl, etc.).
It's all piled on the living room couch - making it slightly less possible for Woodstock to re-arrange the piles. Problem is, I'm so tired, I'm ready to come home already, and we haven't even left yet.
Then I glanced at the weather ... it is one of those times I'm really praying that the weatherman is wrong in his assessment of this weekend. I might be crazy, camping in a tent at 32 weeks pregnant, but I'm not crazy enough to want to do it in a soggy tent.
Next time, we're picking a vacation destination that involves a massage, a butler, a maid and a personal chef.
Monday, June 15, 2009
The Whiny Chronicles of Other Pregnant Women
I somehow find it necessary to ocassionally torture myself by reading a huge website designed for parents and expectant moms. Ostensibly it's to provide support, but all it does is raise my blood pressure and make me understand why it is pregnant women get a bad rap.
A sampling of headlines/posts from recently (all from a group of people expecting in August 2009):
For the record, I consider pregnancy one of God's greatest miracles. I am thrilled to be able to bear another child - when for years I thought I wouldn't be able to have one. I realize I'm among some very fortunate women and there are others who have to endure much more. That said, I don't particularly love being pregnant. This time, it has been much harder physically - there have been some complications, and I'm in pain almost every single day. I'm still losing my breakfast at almost 30 weeks. Yes, it's worth it, but yes, it's hard. Some days I'm a hormonal mess. Some days I can't get anything done. Most days I want to crawl into a hole and take a nap.
But I am profoundly grateful for a) a so far healthy baby b) a so far healthy pregnancy, all things considered c) a husband d) a family e) jobs f) the fact that I have everything I need for this baby - sure I need new bottles, diapers, wipes, etc. - but I've been picking those things up here and there, g) that my drug co-pay is only $150/month and not the full retail price of $4k and h) that there will be an end point to the twice-a-day painful self-injections and ugly granny socks. :)
I guess I'm just fed up with complete and utter self-centeredness - complaining about everything, "I must be treated as a diva and am going to act like a selfish spoiled brat otherwise," attitude. We're in the mist of a global economic crisis and it seems all that some can think about is how stingy people were at their baby shower or how few baby showers they are getting or so forth.
I just want to say, "Can we all just not be happy, blessed and grateful and focus on those who have far less than we do?" I'd also like to add, "It is your husband/boyfriend/partner's baby too, his mom is no less important than your mom, you are not the center of the universe, your baby will be fine whether you dress it in Goodwill or Dolce and Gabana, there is no perfect way to raise a child and chances are you'll throw out 95% of it and wing it anyway and for crying out loud it is RUDE to ask someone to throw you a party/give you gifts."
I'm no saint, and I do whine - sometimes more than I should - but heaven help me if I become so shallow and knock me upside the head and remind me of this post.
A sampling of headlines/posts from recently (all from a group of people expecting in August 2009):
- I can't stand my mother-in-law because *sob* she's buying my baby's clothes from WalMart. My baby is going to be dressed wonderful, not cheap.
- I can't believe no one has offered to give me a baby shower! I mean, I still need stuff like bottles and things. - This said by a woman who is expecting her second child, which will be 18 months younger than her first child.
- *sniff* My [insert friend/in-law/sibling here] is throwing me a baby shower, and she refuses to listen to what I want.
- Multiple threads along the lines of, My husband/boyfriend won't do every single thing I ask and refuses to make me the absolute center of attention for 9 full months - he's being so selfish!.
- I am so tired of hearing opinions on the name we chose. (Hint? If you don't want to ear others opinions, don't share the name until it is inked on the birth certificate).
- I am only getting one baby shower - I guess no one cares about me..
- Offended by [fill in blank]
For the record, I consider pregnancy one of God's greatest miracles. I am thrilled to be able to bear another child - when for years I thought I wouldn't be able to have one. I realize I'm among some very fortunate women and there are others who have to endure much more. That said, I don't particularly love being pregnant. This time, it has been much harder physically - there have been some complications, and I'm in pain almost every single day. I'm still losing my breakfast at almost 30 weeks. Yes, it's worth it, but yes, it's hard. Some days I'm a hormonal mess. Some days I can't get anything done. Most days I want to crawl into a hole and take a nap.
But I am profoundly grateful for a) a so far healthy baby b) a so far healthy pregnancy, all things considered c) a husband d) a family e) jobs f) the fact that I have everything I need for this baby - sure I need new bottles, diapers, wipes, etc. - but I've been picking those things up here and there, g) that my drug co-pay is only $150/month and not the full retail price of $4k and h) that there will be an end point to the twice-a-day painful self-injections and ugly granny socks. :)
I guess I'm just fed up with complete and utter self-centeredness - complaining about everything, "I must be treated as a diva and am going to act like a selfish spoiled brat otherwise," attitude. We're in the mist of a global economic crisis and it seems all that some can think about is how stingy people were at their baby shower or how few baby showers they are getting or so forth.
I just want to say, "Can we all just not be happy, blessed and grateful and focus on those who have far less than we do?" I'd also like to add, "It is your husband/boyfriend/partner's baby too, his mom is no less important than your mom, you are not the center of the universe, your baby will be fine whether you dress it in Goodwill or Dolce and Gabana, there is no perfect way to raise a child and chances are you'll throw out 95% of it and wing it anyway and for crying out loud it is RUDE to ask someone to throw you a party/give you gifts."
I'm no saint, and I do whine - sometimes more than I should - but heaven help me if I become so shallow and knock me upside the head and remind me of this post.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Silver Linings
My compression stockings may make me look like an even bigger fashion reject than I already am (particularly since maternity clothes seem to only come in garish colors and prints and are not particularly attractive) and they may make my core body temperature rise 10 degrees now that it's warm out, however ...
SILVER LINING: I almost never have to shave my legs. And apparently leg hair requires oxygen (or blood circulation) to grow, because it grows much more S-L-O-W-L-Y underneath these fabulous socks.The Frontier might not get 300 days of sunshine a year, have an ocean or Sea World nearby or boast fabulous seafood, sushi and baja-style Mexican food, however ...
SILVER LINING: Staying here means living in a state that isn't falling apart at the seams (yet), the cost of living is much less and there isn't a moving truck involved (yet).Woodstock is getting her two top canine teeth (apparently she is unable to cut just one tooth at a time), making her as moody as a 13-year-old girl, however ...
SILVER LINING: it also makes her extra snuggly and extra appreciative when mom feeds her popsicles (a special treat) and soft mushy stuff like cold yogurt and warm oatmeal.I love silver linings!
Friday, May 22, 2009
Wait, Not Yet
I had an epiphany this week (they do still happen, if only rarely, while pregnant): last year at this same time I was stuck in a job I'd been praying to leave for six months. Everyone told me to quit my job - my friends, my head shrinker, my family. (Himself did not - in self-preservation he tried not to talk about my job at all, as it would inevitably result in some sort of mass hysteria on my end). Normally when everyone is saying "RUN" I run, but this time ... the quietest voice inside said, "Wait. Not just yet."
Wait! Wait? What?! I spent a good deal of time telling Him exactly what I thought of that answer - couldn't He understand that I was dying a little every day? Couldn't He understand that my boss was a tyrannical lunatic who changed her mind as often as Heidi's daughter changes princess dresses? Didn't He get the fact that when one is financially dependent on one's paycheck having it be days, weeks, late was a problem (not to mention the bounced checks or the incorrect checks)?
Never did it cross my mind that it probably wasn't a good idea to try and explain things to God. Yet, despite all the logic and advice in the world, I waited. And waited. And cried. A lot. At least I listened, even if I did murmur about it for six whole months. Unfortunately, it's more likely because I was too afraid of being unemployed for a long period of time than any grand display of faith.
Then, the events of Friday the 13th occurred, and I was spun into a web of absolute devastation. If only I had quit, on my terms, I wouldn't be facing someone who was telling me I wasn't competent and did a terrible job. I spent the weekend begging Him to reconsider the "wait, not just yet" answer. Days later, I received the answer I'd alternately hoped for and feared for six months: Now.
I gleefully quit my job. I laughed all the way to the parking lot - during the points I wasn't thinking about how on earth I was going to make an income without a job.
Days later, The Office - a client - hired me full-time almost immediately. Same pay. Less stress. MUCH less drama. I said yes because that option felt best for my family and I eventually felt peace for the first time in months - even if I was bored stiff and deeply wounded, feeling as if I'd been shattered into thousands of pieces.
As it turns out, The Office was the answer to the six months of trying to change God's mind. He knew all along. I couldn't see past my immediate misery to understand it wasn't permanent. The boredom has passed and The Office has allowed me to expand my skills, to experiment with new ones, to rebuild my confidence, to have a consistent (correct, non-bouncing) paycheck, to make a difference. Not to mention, it often allows me to work from home, flex-time and whatever else I need to do in order to be the best mother I can be while I have to be employed full-time.
More than that, however, this week, I learned, that The Office will allow me to do the one thing I haven't dared hope for: have paid maternity leave. Not for long - 6 to 8 weeks of full-pay - but more than I ever expected. I can't begin to put into words the enormity of the burden this has relieved from my shoulders. This time, I did not have to bargain with the Devil and sell my soul, my sanity and the first six weeks of my child's life in order to keep my job. This time, I do not have to work part-time eight days after giving birth - and be railroaded into feeling guilty for not being available whenever The Factory felt like it. This time, I can celebrate the birth of our daughter, revel in the love of my two little girls, and go crazy handling only the demands of motherhood. Not other option I have had over the last 18 months would have granted me all of that. None.
Of course you know why I had to wait ... there wasn't the freedom in the budget for The Office to hire me before the Friday the 13th episode, nor was their relationship so tainted with The Factory that they'd even consider breaking their contract to hire me away. It required a perfect, and painful, storm on both sides.
It has been quite the journey. Months later, with the clarity of hindsight, I can say that "Wait. Not Yet" has been one of the best answers to a prayer I've ever received.
I send my apologies and stand quite humbled. And quite blessed.
Wait! Wait? What?! I spent a good deal of time telling Him exactly what I thought of that answer - couldn't He understand that I was dying a little every day? Couldn't He understand that my boss was a tyrannical lunatic who changed her mind as often as Heidi's daughter changes princess dresses? Didn't He get the fact that when one is financially dependent on one's paycheck having it be days, weeks, late was a problem (not to mention the bounced checks or the incorrect checks)?
Never did it cross my mind that it probably wasn't a good idea to try and explain things to God. Yet, despite all the logic and advice in the world, I waited. And waited. And cried. A lot. At least I listened, even if I did murmur about it for six whole months. Unfortunately, it's more likely because I was too afraid of being unemployed for a long period of time than any grand display of faith.
Then, the events of Friday the 13th occurred, and I was spun into a web of absolute devastation. If only I had quit, on my terms, I wouldn't be facing someone who was telling me I wasn't competent and did a terrible job. I spent the weekend begging Him to reconsider the "wait, not just yet" answer. Days later, I received the answer I'd alternately hoped for and feared for six months: Now.
I gleefully quit my job. I laughed all the way to the parking lot - during the points I wasn't thinking about how on earth I was going to make an income without a job.
Days later, The Office - a client - hired me full-time almost immediately. Same pay. Less stress. MUCH less drama. I said yes because that option felt best for my family and I eventually felt peace for the first time in months - even if I was bored stiff and deeply wounded, feeling as if I'd been shattered into thousands of pieces.
As it turns out, The Office was the answer to the six months of trying to change God's mind. He knew all along. I couldn't see past my immediate misery to understand it wasn't permanent. The boredom has passed and The Office has allowed me to expand my skills, to experiment with new ones, to rebuild my confidence, to have a consistent (correct, non-bouncing) paycheck, to make a difference. Not to mention, it often allows me to work from home, flex-time and whatever else I need to do in order to be the best mother I can be while I have to be employed full-time.
More than that, however, this week, I learned, that The Office will allow me to do the one thing I haven't dared hope for: have paid maternity leave. Not for long - 6 to 8 weeks of full-pay - but more than I ever expected. I can't begin to put into words the enormity of the burden this has relieved from my shoulders. This time, I did not have to bargain with the Devil and sell my soul, my sanity and the first six weeks of my child's life in order to keep my job. This time, I do not have to work part-time eight days after giving birth - and be railroaded into feeling guilty for not being available whenever The Factory felt like it. This time, I can celebrate the birth of our daughter, revel in the love of my two little girls, and go crazy handling only the demands of motherhood. Not other option I have had over the last 18 months would have granted me all of that. None.
Of course you know why I had to wait ... there wasn't the freedom in the budget for The Office to hire me before the Friday the 13th episode, nor was their relationship so tainted with The Factory that they'd even consider breaking their contract to hire me away. It required a perfect, and painful, storm on both sides.
It has been quite the journey. Months later, with the clarity of hindsight, I can say that "Wait. Not Yet" has been one of the best answers to a prayer I've ever received.
I send my apologies and stand quite humbled. And quite blessed.
Monday, May 18, 2009
I am Woman ...
I consider myself a feminist, in some sense. Not in the radical-going-to-burn-my-bra-maneater sense, in the "just because I'm a woman does not mean I'm incompetent, should be given less respect or fewer opportunities" respect. I view women and men as equals in the sense that both contribute enormously to society. Women aren't better than men. Men aren't better than women. We contribute equally to the good (and bad, sigh) of society - but in different ways. We are not the same, but that doesn't mean the same opportunities shouldn't be afforded us.
Yet, I think feminists did themselves (and the world) no favors when they failed to think their demands all the way through 40 years ago. They demanded they should be able to receive an education at the best schools, get jobs and wear pants. All wonderful things - things that have blessed my life enormously (especially the pants - especially in The Frontier in the winter). And society said, "okay." (after much persuasion, but that's beside the point).
So now, 40 years and several generations later, women get to go to virtually any college of their choice, have jobs and wear pants. Yet somehow, they forgot to negotiate, and are still responsible (in the vast majority of cases)in the eyes of society, culture, and, often, their homes - for nearly all of the domestic responsibilities and childcare on top of the expectations that they maximize their earning potential. In the demand to be liberated from society's view that women were inferior, they forgot to say, "wait a minute, no one can do everything all at once." Instead, women leapt to their feet, rushed out to try on their new rights, got caught up in all of the "things" their new found status afforded them and became caught in a cycle that leaves a generation of women more depressed, less healthy, more unhappy and less fulfilled than ever before. Radical feminists would blame men for "failure to see the obvious," but truthfully, the blame lies with us as much as anyone. No one told me I had to be superwoman - I just assumed it, and accepted the mantle without question.
This all came to mind this weekend while reading a pregnancy/childbirth book. A paragraph in it struck me. To paraphrase, it said that women's bodies were designed to bear children, however, they were not designed to bear children and function at the same level as they did prior to pregnancy. It went on to talk about the fact that now that more and more women are working full-time and living away from extended family, that they are expected to (and expect themselves to) not show a moment of weakness. They are expected to keep the same level of productivity at home and in the workplace, accomplish the same things - and to feel great while doing it.
It really struck me - on a day when I was feeling absolutely overwhelmed with the enormity of life. The entire chapter talked about women not stopping to care for themselves - ignoring their bodies - in pregnancy because they have been conditioned for years to not show signs of weakness. It saddened me to realize that society does indeed see pregnancy as a weakness - an ailment of sorts. It is something to be looked at as a temporary disability, a mere inconvenience, that will soon clear up allowing everything to go back to "normal."
Except, it doesn't. Pregnancy forever changes not only a woman's body (there are several body parts that will never quite look/function the same again), but a woman's heart, her mind, her ambition - her soul. It leaves an indelible brand that forever alters her very being. There is no going back to "normal" - nor a desire to do so - rather there is an adjustment to a new status quo.
I told Himself several weeks ago, "I firmly believe in woman's role in creation and childbearing (and rearing), but I also firmly believe that my body (or mind) was not meant to bear children while balancing the entire known universe on her laptop." Pregnancy is an breathtaking (sometimes literally!) experience that even at its worst points of discomfort (or sheer agony), is a celebration of a loving Creator - of life - of miraculous biology that leaves one in continual awe that her body is accomplishing such an amazing feat.
And yet, after a long day at the office, facing even longer hours at a second job as "Domestic Goddess and Wife", it's hard to remember the sheer miracle of life growing inside of one's body. It's hard not to curl up with a dozen pillows in the fetal position and will this to be over already so one can get on with life.
It is a sad state when the creation of a new life means so little as to be written off as an "inconvenience" that one should just "buck up" and "soldier through," without thought as to the cost. I'm not asking for bon bons and daytime soaps - I'm asking for a little slower pace, an afternoon nap and an understanding that creating a new little person is the equivalent of a third full-time job - one that comes with a single chance to get it right and has the potential to affect generations to come.
We might have won the battle, but I feel as if women are losing the war.
Yet, I think feminists did themselves (and the world) no favors when they failed to think their demands all the way through 40 years ago. They demanded they should be able to receive an education at the best schools, get jobs and wear pants. All wonderful things - things that have blessed my life enormously (especially the pants - especially in The Frontier in the winter). And society said, "okay." (after much persuasion, but that's beside the point).
So now, 40 years and several generations later, women get to go to virtually any college of their choice, have jobs and wear pants. Yet somehow, they forgot to negotiate, and are still responsible (in the vast majority of cases)in the eyes of society, culture, and, often, their homes - for nearly all of the domestic responsibilities and childcare on top of the expectations that they maximize their earning potential. In the demand to be liberated from society's view that women were inferior, they forgot to say, "wait a minute, no one can do everything all at once." Instead, women leapt to their feet, rushed out to try on their new rights, got caught up in all of the "things" their new found status afforded them and became caught in a cycle that leaves a generation of women more depressed, less healthy, more unhappy and less fulfilled than ever before. Radical feminists would blame men for "failure to see the obvious," but truthfully, the blame lies with us as much as anyone. No one told me I had to be superwoman - I just assumed it, and accepted the mantle without question.
This all came to mind this weekend while reading a pregnancy/childbirth book. A paragraph in it struck me. To paraphrase, it said that women's bodies were designed to bear children, however, they were not designed to bear children and function at the same level as they did prior to pregnancy. It went on to talk about the fact that now that more and more women are working full-time and living away from extended family, that they are expected to (and expect themselves to) not show a moment of weakness. They are expected to keep the same level of productivity at home and in the workplace, accomplish the same things - and to feel great while doing it.
It really struck me - on a day when I was feeling absolutely overwhelmed with the enormity of life. The entire chapter talked about women not stopping to care for themselves - ignoring their bodies - in pregnancy because they have been conditioned for years to not show signs of weakness. It saddened me to realize that society does indeed see pregnancy as a weakness - an ailment of sorts. It is something to be looked at as a temporary disability, a mere inconvenience, that will soon clear up allowing everything to go back to "normal."
Except, it doesn't. Pregnancy forever changes not only a woman's body (there are several body parts that will never quite look/function the same again), but a woman's heart, her mind, her ambition - her soul. It leaves an indelible brand that forever alters her very being. There is no going back to "normal" - nor a desire to do so - rather there is an adjustment to a new status quo.
I told Himself several weeks ago, "I firmly believe in woman's role in creation and childbearing (and rearing), but I also firmly believe that my body (or mind) was not meant to bear children while balancing the entire known universe on her laptop." Pregnancy is an breathtaking (sometimes literally!) experience that even at its worst points of discomfort (or sheer agony), is a celebration of a loving Creator - of life - of miraculous biology that leaves one in continual awe that her body is accomplishing such an amazing feat.
And yet, after a long day at the office, facing even longer hours at a second job as "Domestic Goddess and Wife", it's hard to remember the sheer miracle of life growing inside of one's body. It's hard not to curl up with a dozen pillows in the fetal position and will this to be over already so one can get on with life.
It is a sad state when the creation of a new life means so little as to be written off as an "inconvenience" that one should just "buck up" and "soldier through," without thought as to the cost. I'm not asking for bon bons and daytime soaps - I'm asking for a little slower pace, an afternoon nap and an understanding that creating a new little person is the equivalent of a third full-time job - one that comes with a single chance to get it right and has the potential to affect generations to come.
We might have won the battle, but I feel as if women are losing the war.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Breaking (Obvious) News
Yesterday's health headline on MSNBC was "Pregnant Women More At Risk From Swine Flu".
A more obvious headline (and a more panic-inducing one for already homormonally deranged pregnant women) could not have been crafted.
What was more eye-rolling however, were the less-than-newsworthy tidbits the article provided, including:
The entire rest of the article goes on to talk about how Swine Flu does or doesn't differ from the regular flu virus, fears of it mutating and how the antiviral drugs are a good idea to lessen it's effects.
I can (sort of) understand the inital fear - an unknown virus, proving to be rather strong in Mexico, begins spreading worldwide. But I am at a total loss how it is STILL warranting fear-mongering headlines in the media. It's far less deadly than the regular flu (thus far), obviously is going to be more dangerous for certain groups and people do need to take stock of their personal hygiene, but does any of that warrant the crazy headlines/updates that are still going on? A simple "don't forget to keep washing your hands" PSA ought to suffice.
Signed,
Pregnant Woman with Asthma (who washes her hands and is healthy and sees no reason for publishing obvious "news" that is just meant to scare people)
A more obvious headline (and a more panic-inducing one for already homormonally deranged pregnant women) could not have been crafted.
What was more eye-rolling however, were the less-than-newsworthy tidbits the article provided, including:
- So far, the swine flu has not proven to be much more dangerous than seasonal influenza, and it’s not clear whether or not pregnant women catch swine flu more often than other people.
- In general, flu poses added risks for pregnant women
- Pregnancy weakens a woman’s immune system, so that she’s more likely to suffer pneumonia when she catches the flu
- Pregnant women with asthma and some other health conditions are particularly at risk for complications.
The entire rest of the article goes on to talk about how Swine Flu does or doesn't differ from the regular flu virus, fears of it mutating and how the antiviral drugs are a good idea to lessen it's effects.
I can (sort of) understand the inital fear - an unknown virus, proving to be rather strong in Mexico, begins spreading worldwide. But I am at a total loss how it is STILL warranting fear-mongering headlines in the media. It's far less deadly than the regular flu (thus far), obviously is going to be more dangerous for certain groups and people do need to take stock of their personal hygiene, but does any of that warrant the crazy headlines/updates that are still going on? A simple "don't forget to keep washing your hands" PSA ought to suffice.
Signed,
Pregnant Woman with Asthma (who washes her hands and is healthy and sees no reason for publishing obvious "news" that is just meant to scare people)
Friday, May 01, 2009
If All Else Fails, Fling Yourself Onto the Driveway
And no, I'm not talking toddler tantrums here.
I've been carrying Baby Girl much lower than I ever carried Woodstock (who spent 14 of the last 17 weeks in utero with her head snuggled under my ribs). Starting last weekend with my business trip to L.A., her low-level-lying has made me feel like I'm a near cripple. The pelvic, hip and lower back pain (not to mention the sciatic pain from the pressure on my sciatic nerve) has been nearly unbearable to sit or walk. I have spent every possible moment in bed, on my side, with my feet elevated.
As it turns out, all I needed to do was fling myself onto the driveway.
Wednesday morning, I put Woodstock in her car seat and walked around the car to my side. At some point, I caught my shoe on a crack and soon, I was flying through the air, destined to do a spectacular belly flop on the driveway. My one conscious thought was "do not land on your stomach." So I did what I'm sure was a terribly graceful turn which left my left hip taking 80% of the impact and my shoulder taking the remaining 20%.
Of course, I was wearing elastic-waisted maternity pants, which meant upon the moment of impact they slid down, exposing my the backside of my fleshy white hip to the abrasive concrete, resulting in a spectacular road (driveway?) rash.
Hoorah! I saved the baby, I thought. Then I realized that "falling" is one of the "things one must absolutely not do" when on anti-clotting drugs. Deep bruising can cause problems - more so if you bruise your organs rather than your well-padded hip, but still. Slight cause for concern.
I scraped myself off the driveway and slid into the car, wincing. Woodstock greeted me with "Funny mama!" thinking, of course, that I splayed my arms wildly in the air while falling just to amuse her. It goes without saying, I couldn't quite agree with her.
Once I determined that the bruising, while large and ugly, was not going to cause any serious issues and that Baby Girl (after some prodding thanks to chocolate milk) was moving along as usual, I felt a bit more relieved.
However, the relief has continued to come over the subsequent 48 hours, as the startling bump has caused Baby Girl to reconsider the comfort of her low-lying habitat, forcing her to relocate further up in the direction of my ribs.
If you forget that I can only sleep on one side now - all night long - and can't sit for long periods due to road (driveway?) rash on my rear side, I could almost dance a jig. The forced relocation of Baby Girl has eased the sciatic nerve pain, the pelvic pressure/pain and a significant portion of the back pain. I can walk again! Praise the driveway!
Who says there isn't a silver lining in all things?
I've been carrying Baby Girl much lower than I ever carried Woodstock (who spent 14 of the last 17 weeks in utero with her head snuggled under my ribs). Starting last weekend with my business trip to L.A., her low-level-lying has made me feel like I'm a near cripple. The pelvic, hip and lower back pain (not to mention the sciatic pain from the pressure on my sciatic nerve) has been nearly unbearable to sit or walk. I have spent every possible moment in bed, on my side, with my feet elevated.
As it turns out, all I needed to do was fling myself onto the driveway.
Wednesday morning, I put Woodstock in her car seat and walked around the car to my side. At some point, I caught my shoe on a crack and soon, I was flying through the air, destined to do a spectacular belly flop on the driveway. My one conscious thought was "do not land on your stomach." So I did what I'm sure was a terribly graceful turn which left my left hip taking 80% of the impact and my shoulder taking the remaining 20%.
Of course, I was wearing elastic-waisted maternity pants, which meant upon the moment of impact they slid down, exposing my the backside of my fleshy white hip to the abrasive concrete, resulting in a spectacular road (driveway?) rash.
Hoorah! I saved the baby, I thought. Then I realized that "falling" is one of the "things one must absolutely not do" when on anti-clotting drugs. Deep bruising can cause problems - more so if you bruise your organs rather than your well-padded hip, but still. Slight cause for concern.
I scraped myself off the driveway and slid into the car, wincing. Woodstock greeted me with "Funny mama!" thinking, of course, that I splayed my arms wildly in the air while falling just to amuse her. It goes without saying, I couldn't quite agree with her.
Once I determined that the bruising, while large and ugly, was not going to cause any serious issues and that Baby Girl (after some prodding thanks to chocolate milk) was moving along as usual, I felt a bit more relieved.
However, the relief has continued to come over the subsequent 48 hours, as the startling bump has caused Baby Girl to reconsider the comfort of her low-lying habitat, forcing her to relocate further up in the direction of my ribs.
If you forget that I can only sleep on one side now - all night long - and can't sit for long periods due to road (driveway?) rash on my rear side, I could almost dance a jig. The forced relocation of Baby Girl has eased the sciatic nerve pain, the pelvic pressure/pain and a significant portion of the back pain. I can walk again! Praise the driveway!
Who says there isn't a silver lining in all things?
Sunday, April 05, 2009
Second Helpings
I have a secret worry. Not one of those all-consuming worries that keeps you up at night, but a little annoying nag that whispers to you just to reassure you that there is still something to worry about.
I'm worried at how Baby Girl will feel being second. Not that she will be (or is currently) any less important than her older sister (or brother), but she is the second girl - while her coming-home outfit will be her own, she will be facing a closetful of her sister's hand-me-downs (not that Woodstock isn't wearing hand-me-downs, because she dooes). Her birthday will be close to, but not on, the birthday shared by Woodstock and I. Just close enough to be "almost" - and lumped into the same 3-week-span of birthday madness shared by Woodstock, Grover and myself. She will not have my middle name as Woodstock does - even though we technically didn't name her after me. Most of all, I worry because while I'm head-over-heels-in-love with this baby already, it's a different sort of feeling than I had while pregnant with Woodstock.
I know every parent worries if they will have enough love for the second child - and that every time, they are met with a resouding "yes" - but I worry how to make Baby Girl feel special, that she is just as much an individual, and just as loved, as Woodstock is. I'm sure it will happen, but right now, I can't seem to fathom how.
I'm worried at how Baby Girl will feel being second. Not that she will be (or is currently) any less important than her older sister (or brother), but she is the second girl - while her coming-home outfit will be her own, she will be facing a closetful of her sister's hand-me-downs (not that Woodstock isn't wearing hand-me-downs, because she dooes). Her birthday will be close to, but not on, the birthday shared by Woodstock and I. Just close enough to be "almost" - and lumped into the same 3-week-span of birthday madness shared by Woodstock, Grover and myself. She will not have my middle name as Woodstock does - even though we technically didn't name her after me. Most of all, I worry because while I'm head-over-heels-in-love with this baby already, it's a different sort of feeling than I had while pregnant with Woodstock.
I know every parent worries if they will have enough love for the second child - and that every time, they are met with a resouding "yes" - but I worry how to make Baby Girl feel special, that she is just as much an individual, and just as loved, as Woodstock is. I'm sure it will happen, but right now, I can't seem to fathom how.
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