Better late than never...
We'd like to introduce you to our latest, if not more than fashionably late, addition to the family. 8lbs 4oz, 20 1/2 inches long, and one fantastic faux hawk in the making. Mom, Dad and baby are doing well while Chicky spends time with her grandparents, being allowed to eat chocolate covered donuts and being spoiled rotten.
I am not in a good place these days.
Mentally, emotionally, I'm not much fun to be around so I think it's time to step away from the computer until this baby comes and use this opportunity to get my head back on straight.
Control freak is a title I have no problem embracing and I feel as if my body is betraying me.
It's not of course, this is no different a situation than millions of other have found themselves in over the years, and yet... That doesn't make me feel better at all. In this case, misery does not want any company.
Yes, I'm only five days overdue and that's certainly not the end of the world. And there is light at the end of the tunnel as my OB scheduled me to be induced next Wednesday if the baby hasn't made her appearance by then. But I feel as if I've lost control physically, as I cannot force this baby to leave me and enter the world, and the emotional roller coaster I have been riding is more than I can take. I cannot for the life of me figure out what to do but wait (my membranes have been stripped not once, but twice. How it is possible this baby has not just dropped out onto the shower floor is beyond me.) and patience has never been my strong suit.
Even my doctor is amazed by my amazing steel trap-like wonder womb.
Add to this a possible major life change Mr. C and I are about to embark on that is unrelated to this baby and an out-of-the-blue phone call received from an old friend that will require all of my good energy to deal with, as the place she's in right now I can only assume is even darker than the place I am in, not to mention the maddeningly painful contractions and more than a bit of back labor I've had over the past couple of days that has produced nothing and I feel as if I just stepped off a Tilt-a-Whirl. A Tilt-a-Whirl I just spent the past nine+ months riding. I've got to deal with the messy purging before I can feel the solid ground beneath me.
Since I've made a conscious effort to stay away from the phone (sorry, friends, not taking any phone calls. Not even from my dear, sweet, sainted Nana who wants nothing but to make me feel better, but by her very positivity and Oh, it will happen when it happens attitude will surely drive me to homicide.) to save others my wrath, I'll do the same for you.
I very much appreciate your lovely words of encouragement. If I had half a brain I'd better articulate how much every single word and suggestion has meant to me. I love my friends, both in the computer and out, so when I'm my old self, but my old self with a new baby, I'll be back.
Until then I'll be placing a lock on my oven and hiding the sharp objects.
Match the answers with the typical questions a pregnant woman gets when she's so ready to deliver her baby she's giving the bathroom plunger the eye! The winner gets absolutely nothing except a hearty "Congratulations!" and a "F*ck off and die!"
a) No, so f*ck off.
b) F*ck off and die.
c) Yes, it was yesterday. F*ck off.
d) May you swim in a fetid swamp filled with hungry leeches who love to chew on human genitalia. And F*ck off.
e) Tired, cranky, whiny with an underlying bitchiness with a side order of general malaise and an itchy trigger finger. In other words, I could go postal at any moment and no jury of my peers would ever convict me. Oh, and f*ck off.
1) Isn't it past your due date?
2) Have you had the baby yet?
3) How are you feeling?
4) You must be really ready to get that baby out, huh?
5) Can you wait and have the baby on Wednesday because that's my husband's/wife's/dog's birthday?
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I gotta tell you, the plunger is looking really good to me. I should probably ask my husband to lock it up somewhere safe because that wouldn't be a pretty sight at 2:30am. And since I haven't slept in weeks and the baby's head is so far down in my pelvis that I feel as if I could reach in there and stroke her hair, it's totally possible.
Expect to see me around your blog ('cause what the hell else can I do right about now?) but don't expect me to comment. You wouldn't want me to anyway since I'd probably write something inappropriate and profane. But know that I love you anyway.
My OB told me last week that she was pretty certain I wouldn't make my due date, given how far along I was. I know there are no certainties in this world, but I'm certain I would like to leave a flaming bag of dog poop on her front steps right about now.
I either give birth to really stubborn girls or there's a tree frog in my uterus who is holding on to the sides of my uterus for dear life. I'm leaning toward the later right now. So tonight I'm going to have a glass of wine and try to chill out about the whole thing. I dare some troll to give me a hard time about the wine thing. Actually, with how I'm feeling I kind of welcome it. (See: answer e above).
Random thoughts on this last week of pregnancy (Do you hear me, baby? The LAST WEEK OF PREGNANCY. Take the hint.):
- Is it a coincidence that there are 9 circles of Hell in the Divine Comedy and there are 9 months of pregnancy? I'm no student of Dante. I'm just thinking out loud here. Draw your own conclusions but I think it's a little suspicious.
- I've gone from cute pregnancy bump to fairly ridiculous looking. Mr. C mused last night that maybe I should be cantilevered since my belly is sticking so far out in front of me. I'm thinking maybe a buttress or two might be better.
- I really, truly believe this baby wants out but that she's directionally challenged. She going high, to the side, and punching through the belly button. Maybe she needs a GPS? Or maybe it's time for me to just open my legs and let Mr. C guide her out with those lighted marshalling wands they use to bring in airplanes.
Go to the light, kid! Go to the light!
- I'd like to thank Gap Body for finally making clothes that will fit my long torso. Because of you, I'm only wearing one piece of clothing that came from a maternity store - my zip-up hoodie. The rest of what I'm wearing can be worn in the weeks after pregnancy and I don't have to feel any residual shame that I'm still wearing maternity clothes.
If there are any preggos out there wondering what I'm talking about, I've bought these, two of these, and of course these. I also bought this hoodie that still fits me and I'm wearing this t-shirt right now. I've worn this wrap a few times so far (it stretches to accommodate a big belly) and it looks perfect for nursing with a nursing tank underneath. I think I'll go back and buy the pink one.
- Apparently, I'm not the only one due to spawn at any time. The neighbor's yappy chihuahua is due too. Anyone else find this as stupidly amusing as I do? Anyone want to lay bets on who goes first, the dog or me?
- I've stopped answering my phone because every call is the same. Have you had the baby yet? Uh, NO. The only call I will take is from my sister but that's because I can tell her to f*ck off and she won't be totally offended.
- What is it with people who insist on telling a very pregnant woman, "You should have the baby tomorrow because that's my (son's, granddaughter's, niece's, wife's) birthday"? Are they looking to get hit? I almost clocked my neighbor for saying that to me yesterday but I think she caught how I felt from the look of disgust on my face.
- I'm trying really hard not to be jealous of the mama's who have already had their babies and the ones who have their appointments scheduled for today for induction or c-section. I'm getting so desperate that I'm jealous of women getting their bellies sliced open. I am seriously messed up right now.
- The ultrasound I had to determine the sex of the baby was not 100% conclusive so Mr. C has taken to addressing this baby as his boy. Between him and EVERY OTHER FREAKING PERSON who insists on stating "Oh, you're having a boy!" after taking in my bump I'm starting to freak out a little. Yesterday even my doctor said she would have sworn I was having a boy based on how I am carrying.
- One more thought - During my OB appointment yesterday, the doctor told me I was officially as far along as a pregnant woman can be without having the baby spontaneously drop out of my womb. There was no amount of manipulation - if you catch my meaning - that she could do for me. I am just about 4 centimeters dilated and 80%+ effaced. Which means, OH MY FREAKING GOD. SOMEONE GET THIS BABY OUT OF ME!! GAH!!!!
That is all.
The food in my refrigerator is mocking me.
It goes way beyond the morning sickness that has come back with a vengeance - which is, apparently, quite common at this point in pregnancy - or the lack of room in my stomach to put anything nourishing. There are at least two, probably more, items in my fridge with the sell or consume by date of May 25.
My due date.
I look at the milk and think Oh great, I have another 10 days before this goes bad! And then I realize Oh crap, I still technically have 10 more days until this baby is actually suppose to spring forth from my lady parts. You don't even want to know how I feel when I look at the yogurt.
Time is funny that way. Six of one, half dozen of another. It's all perception and right now I perceive my head to be hitting a wall over and over again.
If I have to go all the way to term I might hurt someone. The last few weeks are hell on a pregnant woman and, to me anyway, the second pregnancy's ninth month is particularly horrible. Now that things are basically squared away in our lives, the baby has the blessing of everyone to come at any time. No more stressing and sitting with my legs crossed, I want to get up and walk and get this damn baby out. But walking around Target feeling like I'm carrying a bowling ball between my legs is no picnic. However, if I have to suspend a rabid cat from my pelvis to add to the weight, dammit, I will be walking. And jumping. And "running" up and down the stairs. Anything to expedite the passage of this child.
So consider this your eviction notice, child of mine. It's closing time at Chez Mama. Last call and all that. If you stay any longer you're going to start funking up the joint. Take your placenta and leave.
And please don't let the door of my uterus hit you on the way out.
Back when I was a much younger woman and I was dating the guy who would become my first husband, his father loved to talk about his future grandchildren.
"Three boys! You have to have at least three kids and they all have to be boys. My son needs to carry on the family name. He's the last one. Three boys. Do you hear me? Three BOYS!"
I always hated that with a red hot fiery passion of 10,000 suns. As much as I cared for my ex-father in law, if looks could kill he would have been worm food a long time ago. I'm fairly surprised I didn't put him in the hospital since he said it so much and I have a pretty awesome death stare.
As luck would have it, the second time I married it was also to a man who was the last male in his family to carry on the paternal name. One huge difference - though he would have loved to have a son, and his father would love to have a grandson, I've never once felt any serious pressure to produce a male heir. Yet another reason why I'm still married to a man who has a physical aversion to light switches and cabinet doors. That and the fact that he'll do a mean soft shoe, naked, when I can't sleep. Works every time.
When Chicky was born there was much celebrating. A girl! How wonderful! A perfect little angel (Ha!) to fawn all over. Then we took our time deciding whether or not to have another and family members started to realize there was a good chance we wouldn't. Again, no pressure. Thinly veiled disappointment, but no pressure.
When we got pregnant this time, besides the behind the scenes dance of joy I'm sure my mother in law did once she realized our daughter would finally have a sibling, both our families convinced themselves this child would be a boy. A man child to carry on Mr. C's family name. A man child for my father to play catch with and teach how to write his name in the snow. Imagine their surprise when I told them about our ultrasound results.
I swear to God, Mohammed, and Snuggle the Fabric Softener bear, their faces fell. Even my dear, sainted Nana who knits and bakes cookies and never has a bad word to say about anyone looked disappointed. And when your Nana is disappointed, well, that hurts man.
Since then I've been asked by everyone, including the man at the full service gas station, what the sex of this baby is and I've been met with the same response once they realize we already have one girl. For instance, when the before mentioned gas attendant heard it was a girl, he said "So, next one will be boy. You keep trying, yes? You must have boy."
He's Middle Eastern. His English is not perfect but his intent was clear. I have girls. Surely I wanted a boy? Surely my husband would want to keep knocking me up until a male heir was produced?
Uh, no. Not really. I'm pretty happy with two girls, thankyouverymuch. Mr. C, he still badly wants a boy but knows that no amount of liquor or jewelry would make me have a third child after the hell I went through gestating the last two and he seems okay with that. I can deal with all those people of the world who believe a family is not complete until a child is produced who has his own lovie to play with as long as my husband is as secure with it as I am. Besides, with one man in the family and one male dog, there is certainly enough penis love around here.
And then my father, who admittedly is not a person I would ever assign the distinction of "Being sensitive to other people's feelings", but a man who had the good sense to always remind me that he was very happy to have two girls of his own and never desired to have a son, said to me,
"You're going to try again to have a boy, right?"
I'm fairly certain my eyes popped out of my skull right before the steam rose from my ears. Et tu, Father?
This world we live in is boy crazy. We are all male obsessed and if you, as a parent, don't want to jump on the boy bandwagon then obviously there's something wrong with you. I mean, I have the feeling my husband's colleagues and friends will look upon him with some pity because he never produced the coveted man child and that's really unfair. When are we going to get over this idea that a boy is necessary to produce the perfect family? Or, on the flip side of the coin, if a man and woman have two sons, do we have to pity the mother for never getting the daughter she so obviously wants?
You caught the sarcasm there, right?
Am I sensitive about this? Okay, maybe a little. I am a bit hormonal and cranky these days. But it seems horribly unfair for others to assume that just because my children don't have penises they are somehow second class, that we really did want a boy but the fates conspired to have us only produce female children. We're not living in China here, people. Girls can do everything that boys can do. They can even write their name in the snow with a little practice. And I don't know about baby #2, but Chicky is turning out to be quite the tomboy. A tomboy in pink, but still a baseball loving, soccer crazed, run around and get dirty tomboy.
So hear this, World - I am about to have another daughter and I couldn't be happier. Two frilly, pink sparkly tutu wearing, drama queens in the making... Who just might be the next President of the United States or the first female first basewoman on the Boston Red Sox. And I will never once wish one of them was a boy.
Even when they start dating.
Oh those wonderful Braxton Hicks. Sometimes they suck, sometimes a pregnant woman can sleep right through them. On Monday morning I fell into the latter category. I knew they were going on but compared to the pain I usually feel while trying to sleep a few cramp-like pains weren't going to move me from the comfortable position I had finally found after six freaking hours.
I guess they were mild but deadly (probably shouldn't use that word in relation to my pregnancy, huh? I'm already having terrifying dreams.) because at my OB appointment later that day I was three to four centimeters dilated and 75% effaced. WhooHoo! Let's get this party started!
Uh, yeah. Not so fast.
When I was pregnant with Chicky this happened too. My OB at the time was convinced I was going to give birth at any second and told me I should probably take my leave at work and counseled that I might want to stay close to home. TWO WEEKS later Chicky was born.
Or, four days after her due date. Thanks, Doc.
This could take a while. Or it could happen tomorrow. I LOVE pregnancy. No variables at work here.
But I can't have this baby this week because I'm supposed to be getting my roots touched up next Tuesday. Yeah, I've got my priorities straight. Have this baby now or deal with all those wiry gray hairs and dark brown roots. You know that because I have an appointment with my stylist in one week I'll have this baby sooner, though. Right? Because God doesn't want me to be a blond anymore.
So all those things I wanted to do for myself in the next two weeks I'm now afraid to do. Prenatal massage? Could jump start labor. Pedicure? Could jump start labor. Indulging in spicy foods? Could jump start labor. Walking to the damn toilet? How many stories have you heard of women having babies in the bathroom?
Just in case I do go into labor sooner rather than later I'll thank all of you now who participated in the virtual shower this past weekend. I'm working my way through all of your posts and the advice has been decidedly ass-less (get it? Ass-vice? Yeah. I don't sleep, you don't get no funny.). I can't thank you all enough for thinking of us pregnant types and best of luck on those kick ass prizes courtesy of Liz, Kristen and Julie.
You all rock!
And because some of you asked, this is what 37 weeks pregnant looks like, Chicky style:
From the list of hundreds of names you all suggested, plus a few we already had picked, we're narrowing down the possible names. This is where we are today.
Sorry about the crap picture. I was bending over the counter and we all know what it's like when a pregnant woman has to bend. There's comedy, there's high comedy, and then there's a pregnant woman in her ninth month trying to bend.
Feel free to vote for your favorite. Or not. Whatever. If I let every little thing keep me up at night I would never sleep. Oh wait, I'm not sleeping as it is.
Chicky has already named the baby. Too bad she's outvoted by me and... me. Mr. C is inclined to agree with Chicky but that's just because he's been coaching her. Bastard. So glad I procreated with the guy.
There are only three weeks left in my pregnancy. Three weeks. Wow. Hard to believe in three weeks or less (!) I'll be the proud mama of another bouncing baby Chicky. Let's see, are we ready for the addition of another little person?
Braxton Hicks - Check
Lightening - Check, sort of. Not much room there to begin with.
Dilated - Check, though not much yet. We'll see how much more after that last round of BH contractions I had the other night at my OB appointment on Monday.
Bag packed for the hospital - Um, no.
Baby room finished - Uh uh.
Arrangements for dog care made - Shoot, forgot about that. Not yet.
Super special gift(s) I was going to purchase for Chicky to let her know Mama and Daddy love her very much - Crap! Nope.
Co-Sleeper - Purchased and set up but no sheets on it yet. I think the cat's been sleeping in it.
Recently purchased newborn outfit washed in special infant friendly detergent, folded lovingly and ready to go into bag for trip home from the hospital - Still sitting in the laundry basket with other newborn clothes that still need to be washed. Keep waiting for it to walk up to the washer and jump in all on its own but it's JUST NOT HAPPENING.
Name for the baby - BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!
This baby still does not have a name.
Mr. C and I can not agree on a first name for this poor little baby. And never mind coming up with a middle name, that might drive us to divorce court. Or at the very least drive me to the funny farm. Mmm, padded walls sound pretty good right about now.
We've had 9 months to come to a decision on a name for this child, 9 fecking MONTHS, and we had, for awhile, come up with a name that we could live with. Truthfully, Mr. C had come up with a name and since I couldn't come up with anything better, I caved. I threw up my hands and said, Fine, you name her. And he did. Just like that he had at least a first name and was beginning to throw around middle names.
Show off.
But I never fell in love with the name. It was nice enough, we even passed it by family and friends and all seemed to like it. Not a sideways glance, a down turned gaze or an uncomfortable pause. No throat clearing. Not one, Really? You're going to name her that? It was a moniker everyone could live with. Except me.
Something was just not right.
It didn't sit with me as nicely as Chicky's name did. So I changed it this past weekend.
Well, not really. I didn't come up with a definitive name. I just came up with two or three other options that we are now considering. You know, just to make things interesting why not go from deciding on one name to choosing between four?
This sucks donkey balls. Seriously.
It shouldn't be this hard but it is. If left up to my husband the child would be named something very conservative, probably something biblical, and she'll be one of three or four little girls with the same name. She'll have to use her last initial for the rest of her life to set her apart from the other girls.
Not that there's anything wrong with that. Ahem.
I want my kid to have a name that will set her slightly apart from other kids. Something strong that will grow with her. Something beautiful and poetic. Something that people will be able to spell without needing to ask, unlike mine.
(Not that I'm bitter, Mom. No, not me. Not bitter at all about being referred to by at least three other names all my life, none of which are right. Nope. Not bitter.)
There is one name we like but the pronunciation is something we're struggling with. And if you're wondering what it is, watch a recap of tonight's American Idol.
Although, after hearing that boy butcher the song I'm reconsidering. Oy.
I'm tempted to let my readers name my kid. Someone has got to intervene. Someone not hopped up on hormones and carrying extra water weight and totally irrational because they can't get their hands ON SOME TWINKIES NOW. And you can't do any worse than me right about now.
How's that for a vote of confidence?
So go ahead, name my kid. If you come up with something we love you win absolutely nothing except my undying love and devotion. Maybe a link every week from my blog. Possibly the role of God Mother. Hell, we could name you in our will.
Or maybe I'm just getting carried away.
Someone please save me from myself. And while you're at it, get me a Twinkie okay?
(And wasn't I right way back when, when I said this baby was a girl. Uh huh. I'm psychic.)
(Or psycho. I'm still working out which one is closer to the truth.)
That's the question I've gotten asked a lot this pregnancy. Much more than you would think or even more than what would be considered polite to bring up in mixed company. But thankfully my friends and family skirt the line of polite and instead say what they're thinking. And that's why I like them.
Why are you going through this again, this pregnancy, when it was so horrible the first time?
That, my friends, is the $64,000 question. Why would I go through another pregnancy when I knew what I was getting myself into (More or less. People do love to tell me that every one of their pregnancies were SO different. Yeah, mine? Not so much.)? Why did I go ahead and get knocked up again when I was adamant that we were "One and done"?
Why, indeed.
The short answer? My grandmother died.
I know, I know... Totally bizarro reason. But hear me out. There's a process here.
Mr. C and I had been talking about the possibility of having another kid. Time had passed, memory had dulled. We gave ourselves three months of not really trying but not really not trying to get pregnant and then we'd give up and be happy with what we had.
So I decided to throw caution to the wind and I packed my birth control pills in my checked luggage for my trip to Blogher '07, instead of in my carry-on. And wouldn't you know, my bag got lost? OF COURSE it did.
(Students of Freud, feel free to jump in anytime.)
Two days without pills and I just decided to stop taking them. Such a hassle anyway. And Mr. C and I could always use protection if we wanted to.
And then my Gram passed away shortly after I arrived home.
There I was at the funeral and the graveside service that followed, watching siblings console siblings and cousins consoling cousins. And when my sister and I stood arm and arm at the grave where my mother is also buried I knew... I just knew...
I couldn't let Chicky grow up without someone to stand arm and arm with during life's difficult moments.
Of course, we couldn't have known that we would get pregnant so quickly upon not-trying-but-not-really-not-trying. I mean, it took us TWO WHOLE TRIES to get pregnant with Chicky.
Ahem.
To be perfectly clear, I'm not having another child for the first one. Chicky didn't ask for this. She might have one day. She might have begged until she was blue in the face for a brother or sister. But I did not do this just for her.
I did this for me.
My reasons for getting pregnant and going through hyperemesis and all the joys that accompany it again were purely selfish. That's right, I wanted to throw up my guts for months and months. Okay, not really. I wanted the peace of mind that my children would at least have another person in this world to help deal with my old, wrinkly self when the time came. Or deal with Mr. C's wrinkly self.
I didn't want the possibility of nursing homes, hospice care, medical proxy's, or funeral arrangements to fall squarely on just one person. I know me. I'm a worrier. Who needs that kind of stress when you're old or sick?
It wasn't totally doom and gloom that made me want to get pregnant again. I mean, how depressing, right? I wanted to make sure Chicky had someone in her life that she could turn to and bitch about her parents to.
"Mom and Dad are totally nuts! They won't let me stay out all night so I can go to this major kegger at Bobby's house! It's not like I'm going to do anything WRONG. I'm FIFTEEN YEARS OLD. They're being SOOO UNFAIR."
Can't you just imagine that? Chicky dramatically bursting through a closed bedroom door and throwing herself down on her sister's bed? Lamenting her fate of having the world's worst parents ever? I can. And it makes me happy.
It also pleases me that she'll have someone to watch over. Someone to take care of and be somewhat responsible for. I can't wait to watch Chicky and the little one walking hand in hand. Okay, not so much hand in hand but rather I'll drag you by the hand and you will follow me because you're smaller.
So you see, it's all about my happiness, my peace of mind. I got pregnant because I am a selfish woman. Mr. C is still trying to figure it out.
"Don't bitch to me because you feel fat. I still have the box of condoms in my bedside drawer."
Yes siree, it's all about me. And yes, I threw something at him after he said that. I can't chase him down and beat him but my aim is still good.
My selfishness only goes so far, however. After this one we are done. I like the world to revolve around me but multiple pregnancies tend to result in multiple kids, you know?
Now, if the birth and all that yucky stuff had nothing to do with me I would be a sublimely happy.
I remember my Mom making chocolate cake with vanilla frosting. Always the same, chocolate cake and vanilla frosting in a sheet pan - the kind with the matching locking plastic see-through lid - never vanilla cake with chocolate frosting. Chocolate sheet cake with vanilla frosting.
She was not a baker, my Mom. The cake was probably from a box and the frosting pre-made. She didn't even care for baking, she probably had a new pan and wanted to get good use out of it, and the cakes were rare and always unexpected. But I remember that cake being the tastiest confection ever to cross my young lips. Even better than birthday cake.
Chocolate single layer sheet cake with vanilla frosting.
I've been playing that memory in my head a lot lately. I have no idea why. My Mom probably did a million and one other thoughtful things for us and I can't for the life of me remember any of those. Just the sheet cake, chocolate with vanilla frosting.
I've also been remembering how she never seemed to have time to help me use my Easy Bake Oven. Though I would beg her constantly to let me play with it, she never had the time to help me take it out of its box, assemble it and then supervise me mixing up the brownie batter and placing it under the hot light of the "oven". And she required that she be present when I was using it. So the toy was hardly used. I really resented her for that. I guess I still do.
Two memories, similar in theme but not having really anything to do with each other. And yet, they've stuck with me all these years, especially these past few weeks. If I think really hard I can remember other things about her as I was growing up but those memories don't come as easily. I have no idea why.
Chocolate cake with vanilla frosting and Easy Bake ovens.
I've been short with Chicky these past few weeks. Losing my patience quickly. My temper flaring for no reason. She begs me to play with her until I need to speak firmly that, no, Mama can't play in the sandbox with her and, no, Mama can't get on the floor and play with the doll house. And she looks hurt. Will she remember those times? Will she remember all the times I made her peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch, with cut up strawberries and pea pods, just because she loved them so or the pink cupcakes I made for her birthday? Will she remember anything from this time at all?
Will she remember the chocolate cake with vanilla frosting or the Easy Bake oven? I wish I knew. I guess we won't know until a long time, 20 or 30 years from now, and by then I'll have forgotten to ask.
"Oh, you have the perfect little baby bump," said the woman behind the counter of our neighborhood put-yourself-in-debt-to-buy-dog-food store. She was, maybe, 26 years old. The slightly older woman next to her concurred.
"You look so great!"
I thought they were going to reach over the counter and caress my belly. Like the grandparents in the "She's gotten her boobies" scene in Sixteen Candles. But seeing as they worked in a high end pet supply store, I'm sure they knew better than to reach out and touch an irrational animal without asking permission first. Hands get bitten that way.
"When's the baby due?"
"In about five weeks," I replied.
And then I waited for it.
3... 2... 1...
"Five weeks? But you're so small!" she practically screamed.
"I'm not that small now and I'm not pregnant," said the other woman.
I hear this nearly every time I go out of the house. Do I mind perfect strangers telling me how great they think I look?
What do you think?
I freaking LOVE it.
Especially since I feel like I'm smuggling a beach ball under my shirt.
I like my baby bump... for the most part. It's cute, it's round, and it hasn't taken over my thighs or ass too much. It sticks out proudly as if to say I am PREGNANT. Huzzah! Worship me for I am making life.
There are those times late at night when there's no one around except me and Mr. C and I can really be my miserable self when I start cracking tug boat jokes or referring to myself as "the blimp who ate Boston". But overall, I feel I can say with only the slightest bit of pride and vanity that I make pregnancy look good.
(Okay, maybe a little more than just the slightest bit. Sue me.)
In fact, if my pregnancies weren't so heinous I'd be pregnant all the time. Normally I don't get a fraction of the compliments I do when I'm pregnant. Let's get knocked up again! Just so grandmotherly types can stop me at Target and look at my stomach longingly!
Of course, there's the sticky little situation about having lots of screaming babies running around and that ain't happening.
"I hope I look that good when I finally get pregnant," the young woman continued, sighing and looking at my bump hungrily.
And that's when I start to get uncomfortable. As a woman who can't take a compliment to save her life, I'm getting pretty good about accepting them about my pregnant belly. It feels like a separate entity anyway - like it's not really me but something I threw on that day. Maybe something manufactured by 5 year old children in China. Oh this old thing? Aw, go'awn - but when women, and there have been many, say something like "I hope I look as good as you do when I'm pregnant" I'm torn as to whether I should tell them about my struggles with hyperemesis or just keep my big yap shut. The constant morning sickness, the visits to the ER, the 9 month struggle over medication and maintaining that always below the surface but never full blown nausea after month five with the aid of said medication. I don't want to scare the poor girls.
I have mentioned it as a cautionary tale to a few woman - You don't want to be like me, girls. You don't want to be puking your guts up 24/7 for three months and then be a slave to a pill or two every day for the rest of the nine months, living in fear that the insurance company will just decide to stop approving your claims. Even if it does mean that after you have things under control you too can have a steady diet of Twinkies and eat an entire tub of Gouda cheese spread in one sitting because you're playing catch-up with your weight. But then I see their faces fall and then turn into looks of disgust and horror and I realize that maybe I went just a smidge too far.
I don't share my story with strangers very much anymore. The awkwardness is just not worth it.
Besides, does it matter why I'm this size? Maybe I just take really good care of myself and I'm not eating a pint of Ben and Jerry's after each meal. As far as you know.
There's very little to enjoy about the third trimester, between the swelling, the pain, the exhaustion. I may at least enjoy what I can until this baby comes and strangers go from telling me how great I look to looking at my puffy red eyes and spit-up stained clothing with pity.
Yes sir, I'm going to soak up the compliments now. I'm making a baby here, for chrissake. I'll take it where I can get it. With a side of Girl Scout cookies and an entire jar of pickles, please.
Oh, and another tub of cheese spread.
Last week, on the first really beautiful and warm spring day we've had this year, Chicky and I had one of those rare mornings where I did very little yelling and lecturing and she did very little acting out.
(Read: No tantrums! When does that ever happen?)
(Uh, never.)
It seems spring fever had affected us both very positively. So to capitalize on it all, we went out to the park and stayed there, basking in the sun and catching a breeze on the swings, for most of the morning. After that, we drove over to the next town to buy some summer shoes for her and then next door to Panera for a soup and sandwich for me.
I had contemplated sitting there with the rest of the lunchtime crowd but the thought of paying five or six bucks for a peanut butter sandwich and a box of milk was not enticing, so we took everything to go. On the way home, however, I started to regret my decision. Chicky, who to this point was being uncharacteristically cooperative and downright charming, probably would have enjoyed sitting there at a table surrounded by people in business wear while she nibbled her PB&J or grilled cheese sandwich. No doubt the table of women dressed in nurses scrubs would have given her a few smiles and Chicky would have beamed right back. It would have been a nice end to an enjoyable morning with my first born.
That's when it hit me. My first born, my baby, my partner in crime, would very soon have to share her special time with me with a sibling. There soon will be very few opportunities when she and I will have a lunch date on the fly. No more just the two of us, our girl duo is going to become a trio. And I got all weepy thinking about it.
(You'd think this would have hit me all a lot sooner but then you'd be giving me way too much credit.)
In the interest of full disclosure, I've been turning on the waterworks pretty hard for the past week or two. Everything, every little freaking thing, makes me reach for the tissues. Because I am Weepy McWeeperson. Watch out or I might cry on your shoes.
Anyway.
So there we were, driving down the picturesque back roads of our town, sunroof open and radio playing music we both could agree on. Passing people out walking their dogs, everyone in a good mood. And I had tears in my eyes.
"Mommy, are you crying?"
"No, hon. A bug flew in my eye."
"Oh. Do you have a boo boo in your eye now? Do you need to go to the doctor?" She's very concerned about the health and well being of my eyes these days.
"No. I'll just use this tissue to get it out," I sniffed.
Of course, she wanted to see the bug I allegedly fished out of my eye, but I convinced her it had flown away. Because that's what good moms do - they lie to their kids to cover their own asses.
For most of this pregnancy I've been in hurry-up-and-get-this-damn-baby-out-of-me mode but now I'd like to slow the time down a bit. I'd like a few more months to show Chicky a good time, without the interference of a needy, crying infant or a pesky younger sibling. But my way back time machine is still out in the garage, half finished. I just need to find where I put that spare flux capacitor.
I know she won't remember a time before her little sister, but I will. And that's another thing good moms do - wish for impossible things for their children for their own selfish reasons.
It's true. Look it up.
Residents of Massachusetts have a long history of being reserved and not, if I may be so bold to say, overly polite. If you want friendly people go South. If you want to hang out with someone who's chill, go West. If you want a bunch of overworked stress bags who are just friendly enough with their neighbors to make sure if they ever were to drop dead in their homes their bodies would be discovered before the cats ate it, the Northeast, and especially Massachusetts, is where you want to be. [Read More...]
Relive it all again! Here's Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3.
--------------------------------------------
Labor is hard. If it wasn't we'd have another name for it. Like "Picnic" or "Party" or something equally pleasurable in comparison, like "Clipping alligator clamps to your nipples and turning on the attached 12 volt battery until you scream like a little girl".
My labor was more difficult than some, less than others. It probably fell somewhere in the middle of the spectrum of sucktitude. Toward the end Chicky, the still unborn fetus, was showing signs of distress and there was concern that the umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck. But my girl, the champ she is, pressed on through all of that. It was what came after that really made me question whether I ever wanted to do it all over again.
My baby came out blue and not crying. Not at all like they show it on the Lifetime channel. She was covered in this icky greenish brown goo. And one doctor said to the other, "Is it terminal?"
Chicky, the girl who took her sweet time making her way out of my female slip and slide, was covered in meconium when she was at last pulled forcibly from me. She was given the once over, and then the twice over. And then while the doctors (yes, plural) conferred and the nurses ran around like the proverbial chickens with their heads cut off, the word "terminal" was uttered again.
A blue baby, not crying. The word "terminal". Not a good way to begin.
I did not hear any of this, there was something else going on at the time. Something like delivering the placenta. Who knew that would take so much effort?
But Mr. C heard it. And while I begged to see my child, to hold her finally and check all her fingers and toes, he put on a brave face and decided not to mention that tidbit to me. Smart man.
Now, those of you who have heard that word used before in relation to meconium know where I'm headed with this. The word terminal when applied to meconium is not as bad as it sounds. Terminal meconium is actually a somewhat common phrase and fairly banal. I actually don't know the reason why it's used (that's what I get for never going to medical school) but we've been assured that it's not as frightening as it sounds. But we didn't know this and when you're a new dad and you hear the word terminal being used to describe your brand new baby girl... Well, you can cut my husband some slack for freaking out.
He later called her sister, the doctor, in Minnesota to bitch out the entire medical community for even using such a term without explaining it to new parents beforehand. She agreed it's pretty scary.
Uh... Yeah.
Long story slightly shorter, the goo was not found in the amniotic fluid and Chicky hadn't swallow any. She was handed over to a nurse and all but she rushed out of the room to attend to a woman and her unborn child who were possibly dying in the next room. And though I understand this had to be done, it still kind of sucked to be left with just one nurse to attend to everyone. The poor woman was so flustered things kind of fell between the cracks.
Part one is here.
Part two is here.
-----------------------------
The epidural didn't work.
Goddammitsunofabitchinbahstard
Let's back up - it worked a little, but not 100%. The right side of my body was happily pain free but the left side of my body was screaming. It was this pinching feeling, like my body from left leg to left shoulder was caught in a vice and someone was twisting. And probably cackling maniacally.
The nurse rolled me over and massaged my back, trying to get the epidural to drain into the other side of my body. Then she would roll me back and I would howl in pain. This went on a few times until it finally took. I think they may have given me more drugs too but honestly I have no idea what was really taking place. They could have inserted magical happy fuzzy bunnies in to my back for all I knew.
I admire women who have natural births but there was no way on God's green earth that I was ever going to be one of them. I believe that no pain is worth dealing with that some smart person didn't create a drug for and my mind will not be changed. End of story. Give me the good stuff and keep it coming. If I could have ordered the epidural in my fifth month I would have happily had a porta-cath inserted into my arm. If you're looking for an earth mama you can just keep moving. Nothing to see here.
Moms will understand when I say there is no dignity in childbirth, especially when you're delivering in a teaching hospital. As we were. Every Tom, Dick and Harry is wandering into your room to take a look at your hoo-ha and comment on, I don't know, the size, shape and texture of it?
Ooh, what a lovely shade of coral!
Well, after the drugs I was inviting people into my room who were just wandering down the hall to come on in and take a look. Share in the majesty of my hoo-ha! Bring your friends. Certainly you've never seen one like this!
While the monitors beeped away happily, measuring every contraction I couldn't feel, we watched the end of a dog show (Can't remember who won, but it was probably a terrier. Just a little dog joke.), traded taking shots at the anesthesiologist, and then watched a good portion of a Red Sox game. The Sox beat Tampa Bay 3-1 which I took to be a good omen, and then the doctor announced it was time to push. Nice of them to let us watch the last inning, though, because if I would have ended up with a Red Sox hater - or worse, a Yankees fan (!) - in my delivery room, on top of the bumbling Cassanova and his needles, I think I may have walked out.
So I tried pushing. And I tried again. And again.
And again.
Um...
Apparently, the epidural was now working too well.
More than two very unhappy hours and one threat of c-section later I finally pushed my baby out of the very same hoo-ha I was just hours before inviting people to admire.
I wanted to hold that baby girl so badly, it hurt. But there were complications during my little Chicky's birth. The word "terminal" was used, though I didn't hear it. But Mr. C did.
He decided in my delicate state it would be better not to mention what he heard to me. Instead he put on his bravest face while I continued to ask, "Is she okay? Can I see her? Is my baby okay??"
To be continued... Duh...
Missed part 1? Read it here.
---------
He was olive skinned. Possibly of Middle Eastern descent, but what did it matter? What we knew for certain was that he was not happy to be there. Not happy at all.
Surly and sarcastic - two qualities you really don't want in the anesthesiologist who was about to administer your epidural, but that's what we got. We got the mean guy. The guy who looked at us with disdain for pulling him away from his other responsibilities. The guy who seemed to think he had so many other more important patients to administer to; certainly more important than a pregnant woman whining for pain relief drugs.
He asked a few questions and had me position my body on the edge of the bed, which I tried to do as quickly as possible. But since I was in the throes of my worst contractions I guess I didn't move as fast as he wanted.
"Move to the edge of the bed, please," he said with a bite in his voice.
I looked at my husband and tried to tell him with my eyes, since I couldn't speak, Please punch this guy in the face. Pretty please.
With my husband's help I was able to move my body to a place that suited the anesthesiologist and he began to insert the needle into my back. As I faced my husband I felt another strong contraction starting. A very strong contraction. An oh-my-GOD, where-did-this-pain-come-from? contraction. And at that moment the surly man chose to ask me a question. I cannot for the life of me remember what that question was but I do remember this - when I didn't answer because of the amazing pain I was trying to breath through he said in his most sarcastic tone,
"She's not much of a talker, is she? Hello. Did you hear me?"
My husband told me later that the monitor measuring my contractions was peaking at its highest point. And the man wondered why I wasn't talking to him. I wanted to kick him in the nuts.
Just when we considered asking for another, more compassionate, anesthesiologist, my sister walked in and suddenly the man's demeanor changed.
You know those cartoons where the horrible wolf spots a beautiful she-wolf and hearts pop out of his eyes as he shouts "Aaaah-ooooo-gaaaaah!" and he turns into a love sick puppy? That's what happened when the horrible man met my sister. I swear I saw cartoon hearts, but it may have been the pain making me hallucinate.
"Who's this?" The question practically dripped off his tongue.
"My sister," I breathed.
"Your sister? No, you two can't be sisters. You look so different."
Yeah, tell us something we've never heard before, buddy.
My sister is quite dark, with almost black hair and big brown eyes where I'm blonde (thanks to nature and a little help from my hairdresser) with light skin and hazel eyes. Take that away and we don't look so different. But when one of us is sweaty with pain and bloated with pregnancy and the other is slightly tanned from a recent trip and practically radiating with health, I can see how someone could miss the resemblance.
While he finished attaching the needle to my back he tried to strike up a conversation with my sister. What did she do for work? Where did she get that amazing tan? What nationality was she? (The guy still didn't believe we were related) He was of some Middle Eastern descent, but no one was really listening to him and his pitiful attempts to attract my sister. My married sister, I should add, who was wearing a huge rock on her ring finger that I guess he just missed. It was so inappropriate. But at least he wasn't mean anymore. If anything he was slightly bumbling. We had no idea how bumbling, however.
He had to tear himself away but he did leave us eventually - and by "us" I mean my sister - and I lay down on the bed to wait for the drugs to hit me. When they didn't I mentioned this to the nurse and she checked my line.
"Uh oh."
What's worse than a nasty anesthesiologist? A nurse who says "Uh oh".
Apparently in his haste to get as much information out of my sister for his later sick fantasies he FORGOT TO HOOK UP THE I.V.
Ain't that a bitch?
There I lay with an uncomfortable cathater in my back and no drugs going to it. If I was disgusted by the guy before, I was ready to bite his head off now.
He was called back and, amazingly, showed up quickly and was appropriately embarrassed for his oversight. But I think that was more for my sister's benefit than mine or my husband's. Although, I did catch the nurse giving him some nasty looks.
After he hooked up the I.V. the anesthesiologist practically ran to exit the room, and I again waited for the relief of the drugs. I got some relief pretty quickly. But just some.
There was still pain. Awful, horrible, bite a leather strap kind of pain. This was not right.
What the hell was happening to me?
To be continued... Again...
... So that I can bitch and whine.
(Ooh boy!)
But I promise you'll find out who the mystery man was soon. Very soon. But not now.
- I just spent a half an hour on the phone to my prescription drug insurance company - which sounds exactly like Medco - only to have them tell me my doctor's office answered a question incorrectly on Medco's stupid questionnaire requesting more pills for me, and now I'll have to go the weekend (on top of the two days I just went) without my anti-nausea medication. Please remind me why I switched doctors. Right now I'm really second guessing that decision. But only because they're closer and more familiar to me and I can put a name and face with my anger versus the anonymous drug company with the man with the accent who I had to ask to repeat everything he said FIVE TIMES.
- I miss my husband and I'm sick of all this traveling of his but what do you want to bet within two hours of his arrival tonight I'll be pushing him and his suitcase back out the door because he dirtied up my nice clean house? Seriously. The house is so much cleaner and more orderly when he's gone.
- Just played on my iPod while on shuffle:
All the Way Down - Glen Hansard from the Once Soundtrack
Still Fighting It - Ben Folds
Anna Begins - Counting Crows
My One True Friend - Bette Midler
And I will now go slit my wrists.
- Michael Vick's dogs are getting their own reality show and some celebutard (Could be Paris? Could be Britney?)is making headlines because she's a puppy killer. Allegedly. I have so many posts on these subjects floating around in my head it's giving me a migraine. But I'll have to write about my views on rehabilitating dogs, no-kill shelters and the whole Dog Town on the National Geographic television show, and buying dogs from pet stores soon or I might burst.
- This isn't bitching but if you're not a Patriots fan, hell, if you downright hate them, we're chatting about their inevitable Super Bowl win over at New England Mamas. And if you are a Pats fan come tell me how you feel about the possible (ahem) Rolling Rally interfering with Super Tuesday. I'm taking a poll. It is campaign season after all.
- Speaking of polls, you may have noticed that there hasn't been any ROFL Awards around these parts lately. Or maybe you haven't. But that's my point. Before I bring them back or decide to bury them for good I'd like to know how you feel about the ROFLs, so I made this handy poll to help me decide.Can't see it, can you? Why the hell can't I get a poll to work in Blogger or Typepad today? It's really pissing me off. If you can help me with this problem please let me know because I'm about to tear my hair out and glue it to my dog's ass. Just for fun.
In the meantime follow this link and answer it that way, will ya? T'anks.
Don't mind that last bit. Except for me ripping my hair out and gluing it to my dog's ass. I might do that anyway, just to stop the deadly smell from coming out of her rear end.
Now if you don't mind I'm going to make myself pancakes and bacon - lots and lots of bacon - before the morning sickness really sets in again and I can't eat anything but Saltines.
That Sunday in April dawned sunny and warm and earlier than usual for me, a woman who prefers sleeping late to rising with the chickens. I lay in bed alone, since I had forced my poor husband to the guest bedroom weeks before to make more room for all the pillows I needed to support my voluminous shape, feeling the cramp-like pains in my abdomen. Small at first, there was no denying what was happening. I was in labor.
After tip-toeing to where my husband slept - who I was trying not to wake I'll never know - I slipped into the warm bed with him and whispered, "It's happening". There we lay in the growing light, he with his arm around me as we spooned, and we giggled like children on the first day of school. So much anticipation and uncertainty. We were a bit giddy with it all until the first waves of real pain hit me. Maybe he was still giddy, thinking back on it I'm sure he was. I, however, was decidedly not.
Phone calls were made: Doctor, parents, sister. Showers were taken, his quicker than mine since the warm water was helping with the pain of my contractions. And the weight of what was about to happen was settling on me. Showers always help when I'm pondering weighty issues.
The dogs were packed up and driven to the kennel where I was working at the time. My boss decided he wanted to chit chat while I sat there in the front seat, gripping the door handle with every contraction. The contractions were coming faster and faster so idle chatter, never my forte even with those I know, wasn't happening on my side. By the time we convinced him small talk was a bad idea the contractions were only 3 or 4 minutes apart. It was definitely time to go.
How different from just the other night, I thought as we drove away. After a dinner of takeout pizza I had started to feel a few contractions. I was pretty sure I was in labor then, but no matter how many people assure you "you'll know when it's happening" when it's your first baby you'll always second guess the experts. This could be it, right?
Turns out it wasn't.
That Sunday, that was the real thing. I felt every bump and turn on the short drive to the hospital. Every shake of the elevator as it stopped at different floors. We sat in front of the reception desk as the nurse behind it eyed my small-ish belly.
"You're full term?" she asked.
"And then some," we answered, smiling. A difficult pregnancy had left me smaller than normal but it was no big surprise that a daughter of mine would take her sweet time entering the world. No matter she had little room in that womb of her own.
We made our way down to delivery. By this time, the contractions were coming fast and hard. The pain! Why didn't anyone tell me about the pain? No matter that they probably did. Can anyone really prepare you for that feeling? Would I have wanted someone to?
Settled into bed in a delivery room, we answered all the appropriate questions and filled out all the appropriate forms. I was hooked up to machinery that bipped and beeped when finally they asked, Would you like the epidural?
Would I?
Yes please. Can I have two?
We sat and waited for the Anesthesiologist. And waited. And waited. It's a busy day here, we were told. He's swamped unfortunately. Not exactly what you want to hear when you're ready to bite off your own tongue.
That's when he walked in.
To be continued...
