Thursday, December 17, 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Four weeks and counting, and #Cora
I was going to do my first wordless Wednesday post yesterday but couldn't get my camera, a charged battery, and a download cord or card reader in the same place for some reason. I've been distracted all week, actually, trying to secure a caregiver for Jesse as Dean got himself ready to go back to work, and we picked up Dean's new car, a 2000 Subaru Outback.
Dean's going back to work has been a stress point for me, because he works two hours away, and as such, tends to stay in Northern Virginia at his dad's old house during the week. We used to jokingly call this our commuter marriage, which worked fine prior to my late pregnancy and Jesse's arrival. I don't see it working so well anymore; I can't even run to the corner to pick up a newspaper without it turning into a production. I don't know how single moms do it, and I say this having been a single mom--just of a tween, not of an infant.
In the meantime, said former tween turned 17 last week. Where does the time go? And Jesse hit four weeks yesterday. The days are a blur, honestly, partly because I haven't slept more than 3.5 hours at a time since he was born. But that's ok, too, because a half-hour feeding in between two such sleeping jags translates into 7 hours of mostly uninterrupted sleep.
Today, the breast pump arrived. Dean will likely be able to feed Jesse by this weekend. That will be nice, although I'm a bit stressed about how the damned thing works! I didn't use a pump with Elder Son, per se--just the occasional portable one-side kind, battery operated. Didn't need it too much because I worked nights and Kieran slept through the night by that point.
Jesse's also really starting to make eye contact with me in a way that he hasn't before--I can tell he recognizes me, and he smiles a lot more often.
But all of this is hollow, this week, because one of my bump buddies from Twitter, Kristine, lost her daughter, born Nov. 30, to an undetected heart defect earlier this week. Cora was breastfeeding in her mother's arms one minute, and the next.. Kristine was racing to the hospital, where Cora died. My heart goes out to Kristine and her family, and in Cora's honor, many of us in the Twittersphere are wearing pink. I'm wearing the pink maternity tee that I loved so much while pregnant, and wrapped in the pink prayer shawl that my friend Audra sent me: it was knit for her during her pregnancy, and she passed it along to me, and now I wear it in honor of Cora.
Every day, I'm grateful that I have a healthy little boy. He was a surprise for us, but a blessing we never could have anticipated.
Kristine, my prayers are with you this week. Much love to you and Ben.
Dean's going back to work has been a stress point for me, because he works two hours away, and as such, tends to stay in Northern Virginia at his dad's old house during the week. We used to jokingly call this our commuter marriage, which worked fine prior to my late pregnancy and Jesse's arrival. I don't see it working so well anymore; I can't even run to the corner to pick up a newspaper without it turning into a production. I don't know how single moms do it, and I say this having been a single mom--just of a tween, not of an infant.
In the meantime, said former tween turned 17 last week. Where does the time go? And Jesse hit four weeks yesterday. The days are a blur, honestly, partly because I haven't slept more than 3.5 hours at a time since he was born. But that's ok, too, because a half-hour feeding in between two such sleeping jags translates into 7 hours of mostly uninterrupted sleep.
Today, the breast pump arrived. Dean will likely be able to feed Jesse by this weekend. That will be nice, although I'm a bit stressed about how the damned thing works! I didn't use a pump with Elder Son, per se--just the occasional portable one-side kind, battery operated. Didn't need it too much because I worked nights and Kieran slept through the night by that point.
Jesse's also really starting to make eye contact with me in a way that he hasn't before--I can tell he recognizes me, and he smiles a lot more often.
But all of this is hollow, this week, because one of my bump buddies from Twitter, Kristine, lost her daughter, born Nov. 30, to an undetected heart defect earlier this week. Cora was breastfeeding in her mother's arms one minute, and the next.. Kristine was racing to the hospital, where Cora died. My heart goes out to Kristine and her family, and in Cora's honor, many of us in the Twittersphere are wearing pink. I'm wearing the pink maternity tee that I loved so much while pregnant, and wrapped in the pink prayer shawl that my friend Audra sent me: it was knit for her during her pregnancy, and she passed it along to me, and now I wear it in honor of Cora.
Every day, I'm grateful that I have a healthy little boy. He was a surprise for us, but a blessing we never could have anticipated.
Kristine, my prayers are with you this week. Much love to you and Ben.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
First smile!
Now posting in real time, although there will be some backstory to fill in since the 13th, including our vacation to Hatteras! Yay. But anyhow, Jesse gave us our first authentic smile this morning. There've been plenty of hints at smiles, especially when he's asleep and dreaming and his face goes through an entire gamut of expressions he doesn't make when he's awake. But this was the real thing. Dean and I had our heads together, beaming down at him, and he beamed right back, and when we laughed at this he smiled even wider.
But of course we didn't have a camera handy. So instead I'll just amuse you with this picture of father and son making strange faces at each other.
But of course we didn't have a camera handy. So instead I'll just amuse you with this picture of father and son making strange faces at each other.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Calling all hands--it's a staph meeting
After our long nap that Friday the 13th, I was relieved that no calamity had befallen us, but the day wasn't over yet. As I was nursing Jesse contentedly in my newly put-together, extremely comfortable rocker-glider, Dean bounded up the stairs and announced, with his usual humorous aplomb, that our baby had been recalled. We had been summoned back to the hospital for some antibiotics because one of the lab cultures had come back positive for a strain of unidentified bacteria, and because they weren't certain whether the bacteria had come from his skin (where it's--believe it or not--normally present) or from an internal infection. But his previous low-grade fever and high-ish white blood cell count meant that something was tasking his newborn system, and so he was re-admitted as a pediatric patient.
Before long, it became apparent that the bacteria was a staphylococcus, or staph, strain. What blew my mind was the number of times I was asked if I had tested positive for Group B Strep, which I hadn't. Last I checked, Strep and Staph were totally different strains of bacteria. I was also asked repeatedly if there had been anything unusual about my pregnancy. Well, aside from my tongue possibly being a map to buried treasure, no. I had to fight the urge to be smart-alecky ("At his second ultrasound, Jesse flipped us off..."), actually. I thought we'd be there for a while for them to draw new blood samples and be sent home with antibiotics, but then I found out we'd be there overnight for several courses of IV antibiotics.
I was devastated and nonplussed. We hadn't been told to pack for an overnight stay, for one--and this meant that I hadn't brought any of my postpartum supplies other than a change of pads, much less any food or drink. What was worse was that we were now in the pediatric unit, so I didn't have access to the mother-baby unit refreshment stand. I'd discover the following day that I was to be fed, being the breastfeeding mother of the patient, but in the meantime we were in for the most harrowing night I can ever remember. Dean went with the nurses while Jesse got his IV, and I meanwhile sat wringing my hands in Jesse's room, freaking out and thinking, "If I'd had him at home this never would have happened." When Dean brought Jesse back--his hand immobilized by the complicated heplock they had created--Dean said to me, "He is so brave, Helen." This struck me as a strange thing to hear Dean say, but then I realized that he was bonding with the baby too.
This being the same man who didn't speak to me for a half hour when I told him I was pregnant.
But the doctor--a very nice woman--came in and explained that we should have results of the additional tests by 3 p.m. the next day, and that they should reveal the course of treatment from that point forward. By this point, it was nearly 10 p.m. I thought I could tough it out, and Dean said he'd stay with us. Jesse cried through most of the night, and I found myself in meltdown mode shortly after 3 a.m., sobbing hysterically with my newborn, wanting nothing other than to go home. My milk was starting to come in; Dean was holding me and the night nurse was comforting me. I remember blubbering out all of my fears as I tried to nurse Jesse and he'd find no solace there because latching on was so difficult. Finally, Jesse and I fell asleep--with him in my lap in the hospital bed.
The following morning, a shift change brought us a new nurse that we didn't really see all that much of. Another doctor--different from the one we'd seen the previous night-- came in, did an exam, and explained brusquely that Jesse might be sick and might not be but we needed to err on the safe side, and left. We sat and waited, and sat and waited, and sat and waited. Jesse had two normal temperatures in a row. I got breakfast, and lunch, and was asked to place an order for dinner. That's when I started to get suspicious, and summoned the nurse to find out what was going on. It was now nearly 3. She explained that usually these infections meant a 48-hour stay in the hospital. I nearly lost it all over again. "I was told we'd have test results by this time!" I said, insistently. The nurse cocked her head. "Well, the doctor won't be back in until this evening."
ARGH! I nearly burst into tears again, but put my adamant hat on and told her what last night's doctor had said. The nurse said she'd try and find out the results of the additional testing and call today's doctor for more instructions.
An hour later she came back in and said we could go home; the tests showed he'd cleared whatever it was. Dean made the observation that I had been giving Jesse my antibodies since shortly after he was born, amniotic fluid in his tummy notwithstanding. (And I have the immune system of a tank, really. I don't get sick often, although I'm apt to get run-down often enough because I'm Type A that way.)
The nurse ran down our discharge instructions and then went on to add a bit of unsolicited advice. "And don't put your baby in the bed with you!" she said, firmly. Did we look suspiciously like co-sleepers to her? Or was she concerned about the fact that when she'd come in this morning, Jesse had been asleep in my lap? "They can suffocate," she continued, "and when you go into a deep sleep, you can roll over on top of the baby."
Yeah, like I roll over on top of my husband on a regular basis, right? I co-slept with my first son without ever having heard of attachment parenting (or co-sleeping, for that matter. It just made sense, and made him a better sleeper; he slept through the night at 6 weeks and slept in his bassinet or crib from that point onward, with the occasional exception for rough nights.
So we just smiled and nodded and took our little boy home--for good, this time.
Before long, it became apparent that the bacteria was a staphylococcus, or staph, strain. What blew my mind was the number of times I was asked if I had tested positive for Group B Strep, which I hadn't. Last I checked, Strep and Staph were totally different strains of bacteria. I was also asked repeatedly if there had been anything unusual about my pregnancy. Well, aside from my tongue possibly being a map to buried treasure, no. I had to fight the urge to be smart-alecky ("At his second ultrasound, Jesse flipped us off..."), actually. I thought we'd be there for a while for them to draw new blood samples and be sent home with antibiotics, but then I found out we'd be there overnight for several courses of IV antibiotics.
I was devastated and nonplussed. We hadn't been told to pack for an overnight stay, for one--and this meant that I hadn't brought any of my postpartum supplies other than a change of pads, much less any food or drink. What was worse was that we were now in the pediatric unit, so I didn't have access to the mother-baby unit refreshment stand. I'd discover the following day that I was to be fed, being the breastfeeding mother of the patient, but in the meantime we were in for the most harrowing night I can ever remember. Dean went with the nurses while Jesse got his IV, and I meanwhile sat wringing my hands in Jesse's room, freaking out and thinking, "If I'd had him at home this never would have happened." When Dean brought Jesse back--his hand immobilized by the complicated heplock they had created--Dean said to me, "He is so brave, Helen." This struck me as a strange thing to hear Dean say, but then I realized that he was bonding with the baby too.
This being the same man who didn't speak to me for a half hour when I told him I was pregnant.
But the doctor--a very nice woman--came in and explained that we should have results of the additional tests by 3 p.m. the next day, and that they should reveal the course of treatment from that point forward. By this point, it was nearly 10 p.m. I thought I could tough it out, and Dean said he'd stay with us. Jesse cried through most of the night, and I found myself in meltdown mode shortly after 3 a.m., sobbing hysterically with my newborn, wanting nothing other than to go home. My milk was starting to come in; Dean was holding me and the night nurse was comforting me. I remember blubbering out all of my fears as I tried to nurse Jesse and he'd find no solace there because latching on was so difficult. Finally, Jesse and I fell asleep--with him in my lap in the hospital bed.
The following morning, a shift change brought us a new nurse that we didn't really see all that much of. Another doctor--different from the one we'd seen the previous night-- came in, did an exam, and explained brusquely that Jesse might be sick and might not be but we needed to err on the safe side, and left. We sat and waited, and sat and waited, and sat and waited. Jesse had two normal temperatures in a row. I got breakfast, and lunch, and was asked to place an order for dinner. That's when I started to get suspicious, and summoned the nurse to find out what was going on. It was now nearly 3. She explained that usually these infections meant a 48-hour stay in the hospital. I nearly lost it all over again. "I was told we'd have test results by this time!" I said, insistently. The nurse cocked her head. "Well, the doctor won't be back in until this evening." ARGH! I nearly burst into tears again, but put my adamant hat on and told her what last night's doctor had said. The nurse said she'd try and find out the results of the additional testing and call today's doctor for more instructions.
An hour later she came back in and said we could go home; the tests showed he'd cleared whatever it was. Dean made the observation that I had been giving Jesse my antibodies since shortly after he was born, amniotic fluid in his tummy notwithstanding. (And I have the immune system of a tank, really. I don't get sick often, although I'm apt to get run-down often enough because I'm Type A that way.)
The nurse ran down our discharge instructions and then went on to add a bit of unsolicited advice. "And don't put your baby in the bed with you!" she said, firmly. Did we look suspiciously like co-sleepers to her? Or was she concerned about the fact that when she'd come in this morning, Jesse had been asleep in my lap? "They can suffocate," she continued, "and when you go into a deep sleep, you can roll over on top of the baby."
Yeah, like I roll over on top of my husband on a regular basis, right? I co-slept with my first son without ever having heard of attachment parenting (or co-sleeping, for that matter. It just made sense, and made him a better sleeper; he slept through the night at 6 weeks and slept in his bassinet or crib from that point onward, with the occasional exception for rough nights.
So we just smiled and nodded and took our little boy home--for good, this time.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
The first few nights
When we moved to the mother-baby unit after Jesse's birth, I discovered that I had a psychotic bed. As I'd lie in it, various compartments would inflate and deflate, and I joked that it was alive and breathing. Dean immediately conked out on the couch, and I set up my computer to start sending out notifications to folks while getting the hang of breastfeeding and swaddling. It quickly became apparent that Jesse didn't like the hospital bassinet, and I didn't either -- they were clearly set up for standing up care by nurses rather than bedside care by moms, and I had to get out of the psychotic bed to lift him out of the bassinet, then clamber back into the psychotic bed, which would then heave and sigh and readjust to the change in weight. Jesse took to breastfeeding pretty easily, all things considered, but showed (and still shows) a strong preference for my left side.
I couldn't sleep, though. I had an incredible amount of adrenaline coursing through my system. So I watched the baby, transfixed, in awe. In fact, at 1:30 or so I sent my first tweets out, and one of the comments I made was "And I just cannot get over how beautiful this baby is. Seriously." Seriously.
But about 4 a.m., something weird happened. Jesse started making choking and retching noises and I freaked out. The nurse happened to walk in before I could hit the page nurse button, and she picked him up and started vigorously burping him, explaining that he was now clearing amniotic fluid from his tummy and it would need to be burped out. The stuff that he kicked out was a foul-smelling mix of colostrum and amniotic fluid. This continued for the next two hours, before he started a whining scream that carried down the hall. The nurse rushed in again, took his vitals, and discovered that he was running a mild fever. Off he was whisked to the nursery for monitoring, and there he treated everyone to a grand show of projectile vomiting amniotic fluid.
I was half panicked, but so exhausted that I collapsed into a fitful sleep for an hour or so, punctuated by my iPhone alarm to get Dean up so I could send him to get Elder Son off to school. At that time, we asked if we could see Jesse before Dean left, but apparently Jesse was getting labwork done and a checkup by the pediatrician. The nurses were more nonplussed that I was up and walking around the floor so easily. I was more nonplussed that we couldn't see our baby.
An hour later, I was summoned in to feed Jesse. He had stabilized considerably since the vomiting thing, and if he could feed without any reflux this time around they'd be satisfied that he was ok in spite of the mild fever. They offered me a chair in a room for privacy, and I realized, horrified, that I was in the circumcision room--with two immobilization stations that made me weep that I'd put my first son through this procedure. It struck me also that the chair I was in was the antithesis of a comfortable breastfeeding chair, and the boppy they gave me did nothing to improve my own comfort level. But Jesse did fine, and so he came back with me to my room.
When the lab results came back, he showed a higher than normal white blood cell count, and between that and the mild fever, the pediatrician was a little concerned. But he seemed to be "over the hump," as he put it, and when Dean got back we spent the day cuddling Jesse. But I wanted to leave. I'd passed through my postpartum checkups with flying colors, refusing Percocet for the cramps (though I did take a couple of Motrin) and peeing just fine. In fact, I was amazed at how little pain I was in, having had a second degree tear--with Elder Son, I'd had a second degree episiotomy, and had a hell of a time with basic elimination functions.
And the second 24 hours passed without much of a glitch aside from the fact that Jesse went on a crying jag about 3 a.m. And nothing I could do would appease him. I just wanted to go home, to take Jesse home, and realized, somewhat blankly, that I really could have, and should have, done all of this at home. My midwife had even suggested it to me at one point, and I was reluctant, thinking of the risk factors I had. But really, looking back on it, I was so aware of my body and my baby that I'd have known if any of those risks were coming into play.
But I don't have regrets, either. It took the experience to teach me that I could do this, and that I could help others do this.
At any rate, we were discharged late Friday morning. I couldn't wait to get my little boy home, to introduce him to his big brother, and to enjoy getting some rest in a bed that didn't sigh every five minutes. After having a light lunch, I took Jesse upstairs, and we both slept-comfortably-for the first time in his life.
I couldn't sleep, though. I had an incredible amount of adrenaline coursing through my system. So I watched the baby, transfixed, in awe. In fact, at 1:30 or so I sent my first tweets out, and one of the comments I made was "And I just cannot get over how beautiful this baby is. Seriously." Seriously.
But about 4 a.m., something weird happened. Jesse started making choking and retching noises and I freaked out. The nurse happened to walk in before I could hit the page nurse button, and she picked him up and started vigorously burping him, explaining that he was now clearing amniotic fluid from his tummy and it would need to be burped out. The stuff that he kicked out was a foul-smelling mix of colostrum and amniotic fluid. This continued for the next two hours, before he started a whining scream that carried down the hall. The nurse rushed in again, took his vitals, and discovered that he was running a mild fever. Off he was whisked to the nursery for monitoring, and there he treated everyone to a grand show of projectile vomiting amniotic fluid.
I was half panicked, but so exhausted that I collapsed into a fitful sleep for an hour or so, punctuated by my iPhone alarm to get Dean up so I could send him to get Elder Son off to school. At that time, we asked if we could see Jesse before Dean left, but apparently Jesse was getting labwork done and a checkup by the pediatrician. The nurses were more nonplussed that I was up and walking around the floor so easily. I was more nonplussed that we couldn't see our baby.
An hour later, I was summoned in to feed Jesse. He had stabilized considerably since the vomiting thing, and if he could feed without any reflux this time around they'd be satisfied that he was ok in spite of the mild fever. They offered me a chair in a room for privacy, and I realized, horrified, that I was in the circumcision room--with two immobilization stations that made me weep that I'd put my first son through this procedure. It struck me also that the chair I was in was the antithesis of a comfortable breastfeeding chair, and the boppy they gave me did nothing to improve my own comfort level. But Jesse did fine, and so he came back with me to my room.
When the lab results came back, he showed a higher than normal white blood cell count, and between that and the mild fever, the pediatrician was a little concerned. But he seemed to be "over the hump," as he put it, and when Dean got back we spent the day cuddling Jesse. But I wanted to leave. I'd passed through my postpartum checkups with flying colors, refusing Percocet for the cramps (though I did take a couple of Motrin) and peeing just fine. In fact, I was amazed at how little pain I was in, having had a second degree tear--with Elder Son, I'd had a second degree episiotomy, and had a hell of a time with basic elimination functions.
And the second 24 hours passed without much of a glitch aside from the fact that Jesse went on a crying jag about 3 a.m. And nothing I could do would appease him. I just wanted to go home, to take Jesse home, and realized, somewhat blankly, that I really could have, and should have, done all of this at home. My midwife had even suggested it to me at one point, and I was reluctant, thinking of the risk factors I had. But really, looking back on it, I was so aware of my body and my baby that I'd have known if any of those risks were coming into play.
But I don't have regrets, either. It took the experience to teach me that I could do this, and that I could help others do this.
At any rate, we were discharged late Friday morning. I couldn't wait to get my little boy home, to introduce him to his big brother, and to enjoy getting some rest in a bed that didn't sigh every five minutes. After having a light lunch, I took Jesse upstairs, and we both slept-comfortably-for the first time in his life.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Jesse's birth story, part 3
Back onto the ball I went at 8, and immediately, it seemed, I went into hard labor. I started hee-hee-hooing in time with my bounces, and got Dean into a pattern where he'd steady my back and massage the small of my back during the contraction and then move his hands up toward the center of my back during the time between contractions. This system worked really well and soon I could just say "Hands Up" as the contraction would fade and "Hands Down" as the next one would start. Faster and faster they came, and Dean would remind me: "Baby down, Mama open."
Contrast this with the epidural model where you can't leave the bed and your partner has to tell you when the next contraction is happening when the needle rises on the monitor. We'd have been there all night and probably wound up having a c-section.
It was clear that I was in labor now, though, and the bouncing no longer seemed silly. In fact, during the interludes of "rest" where I'd have to get on the monitor for 20 minutes, I was aching to get back on the ball. It was more comfortable to bounce through the damned things--and bouncing has a rhythm that you can really flow with. My next round on the monitor was at 8:30, and I found I hated being in bed and got back on the ball as quickly as possible.
At nine, I was bouncing, and trying to breathe, and howling as I did so. It was an uncanny ululation as I allowed the baby down and felt myself opening, finally. I clumsily banged the call nurse button and told her what I'd just felt. "I need to push!" I said, I think with a scream. Keep in mind I'd just hit 5 cm. at 7:45.
She hurriedly got me into bed, hooked me up to the monitors, and checked me. "She's at 8, and look at those contractions!" she hollered, galvanizing several other nurses into action and sending one off to get the doctor. I realized I was in transition and glanced at the monitor; the contractions were literally happening on top of one another, cresting like great waves pounding into one another before washing ashore in violent cascades. I think I finally understood what it meant to be in both agony and ecstasy at the same time, and stared down in bewilderment as they removed the bottom of the bed and Lisa began to manage my breathing using a counting technique that forced me to refocus my attention away from the wild banshee I was becoming as I continued to howl.
"Helen, you still have just a little bit of cervix left," she said. It was happening that fast. "Breathe with me, now." Five hees. Hooooooo. Four hees. Hoooooo. Five. Hooooooo. Lisa was holding one leg, Dean was holding the other. Three hees. Hooooooo. Five hees. Hoooooo. Two. Hooooooo. The doctor was at the foot of the bed. The other nurses were frantically getting everything ready, I was suddenly aware that It Was About To Happen.
(It was right around this time that my midwife found out I'd been admitted. She called and was told I was about to deliver. She commented back on my Facebook update: 'Why do my best patients always give birth on days I have my pager off?")
At 9:30, I got the ok to push. "Already?!" I said. I heard Lisa tell Dean to support my head as I did--and then, I pushed. With each contraction, I'd push three times; with each push, I'd visualize where he was. The baby crowned on the third contraction, and Dean looked down as we moved into the fourth to see his skull molding to emerge. "You'll feel some burning," said one of the nurses, and -- I felt his head move through me, and screamed again.
"Don't scream," said Lisa, and I nearly laughed. "Pant like you've never panted before." The baby was being suctioned, and I felt goosebumps as I fought the urge to push him the rest of the way out before the doctor had a chance to move his shoulders safely.
"Ok, push again," and out he came. Phflump into the doctor's waiting hands, and then--that first cry. They placed him on my abdomen to dry him and suction him, and I sat there breathless and awestruck, stuttering the only thing I could think to say as I wrapped my arms around him: He's beautiful. I was blinking rapidly, trying to get a sense of what had just happened as he was carried over to the examining table. He had a lot of fluid even after the first round of suctioning, and so I sent Dean over to watch as they got him breathing better.
I had more trouble delivering his placenta than I did delivering him, and I was bleeding a lot. But at that point, I was transfixed watching him, watching Dean watch him, so I didn't really sweat the Pit they attached to the INT to control the bleeding and help deliver the placenta. I probably should have, but I couldn't breastfeed the baby right away because of the excess fluid. Turned out, he'd come down the pipe so fast that he didn't get all the amniotic fluid squeezed out of his lungs and tummy.
Because when it comes right down to it, I had him in about two hours flat, and only pushed for 15 minutes, if that.
I had a small tear that needed repairing, and once he was stable they brought him to me to breastfeed. Lisa disconnected my IV, saying, "They probably want you to have a second bag of this but I know you don't want it and you definitely don't need it." As he tentatively latched on, I murmured his name, Jesse.
The doctor not only congratulated me but also--significantly--apologized to me. "You did say that if you could just get to 5......."
Jesse Heath Mosher, 9 lbs. 11 oz., 23" long, with a 14" head. 11/11/2009, 9:47 p.m. And absolutely beautiful.
The story doesn't exactly end here, though. Jesse's first night will be another blog post in a bit. :)
Before that, though, a couple of observations. I think if my midwife had been available for my labor, I would have gone into active labor more quickly. I also think I could have avoided tearing had I been able to give birth in the squatting position instead of flat on my back. That said, in my heart I feel like my midwife DID deliver my baby. She gave me nearly all of my prenatal care, and took time to educate me so that I would be empowered if she wasn't there, and helped fill me with a passion I didn't know existed--or, should I say, still existed.
She asked me, at about 6 months along, if I would consider a homebirth, saying that I would make a good candidate for one. I think, at this point, if we had another freak oops and a sibling for Jesse, I would. But the chances of that are very slim. Jesse was against the odds. A gift, if you will--and how apt is it that "Jesse" means gift?
Contrast this with the epidural model where you can't leave the bed and your partner has to tell you when the next contraction is happening when the needle rises on the monitor. We'd have been there all night and probably wound up having a c-section.
It was clear that I was in labor now, though, and the bouncing no longer seemed silly. In fact, during the interludes of "rest" where I'd have to get on the monitor for 20 minutes, I was aching to get back on the ball. It was more comfortable to bounce through the damned things--and bouncing has a rhythm that you can really flow with. My next round on the monitor was at 8:30, and I found I hated being in bed and got back on the ball as quickly as possible.
At nine, I was bouncing, and trying to breathe, and howling as I did so. It was an uncanny ululation as I allowed the baby down and felt myself opening, finally. I clumsily banged the call nurse button and told her what I'd just felt. "I need to push!" I said, I think with a scream. Keep in mind I'd just hit 5 cm. at 7:45.
She hurriedly got me into bed, hooked me up to the monitors, and checked me. "She's at 8, and look at those contractions!" she hollered, galvanizing several other nurses into action and sending one off to get the doctor. I realized I was in transition and glanced at the monitor; the contractions were literally happening on top of one another, cresting like great waves pounding into one another before washing ashore in violent cascades. I think I finally understood what it meant to be in both agony and ecstasy at the same time, and stared down in bewilderment as they removed the bottom of the bed and Lisa began to manage my breathing using a counting technique that forced me to refocus my attention away from the wild banshee I was becoming as I continued to howl.
"Helen, you still have just a little bit of cervix left," she said. It was happening that fast. "Breathe with me, now." Five hees. Hooooooo. Four hees. Hoooooo. Five. Hooooooo. Lisa was holding one leg, Dean was holding the other. Three hees. Hooooooo. Five hees. Hoooooo. Two. Hooooooo. The doctor was at the foot of the bed. The other nurses were frantically getting everything ready, I was suddenly aware that It Was About To Happen.
(It was right around this time that my midwife found out I'd been admitted. She called and was told I was about to deliver. She commented back on my Facebook update: 'Why do my best patients always give birth on days I have my pager off?")
At 9:30, I got the ok to push. "Already?!" I said. I heard Lisa tell Dean to support my head as I did--and then, I pushed. With each contraction, I'd push three times; with each push, I'd visualize where he was. The baby crowned on the third contraction, and Dean looked down as we moved into the fourth to see his skull molding to emerge. "You'll feel some burning," said one of the nurses, and -- I felt his head move through me, and screamed again.
"Don't scream," said Lisa, and I nearly laughed. "Pant like you've never panted before." The baby was being suctioned, and I felt goosebumps as I fought the urge to push him the rest of the way out before the doctor had a chance to move his shoulders safely.
"Ok, push again," and out he came. Phflump into the doctor's waiting hands, and then--that first cry. They placed him on my abdomen to dry him and suction him, and I sat there breathless and awestruck, stuttering the only thing I could think to say as I wrapped my arms around him: He's beautiful. I was blinking rapidly, trying to get a sense of what had just happened as he was carried over to the examining table. He had a lot of fluid even after the first round of suctioning, and so I sent Dean over to watch as they got him breathing better.
I had more trouble delivering his placenta than I did delivering him, and I was bleeding a lot. But at that point, I was transfixed watching him, watching Dean watch him, so I didn't really sweat the Pit they attached to the INT to control the bleeding and help deliver the placenta. I probably should have, but I couldn't breastfeed the baby right away because of the excess fluid. Turned out, he'd come down the pipe so fast that he didn't get all the amniotic fluid squeezed out of his lungs and tummy.
Because when it comes right down to it, I had him in about two hours flat, and only pushed for 15 minutes, if that.
I had a small tear that needed repairing, and once he was stable they brought him to me to breastfeed. Lisa disconnected my IV, saying, "They probably want you to have a second bag of this but I know you don't want it and you definitely don't need it." As he tentatively latched on, I murmured his name, Jesse.
The doctor not only congratulated me but also--significantly--apologized to me. "You did say that if you could just get to 5......."
Jesse Heath Mosher, 9 lbs. 11 oz., 23" long, with a 14" head. 11/11/2009, 9:47 p.m. And absolutely beautiful.
The story doesn't exactly end here, though. Jesse's first night will be another blog post in a bit. :)
Before that, though, a couple of observations. I think if my midwife had been available for my labor, I would have gone into active labor more quickly. I also think I could have avoided tearing had I been able to give birth in the squatting position instead of flat on my back. That said, in my heart I feel like my midwife DID deliver my baby. She gave me nearly all of my prenatal care, and took time to educate me so that I would be empowered if she wasn't there, and helped fill me with a passion I didn't know existed--or, should I say, still existed.
She asked me, at about 6 months along, if I would consider a homebirth, saying that I would make a good candidate for one. I think, at this point, if we had another freak oops and a sibling for Jesse, I would. But the chances of that are very slim. Jesse was against the odds. A gift, if you will--and how apt is it that "Jesse" means gift?
Jesse's birth story, part 2
The nurse iterated again how she was concerned about not being able to get an IV in me fast enough if there were an emergency. I finally consented to an INT, in which they set up the access but don't actually run an IV through it, thinking of an acquaintance whose wife had recently died because of a freak hemorrhage at the birth of their baby. By doing this, I managed to reassure both doctor and nurse that I wasn't completely "unreasonable." But of course for the next several hours they kept offering to hydrate me via that access. I'd wave my cup of newly refilled ice chips at them--not acknowledging that I'd drunk the last cup's melted leavings before refilling it--and say no.
At 2 pm, I still was at 3 cm, but the baby had at least engaged and now was at -1 station, and my cervix was continuing to melt away. The doctor assured me that the dose of Pitocin she wanted to give me would be the smallest dose possible, and that really, all I needed was "a whiff" to get my labor going. She also admitted that she wasn't accustomed to reactions like mine, that she was accustomed to a certain process. "Look," I said, fighting the urge to remind her that I was her patient, not a process, "I'm not trying to be difficult. But a natural childbirth means a lot to me, and everything we do that disrupts that interferes with my ability to bring forth this child and bond with him." That was my third refusal.
My labor pains were only noticeable when I was standing up, and it was still so bleah that I was beginning to doubt myself. I'd been refusing cervical checks by the nurse, because--as they had pointed out to me--the risk of infection does go up once the water's broken. I confided in Dean that I was scared they were going to accuse me of failing to progress. I'd watch the monitor and despair every time the baby's heart rate seemed to go below the "normal" range. "If I could just get to 5 cm," I told him. But by 6 pm--the next time the doctor came--I was only at 4 cm and 80 percent effaced, and the baby was still at -1. Again she wanted to Pit me; again I turned her down, insisting that if I could get to 5 cm, I'd be fine, and to "just give me a few more hours, please?" I was practically whimpering at this point.
At 7, the nurse shift changed, and in walked my guardian angel, Lisa. The previous nurse introduced her as "our best natural childbirth nurse," and Lisa took one look at me--by this point looking badly worn down by the repeated pitocin badgering--and said, "Well, the first thing we gotta do is get you out of that bed and onto the ball." I got up, went to the bathroom, and when I came out, she had an exercise ball in her hands. "I talked to the doctor," she said. "There will be no more talk of Pitocin. Now I want you to sit on this ball and every time you feel a contraction, start bouncing. We'll get that baby down."
At first, it felt silly, but not only was this a more active way of getting labor going (and I wish someone had told me to do this at noon), but it also allowed Dean to be more active with me. He pulled up a stool behind me and held me steady while I bounced, and rubbed my back between the contractions. Suddenly, the contractions strengthened noticeably, and for the first time, I needed to concentrate to stay with them. Not yet ready for breathing, I chanted a mantra as I bounced, "Baby down, Mama open." Dean started saying it with me, and suddenly the energy in the room changed. It was 7:45 when she came back with the doctor to check me. The doctor's eyes widened.
I'd hit 5 cm/90, she could feel the baby's head, and my contractions had doubled in strength.
What a difference it makes to have a supportive environment! THANK YOU LISA!
So then...
Onward to part 3...
At 2 pm, I still was at 3 cm, but the baby had at least engaged and now was at -1 station, and my cervix was continuing to melt away. The doctor assured me that the dose of Pitocin she wanted to give me would be the smallest dose possible, and that really, all I needed was "a whiff" to get my labor going. She also admitted that she wasn't accustomed to reactions like mine, that she was accustomed to a certain process. "Look," I said, fighting the urge to remind her that I was her patient, not a process, "I'm not trying to be difficult. But a natural childbirth means a lot to me, and everything we do that disrupts that interferes with my ability to bring forth this child and bond with him." That was my third refusal.
My labor pains were only noticeable when I was standing up, and it was still so bleah that I was beginning to doubt myself. I'd been refusing cervical checks by the nurse, because--as they had pointed out to me--the risk of infection does go up once the water's broken. I confided in Dean that I was scared they were going to accuse me of failing to progress. I'd watch the monitor and despair every time the baby's heart rate seemed to go below the "normal" range. "If I could just get to 5 cm," I told him. But by 6 pm--the next time the doctor came--I was only at 4 cm and 80 percent effaced, and the baby was still at -1. Again she wanted to Pit me; again I turned her down, insisting that if I could get to 5 cm, I'd be fine, and to "just give me a few more hours, please?" I was practically whimpering at this point.
At 7, the nurse shift changed, and in walked my guardian angel, Lisa. The previous nurse introduced her as "our best natural childbirth nurse," and Lisa took one look at me--by this point looking badly worn down by the repeated pitocin badgering--and said, "Well, the first thing we gotta do is get you out of that bed and onto the ball." I got up, went to the bathroom, and when I came out, she had an exercise ball in her hands. "I talked to the doctor," she said. "There will be no more talk of Pitocin. Now I want you to sit on this ball and every time you feel a contraction, start bouncing. We'll get that baby down."
At first, it felt silly, but not only was this a more active way of getting labor going (and I wish someone had told me to do this at noon), but it also allowed Dean to be more active with me. He pulled up a stool behind me and held me steady while I bounced, and rubbed my back between the contractions. Suddenly, the contractions strengthened noticeably, and for the first time, I needed to concentrate to stay with them. Not yet ready for breathing, I chanted a mantra as I bounced, "Baby down, Mama open." Dean started saying it with me, and suddenly the energy in the room changed. It was 7:45 when she came back with the doctor to check me. The doctor's eyes widened.
I'd hit 5 cm/90, she could feel the baby's head, and my contractions had doubled in strength.
What a difference it makes to have a supportive environment! THANK YOU LISA!
So then...
Onward to part 3...
Jesse's birth story, part 1
These things are always done in parts, it seems, but there's something about recounting the story in as much detail as I can remember. I didn't really record anything about my first son's birth, and really regret it.
When I found out I was pregnant, I could not remember exactly which day my last menstrual cycle had started. I knew it was either Feb. 3 or 4, which meant my due date was either Nov. 10 or 11. I went with the 10th, but the doctors went with the 11th. It didn't much matter to me because I was anticipating an early baby. But, of course, Nov. 10 came and went and still no sign of little JHM.
But on the morning of the 11th, I woke up at about 6 a.m. to find a small puddle under me. I woke my husband and asked him if he thought that was my amniotic water, and he said yes, definitely. But I didn't necessarily agree--I got up and went to the bathroom, and it was a decidedly longer pee than I usually had that late in pregnancy, so I thought my bladder had leaked. I went back to bed and dozed until the alarm went off an hour later.
This time, when I sat up to get out of bed, I felt the gush.
Now, I was already between 2-3 cm. dilated, soft but not effaced. It's not unusual for 2d time moms to dilate first and then efface, but since I wasn't feeling any strong contractions, I decided to hold off on rushing to the hospital. More anxiety-provoking for me was the fact that my midwife's normal day off was Wednesday. I kicked myself for not asking her what to do if my water broke and I wasn't in active labor and she wasn't on call or available. Of all the scenarios, that was not what I pictured: in my family, typically, active labor commences with the water breaking.
First, I got elder son off to school, letting him know that I would not be here when he got home. I waited for the office to open and called; got Scottie the nurse, and she told me to go to the hospital. I asked her about the OB on call--she was new to the practice, and not only had I not met her, I didn't know anything about her. Scottie reassured me. I was still daunted, wishing hard that my midwife would somehow pick up on the psychic resonance of the numerologically auspicious date, but we slowly got everything together and headed to the hospital. Oddly, they had trouble confirming that my water had broken because I couldn't seem to produce another gush for them. I was still 3 cm, and only 50 percent effaced. Part of me wishes that I had just turned round and gone home, because it didn't take long for me to realize I'd just consigned myself to a medical labor and delivery, and I would have to fight tooth and nail to get the natural childbirth I wanted.
It started around 11, when the L&D nurse assigned to me wanted to start an IV because the doctor had _already_ ordered Pitocin for me, as well as nothing by mouth other than ice chips. She had never met me, remember? I refused the IV and the Pitocin and said that the doctor would need to come in and explain to me why there was a medical indication for this intervention. The nurse seemed daunted, and at that point I knew she wouldn't be an ally. She expressed concern about my tiny veins and the difficulty she would have starting an IV if there were an emergency. I insisted I needed to talk to the doctor first, and set about walking around the labor ward to try and get contractions going.
By 12:30 I had a good labor pattern going, even though I wasn't really feeling the contractions any stronger than I had during false labor. They were definitely every 2-3 minutes, though, so I expected there to be some progress. The doctor came in and checked me, and I was still 3 cm, now 70 percent effaced. She again said she'd like to start Pitocin, arguing that since my water had broken there was a chance the baby would go into distress and she'd like him to arrive "during the day while there were still plenty of people here." I think my eyebrows shot off my face. I explained to her that I didn't agree that Pitocin would get him here faster because sending me into hard labor too early might trigger what I call intervention cascade, in which Pitocin contractions are so hard and violent that even the most pain-tolerant mothers beg for relief, usually in the form of an epidural; then, once the epidural is in place, the mother is no longer able to work with the contractions, creating a stressful environment for mother and baby.
She stared at me. "My priority is delivering a healthy baby," she said, implying that my belief in intervention-free natural childbirth stood in the way of this. "My baby _is_ healthy," I replied, gritting my teeth. She and the nurse combed through the print-out of the monitor, looking for evidence that the baby was in distress. "Look, the heart rate dropped here," she said. "He turned away from the monitor," I said. She was quiet. "Yes, you're right, it's only a partial reading, but if it drops again, I _will_ put you on Pitocin."
Then began the fight over the IV, again.
At some break between all this, I wrote on my midwife's Facebook wall: "Missing you right now."
Onward to part 2...
When I found out I was pregnant, I could not remember exactly which day my last menstrual cycle had started. I knew it was either Feb. 3 or 4, which meant my due date was either Nov. 10 or 11. I went with the 10th, but the doctors went with the 11th. It didn't much matter to me because I was anticipating an early baby. But, of course, Nov. 10 came and went and still no sign of little JHM.
But on the morning of the 11th, I woke up at about 6 a.m. to find a small puddle under me. I woke my husband and asked him if he thought that was my amniotic water, and he said yes, definitely. But I didn't necessarily agree--I got up and went to the bathroom, and it was a decidedly longer pee than I usually had that late in pregnancy, so I thought my bladder had leaked. I went back to bed and dozed until the alarm went off an hour later.
This time, when I sat up to get out of bed, I felt the gush.
Now, I was already between 2-3 cm. dilated, soft but not effaced. It's not unusual for 2d time moms to dilate first and then efface, but since I wasn't feeling any strong contractions, I decided to hold off on rushing to the hospital. More anxiety-provoking for me was the fact that my midwife's normal day off was Wednesday. I kicked myself for not asking her what to do if my water broke and I wasn't in active labor and she wasn't on call or available. Of all the scenarios, that was not what I pictured: in my family, typically, active labor commences with the water breaking.
First, I got elder son off to school, letting him know that I would not be here when he got home. I waited for the office to open and called; got Scottie the nurse, and she told me to go to the hospital. I asked her about the OB on call--she was new to the practice, and not only had I not met her, I didn't know anything about her. Scottie reassured me. I was still daunted, wishing hard that my midwife would somehow pick up on the psychic resonance of the numerologically auspicious date, but we slowly got everything together and headed to the hospital. Oddly, they had trouble confirming that my water had broken because I couldn't seem to produce another gush for them. I was still 3 cm, and only 50 percent effaced. Part of me wishes that I had just turned round and gone home, because it didn't take long for me to realize I'd just consigned myself to a medical labor and delivery, and I would have to fight tooth and nail to get the natural childbirth I wanted.
It started around 11, when the L&D nurse assigned to me wanted to start an IV because the doctor had _already_ ordered Pitocin for me, as well as nothing by mouth other than ice chips. She had never met me, remember? I refused the IV and the Pitocin and said that the doctor would need to come in and explain to me why there was a medical indication for this intervention. The nurse seemed daunted, and at that point I knew she wouldn't be an ally. She expressed concern about my tiny veins and the difficulty she would have starting an IV if there were an emergency. I insisted I needed to talk to the doctor first, and set about walking around the labor ward to try and get contractions going.
By 12:30 I had a good labor pattern going, even though I wasn't really feeling the contractions any stronger than I had during false labor. They were definitely every 2-3 minutes, though, so I expected there to be some progress. The doctor came in and checked me, and I was still 3 cm, now 70 percent effaced. She again said she'd like to start Pitocin, arguing that since my water had broken there was a chance the baby would go into distress and she'd like him to arrive "during the day while there were still plenty of people here." I think my eyebrows shot off my face. I explained to her that I didn't agree that Pitocin would get him here faster because sending me into hard labor too early might trigger what I call intervention cascade, in which Pitocin contractions are so hard and violent that even the most pain-tolerant mothers beg for relief, usually in the form of an epidural; then, once the epidural is in place, the mother is no longer able to work with the contractions, creating a stressful environment for mother and baby.
She stared at me. "My priority is delivering a healthy baby," she said, implying that my belief in intervention-free natural childbirth stood in the way of this. "My baby _is_ healthy," I replied, gritting my teeth. She and the nurse combed through the print-out of the monitor, looking for evidence that the baby was in distress. "Look, the heart rate dropped here," she said. "He turned away from the monitor," I said. She was quiet. "Yes, you're right, it's only a partial reading, but if it drops again, I _will_ put you on Pitocin."
Then began the fight over the IV, again.
At some break between all this, I wrote on my midwife's Facebook wall: "Missing you right now."
Onward to part 2...
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Week 40: Right on time!
I was given two different due dates during my early pregnancy. The first, given by my GP, was Nov. 10. But the midwife's nurse gave me Nov. 11, and I thought the different so marginal that I just went with the first one I got.
But the baby decided that the midwife's nurse was correct, and chose yesterday to arrive. It also happened to be a day that said midwife was not available, but what are the odds that a baby will show up on its due date? (Considerably higher, I guess, when you go with two due dates.)
Please welcome Jesse Heath Mosher to the world. Birth story to come.
But the baby decided that the midwife's nurse was correct, and chose yesterday to arrive. It also happened to be a day that said midwife was not available, but what are the odds that a baby will show up on its due date? (Considerably higher, I guess, when you go with two due dates.)
Please welcome Jesse Heath Mosher to the world. Birth story to come.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Week 39: Imminence
On Thursday, my checkup revealed that I was nearly 3 cm dilated; my midwife was confident that I'd go into labor that evening. In fact, I kind of did; similar to my episode of Oct. 26, I wound up with regular, painful contractions every 7 minutes. But as 9 p.m. loomed, I became anxious: at midnight, birthday politics would kick in. My husband's daughter's birthday, over which she claims exclusive domain, is Nov. 6.
But I needn't have worried; by 1 a.m. things had calmed down enough that I went to sleep. I've had about a dozen contractions a day since then, but was ok with that, too. This feels like it should be the week. Since I've been kinda couch-ridden for most of these days, D. took me out to his parents' place for a change of scenery yesterday; we experimented with bumpy roads and spicy venison chili, but nothing happened.
Today has been mostly quiet, aside from a few contractions this morning. I have to admit I'm a little disappointed, because 11/9 happens to feel like a good day, and it was so beautiful out. I finished up a little freelance work, got out for a walk in the afternoon, and wound up just feeling exhausted, which has been the main theme of the past four days. After picking up Elder Son from school, I conked out on the couch for a couple of hours. To hell with nesting, which I have the desire to do but none of the energy--but again, that's more fodder for why the baby should have come on Thursday, because last Wednesday I was a whirlwind in the house.
I've dropped several pounds over the course of this week, however, and I'm noticing the water retention--a brief phenomenon for me this pregnancy--is abating.
Right now, I'm thinking tomorrow or Thursday. Wednesday would be an interesting day for him to show up too--numerologically, 11-11-2009 is a 33 day, plus it's Veteran's Day--but every time I show signs of labor on days when my midwife isn't available (and Wednesdays are one of them) I find myself highly anxious about anyone trying to "manage" my labor.
And that brings me to my feelings on induction. I'm carrying a big baby and I know it; big babies run in the family. But they can get rather lethargic about showing up, and often need prompting in the form of stripped membranes or broken water once the cervix is ripe, which mine is. I consider these physical interventions, and for some reason, I don't have a problem with physical interventions the way I do with chemical ones such as Cervadil or Pitocin, or surgical ones such as C-sections done when they don't need to be. I also know that in our family, once the water breaks, the labor moves *very* quickly, particularly in subsequent babies. It's nice to have my mother's recollection of her sisters' and younger brother's births as well as her birth stories of me and my brother, as well as my aunt's tales of her two big boys, in knowing how my body works and it giving me strength and faith to know what I will most likely experience having my second: that chances are, it will be as gentle a birth as I had with my first.
That faith goes a long way toward actually looking forward to childbirth and embracing the pain that comes with it.
But I needn't have worried; by 1 a.m. things had calmed down enough that I went to sleep. I've had about a dozen contractions a day since then, but was ok with that, too. This feels like it should be the week. Since I've been kinda couch-ridden for most of these days, D. took me out to his parents' place for a change of scenery yesterday; we experimented with bumpy roads and spicy venison chili, but nothing happened.
Today has been mostly quiet, aside from a few contractions this morning. I have to admit I'm a little disappointed, because 11/9 happens to feel like a good day, and it was so beautiful out. I finished up a little freelance work, got out for a walk in the afternoon, and wound up just feeling exhausted, which has been the main theme of the past four days. After picking up Elder Son from school, I conked out on the couch for a couple of hours. To hell with nesting, which I have the desire to do but none of the energy--but again, that's more fodder for why the baby should have come on Thursday, because last Wednesday I was a whirlwind in the house.
I've dropped several pounds over the course of this week, however, and I'm noticing the water retention--a brief phenomenon for me this pregnancy--is abating.
Right now, I'm thinking tomorrow or Thursday. Wednesday would be an interesting day for him to show up too--numerologically, 11-11-2009 is a 33 day, plus it's Veteran's Day--but every time I show signs of labor on days when my midwife isn't available (and Wednesdays are one of them) I find myself highly anxious about anyone trying to "manage" my labor.
And that brings me to my feelings on induction. I'm carrying a big baby and I know it; big babies run in the family. But they can get rather lethargic about showing up, and often need prompting in the form of stripped membranes or broken water once the cervix is ripe, which mine is. I consider these physical interventions, and for some reason, I don't have a problem with physical interventions the way I do with chemical ones such as Cervadil or Pitocin, or surgical ones such as C-sections done when they don't need to be. I also know that in our family, once the water breaks, the labor moves *very* quickly, particularly in subsequent babies. It's nice to have my mother's recollection of her sisters' and younger brother's births as well as her birth stories of me and my brother, as well as my aunt's tales of her two big boys, in knowing how my body works and it giving me strength and faith to know what I will most likely experience having my second: that chances are, it will be as gentle a birth as I had with my first.
That faith goes a long way toward actually looking forward to childbirth and embracing the pain that comes with it.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Here he comes...
Not.
I'm having incredibly regular contractions that are strong enough to cause me to catch my breath, but my intuition was telling me these weren't it. When I called to report them, however, the doctor on call told me to go in to labor and delivery to get checked. So I did, scampering out of work for the rest of the afternoon.
The drive seemed to slow things down, but once we were over the mountain they were back to every 4-7 minutes. I wasn't feeling in the least concerned, honestly; just wanted to know if these contractions were doing anything.
They weren't. In fact, the entire time I was in the hospital I had two contractions. I had that many walking back to the car afterward, so I think everyone knew it wasn't time except for the on-call practitioner and my husband, who fretted himself so silly that he nearly fell asleep while I was hooked up to the monitor. I think he needs more practice at this if we're to keep him conscious during the birth, because yes, he falls asleep when he gets stressed. Meanwhile, the baby and uterus only want to do their show for the private audience==it's not time for the big show yet. But if I have to put up with this every 5-10 minutes until the baby is born, he better come quick!
I'm having incredibly regular contractions that are strong enough to cause me to catch my breath, but my intuition was telling me these weren't it. When I called to report them, however, the doctor on call told me to go in to labor and delivery to get checked. So I did, scampering out of work for the rest of the afternoon.
The drive seemed to slow things down, but once we were over the mountain they were back to every 4-7 minutes. I wasn't feeling in the least concerned, honestly; just wanted to know if these contractions were doing anything.
They weren't. In fact, the entire time I was in the hospital I had two contractions. I had that many walking back to the car afterward, so I think everyone knew it wasn't time except for the on-call practitioner and my husband, who fretted himself so silly that he nearly fell asleep while I was hooked up to the monitor. I think he needs more practice at this if we're to keep him conscious during the birth, because yes, he falls asleep when he gets stressed. Meanwhile, the baby and uterus only want to do their show for the private audience==it's not time for the big show yet. But if I have to put up with this every 5-10 minutes until the baby is born, he better come quick!
Sunday, October 25, 2009
37 weeks: I'm Full Term!
....which basically translates into incredibly slow moving and in a lot of pain in general, because my belly is so heavy and constantly going in and out of contraction-mode. I've had two episodes of false labor, with painful contractions that had some semblance of regularity but never broke the 7 minute threshold, and since I haven't passed my plug to my knowledge and have no bloody show I wasn't worried. Latent labor tends to last a couple of weeks for me and my girl-kin anyway, but in spite of all that I know he could show up any day now. I'm still hoping for an October baby, and sometimes I think he's going to punch his way out of the amniotic sac himself (right now is one of those times, actually).
My cervix at checkup had progressed slightly from last week, to almost two cm. But I'm looking for that magic 3 number where I'll feel comfortable that it's really happening.
Annoyed at the hospital I'm delivering at for saying no visitors under 18 because of H1N1. This means that my stepdaughter and son won't be able to meet their new sibling until I come home, which probably isn't a big deal for my stepdaughter, but I really don't want to go two days without my son coming to see me, since I'm his primary caregiver and all. And what *really* bothers me is that he's getting vaccinated against H1N1, but it doesn't seem like there is any clause exempting him as vaccinated.
Although with any luck, I'll have this baby tomorrow or Monday before the policy takes effect.
As of Thursday I seem to have finally started retaining water and have the pregnancy edema that so many people complain about. I'm glad it came late, and that my urine is clear and my blood pressure is fine. During my first pregnancy, I was on the verge of pre-eclampsia for much of the last two months.
Today was a rainy day in Northern Virginia, and right now Dean and I both seem to have misplaced our umbrellas. As we ran errands, test drove cars (Dean totalled his back in August and now we're looking to replace it), and whatnot we managed to time most of it so that we weren't caught in the rain too bad, but then we went to the library and WHOOCH! there was no way to avoid the downpour aside from sitting in the car for... too long. So he says, "Shall we make a dash for it?"
I just looked at him. I'm about as capable of running at the moment as the Comcast turtles.
But I did find several first-year baby care books at the library book sale for dirt cheap. So it was worth getting pelted over.
My cervix at checkup had progressed slightly from last week, to almost two cm. But I'm looking for that magic 3 number where I'll feel comfortable that it's really happening.
Annoyed at the hospital I'm delivering at for saying no visitors under 18 because of H1N1. This means that my stepdaughter and son won't be able to meet their new sibling until I come home, which probably isn't a big deal for my stepdaughter, but I really don't want to go two days without my son coming to see me, since I'm his primary caregiver and all. And what *really* bothers me is that he's getting vaccinated against H1N1, but it doesn't seem like there is any clause exempting him as vaccinated.
Although with any luck, I'll have this baby tomorrow or Monday before the policy takes effect.
As of Thursday I seem to have finally started retaining water and have the pregnancy edema that so many people complain about. I'm glad it came late, and that my urine is clear and my blood pressure is fine. During my first pregnancy, I was on the verge of pre-eclampsia for much of the last two months.
Today was a rainy day in Northern Virginia, and right now Dean and I both seem to have misplaced our umbrellas. As we ran errands, test drove cars (Dean totalled his back in August and now we're looking to replace it), and whatnot we managed to time most of it so that we weren't caught in the rain too bad, but then we went to the library and WHOOCH! there was no way to avoid the downpour aside from sitting in the car for... too long. So he says, "Shall we make a dash for it?"
I just looked at him. I'm about as capable of running at the moment as the Comcast turtles.
But I did find several first-year baby care books at the library book sale for dirt cheap. So it was worth getting pelted over.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Jesus, people
Let me make myself clear regarding my last post: I am asking what to expect with my son, what I will need to do, to know, whether I will need to defend the decision. Getting all sanctimonious about your own perspective on circumcision is not helpful. We've already made the decision not to, so graphic information about the state of my own genitalia to try and shock me into some kind of reaction is not helpful. The dream I had last night is indicative of some latent anxiety I have over the matter, and what I'm looking for is reassurance, not proselytizing, which is something I _never_ take well.
Boys will be boys
I don't have strong feelings about circumcision. I don't know why, I feel like I _should_ have strong feelings about it, considering how noninterventionist I am about health care in the first place. But I guess it has something to do with the amount of intimate experience I have with uncut men--and that's practically none.
My husband, on the other hand, does feel quite strongly about not circumcising the baby. So begins my anxiety, it would seem, because I had a dream last night that one of my children had been circumcised without anesthetic at about the age of 10. Elder son is, already, but had enough left over that as a youth, during physicals, doctors would remind me that it wasn't too late to take care of that if we wanted to. Will that happen as the baby gets older? And what will I do when I can't retort "he already is circumcised, you nitwit?"
Meanwhile, a friend of mine with a newborn son was recently appalled when her pediatrician apparently retracted her son's foreskin at his first checkup. She (and I) were appalled; isn't that not supposed to be possible before the baby is about two?
What can I expect from this decision? We live in a rural area, and already the attention our decision seems to be getting makes me think we're making an unusual choice for this region. How can we explain to younger son why his dad and elder brother look different? How can I bring this topic up to Elder Son to get his opinions on it? (I'm considering asking my husband to talk to him about it, but that's still kind of a strange stepfather dynamic to ask for.)
I know there are people who see circumcision as mutilation. I, to be honest, am ambivalent; I see their point of view but also understand the point of view of those who see it as normal. But I find it odd that most people clamoring about this are women, and would honestly prefer to hear from men about it. Because that's the one perspective I don't have.
In the meantime, I'm going to follow my husband's wishes, but I just wish I could feel better about it, and wonder how much time I'll have to spend defending his decision and protecting the baby from those who would try and persuade me otherwise, if that makes any sense.
My husband, on the other hand, does feel quite strongly about not circumcising the baby. So begins my anxiety, it would seem, because I had a dream last night that one of my children had been circumcised without anesthetic at about the age of 10. Elder son is, already, but had enough left over that as a youth, during physicals, doctors would remind me that it wasn't too late to take care of that if we wanted to. Will that happen as the baby gets older? And what will I do when I can't retort "he already is circumcised, you nitwit?"
Meanwhile, a friend of mine with a newborn son was recently appalled when her pediatrician apparently retracted her son's foreskin at his first checkup. She (and I) were appalled; isn't that not supposed to be possible before the baby is about two?
What can I expect from this decision? We live in a rural area, and already the attention our decision seems to be getting makes me think we're making an unusual choice for this region. How can we explain to younger son why his dad and elder brother look different? How can I bring this topic up to Elder Son to get his opinions on it? (I'm considering asking my husband to talk to him about it, but that's still kind of a strange stepfather dynamic to ask for.)
I know there are people who see circumcision as mutilation. I, to be honest, am ambivalent; I see their point of view but also understand the point of view of those who see it as normal. But I find it odd that most people clamoring about this are women, and would honestly prefer to hear from men about it. Because that's the one perspective I don't have.
In the meantime, I'm going to follow my husband's wishes, but I just wish I could feel better about it, and wonder how much time I'll have to spend defending his decision and protecting the baby from those who would try and persuade me otherwise, if that makes any sense.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Week 36: Nerves!
So it's been a few weeks, and rather than try to write a blog post for each week I'll try to summarize real quick and then revisit those weeks later. But it's been a busy four weeks during which the baby has grown considerably, I've had three more showers thrown for me, and amazingly I've only gained 28 pounds. (27 as of this morning, actually, because I seem to be now at the final dropping-weight stage.)
Yesterday we had an ultrasound because my fundal measurements had been kinda on the crazy large side, and here we are at 36 weeks with a baby larger than many newborns already. (And yes, I know ultrasound measurements of weight are approximations, but basically what it boils down to is that he's big.) He's also dropped a bit, because the rib pain that I've been experiencing (what with that tall fundus) finally subsided last week, to be replaced by the bladder pressure that comes from Baby using said bladder as a pillow. Some crazy Braxton-Hicks contractions over the weekend have me convinced I'm already effacing just a tad, and fully expect to start dilating within the next two weeks. Part of me hopes that the baby comes just early enough to be an October baby like me.
But I'm also nervous. Ordinarily right now I'd be heading up to Winchester to see my midwife, and the office just called to say that she's in baby-catching mode so they needed to reschedule me. But they also said that they wanted to see me later today specifically because they wanted to get a plan in place simply because the baby is.. already... about....
Eight pounds.
So I call my husband, and he answers with, "Is this the call?" It's as if I were already full term--still a week away--or my due date, which is still four weeks away. Now, Elder Son arrived at 9 1/2 pounds, and given the math that babies at this point in pregnancy gain about a half-pound per week, he's aiming to be a 10-pounder if he shows up when he's due; that doesn't surprise me in the least given that both Dean and I were bigger than 9 lbs. too.
But we'll see what Karen has to say about it before we'll start sounding panic bells. I don't feel ready yet, but then, is anyone?
Funny aside related to being ready: Yesterday after briefing everyone at work about job responsibilities that are being covered while I'm on leave, one of my coworkers asked me why I was starting my leave 10 days before my due date. This was within an hour or two of my husband telling me he wasn't comfortable with my making the hour-long, 50 mile drive to my office alone anymore. I'm glad I work from home half the week, but it will be nice to have a week or so to get ready. but all this chatter today makes me think I'm not going to get that week at all!
Yesterday we had an ultrasound because my fundal measurements had been kinda on the crazy large side, and here we are at 36 weeks with a baby larger than many newborns already. (And yes, I know ultrasound measurements of weight are approximations, but basically what it boils down to is that he's big.) He's also dropped a bit, because the rib pain that I've been experiencing (what with that tall fundus) finally subsided last week, to be replaced by the bladder pressure that comes from Baby using said bladder as a pillow. Some crazy Braxton-Hicks contractions over the weekend have me convinced I'm already effacing just a tad, and fully expect to start dilating within the next two weeks. Part of me hopes that the baby comes just early enough to be an October baby like me.
But I'm also nervous. Ordinarily right now I'd be heading up to Winchester to see my midwife, and the office just called to say that she's in baby-catching mode so they needed to reschedule me. But they also said that they wanted to see me later today specifically because they wanted to get a plan in place simply because the baby is.. already... about....
Eight pounds.
So I call my husband, and he answers with, "Is this the call?" It's as if I were already full term--still a week away--or my due date, which is still four weeks away. Now, Elder Son arrived at 9 1/2 pounds, and given the math that babies at this point in pregnancy gain about a half-pound per week, he's aiming to be a 10-pounder if he shows up when he's due; that doesn't surprise me in the least given that both Dean and I were bigger than 9 lbs. too.
But we'll see what Karen has to say about it before we'll start sounding panic bells. I don't feel ready yet, but then, is anyone?
Funny aside related to being ready: Yesterday after briefing everyone at work about job responsibilities that are being covered while I'm on leave, one of my coworkers asked me why I was starting my leave 10 days before my due date. This was within an hour or two of my husband telling me he wasn't comfortable with my making the hour-long, 50 mile drive to my office alone anymore. I'm glad I work from home half the week, but it will be nice to have a week or so to get ready. but all this chatter today makes me think I'm not going to get that week at all!
Monday, September 21, 2009
So, Helen, just how ARE you feeling?
I don't get asked that question all the time anymore, largely due to a constant stream of invective-filled PSAs directed at those who ask me, but I've been asked twice this week and find that it still rankles, but for a different reason. I don't want to tell anyone, really, how I'm feeling, for two reasons. First, you don't REALLY want to hear about how much my rib cage hurts, how much the hip pain slows me down, how tired I really am, and how much I wish the baby would quit exploring every crevice of my abdomen while trying to figure out what limb he can stuff into each of them.
Second, if I do share that with you, I don't really want your advice on how to make it go away. It's not that I don't appreciate your caring; it's that on the whole I'm not good at taking advice (my midwife put it as "you're strong-willed"--in a good way) and that, coupled with my pregnancy moodiness, makes for a sour reception. (Same thing that causes me to sprain an emotional socket when I'm told not to change the litterbox.)
So it's been fun to have this blog where I can retreat and complain to my heart's content and not feel like I'm going to be jumped on. At times I wish I'd kept it totally anonymous, but I've learned from experience that it's just impossible for me to pretend I have some other name. Perhaps a bit ironic, given how much I hated my first name as a kid.
Which brings me to names. I think we've come up with a name for the little one. Still not entirely positive, though, but we will go into the delivery room prepared.
Second, if I do share that with you, I don't really want your advice on how to make it go away. It's not that I don't appreciate your caring; it's that on the whole I'm not good at taking advice (my midwife put it as "you're strong-willed"--in a good way) and that, coupled with my pregnancy moodiness, makes for a sour reception. (Same thing that causes me to sprain an emotional socket when I'm told not to change the litterbox.)
So it's been fun to have this blog where I can retreat and complain to my heart's content and not feel like I'm going to be jumped on. At times I wish I'd kept it totally anonymous, but I've learned from experience that it's just impossible for me to pretend I have some other name. Perhaps a bit ironic, given how much I hated my first name as a kid.
Which brings me to names. I think we've come up with a name for the little one. Still not entirely positive, though, but we will go into the delivery room prepared.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Week 32: The exquisite ache
Dean keeps bees, right? Well, a couple of weekends ago they totally nailed him by diving into the pockets of his beekeeping suit and stinging the hell out of his hips. He calls the itch of a bee sting "the exquisite itch," and he had it in spades the entire weekend we were in Philadelphia.
Well, today, I took a tumble out in the yard and landed on my right hip, the one that's been giving me trouble the entire pregnancy. I know it's relaxin related; the same thing that allows the women in my family to have relatively easy labors is definitely not conducive to walking. Now I can barely walk, but the pain isn't one of injury. It's just an ache that activates whenever I move it. Not sharp, not agonizing, just enough to slow me down considerably and make it look like I'm suffering horribly. Near as I can figure things just aren't lined up right. I actually went to see my chiropractor about this earlier on in my pregnancy, and he adjusted me then--I felt better for about a day and then the ache was back.
Well, now it's worse, but I just want to keep taking it easy and running things slow. But it's not just my hip, honestly. I still have a lot of rib pain, and that's been accompanied this week by pain around my belly button (site of another scar from that surgery in 2005), and a general sense of weirdness regarding my abdominal muscles, which are now clearly separated and cause my belly to form a point when I sit up using my abs.
It's frustrating, because even when I have energy I'm too sore to do anything. I'm really glad we are spending the first few months with the baby in our room, because the nursery has become a parking lot for baby gifts but I don't have any furniture to put said gifts away into.
While I'd love the baby to come a bit early and be an October baby like me, at this point I'm hoping he comes right on time, because I'm aiming to go on leave Nov. 2, and really need that week to get ready.
Had a midwife appointment this week and we talked a bit about the soreness. She prescribed a hot soak in a bath, but I have a confession to make: I'm terrified of baths, and have been since my first pregnancy when I had no option to shower. There were several times I could not get out of the tub, and I became terrified of falling in the tub. It occurs to me, very belatedly, that I could do some tweaks on our bathtub that would make it easier for me to get in and out of it, but... there is still a psychological issue there that I'm downright phobic about baths. It makes me wonder: is that why I have absolutely zero desire to do a water birth?
Aside from that, everything is still looking great. Baby seems incredibly active and healthy, and I'm gearing up for my last six weeks of work. Hard to believe it's come to that already!
Well, today, I took a tumble out in the yard and landed on my right hip, the one that's been giving me trouble the entire pregnancy. I know it's relaxin related; the same thing that allows the women in my family to have relatively easy labors is definitely not conducive to walking. Now I can barely walk, but the pain isn't one of injury. It's just an ache that activates whenever I move it. Not sharp, not agonizing, just enough to slow me down considerably and make it look like I'm suffering horribly. Near as I can figure things just aren't lined up right. I actually went to see my chiropractor about this earlier on in my pregnancy, and he adjusted me then--I felt better for about a day and then the ache was back.
Well, now it's worse, but I just want to keep taking it easy and running things slow. But it's not just my hip, honestly. I still have a lot of rib pain, and that's been accompanied this week by pain around my belly button (site of another scar from that surgery in 2005), and a general sense of weirdness regarding my abdominal muscles, which are now clearly separated and cause my belly to form a point when I sit up using my abs.
It's frustrating, because even when I have energy I'm too sore to do anything. I'm really glad we are spending the first few months with the baby in our room, because the nursery has become a parking lot for baby gifts but I don't have any furniture to put said gifts away into.
While I'd love the baby to come a bit early and be an October baby like me, at this point I'm hoping he comes right on time, because I'm aiming to go on leave Nov. 2, and really need that week to get ready.
Had a midwife appointment this week and we talked a bit about the soreness. She prescribed a hot soak in a bath, but I have a confession to make: I'm terrified of baths, and have been since my first pregnancy when I had no option to shower. There were several times I could not get out of the tub, and I became terrified of falling in the tub. It occurs to me, very belatedly, that I could do some tweaks on our bathtub that would make it easier for me to get in and out of it, but... there is still a psychological issue there that I'm downright phobic about baths. It makes me wonder: is that why I have absolutely zero desire to do a water birth?
Aside from that, everything is still looking great. Baby seems incredibly active and healthy, and I'm gearing up for my last six weeks of work. Hard to believe it's come to that already!
Listeria hysteria, and other lectures I could do without
This week or so, I conducted something of an experiment, much to my indoor cat's dismay. I wanted to see if I could get anyone in this house to change her litter box, but I took a somewhat passive approach, other than telling my husband that it was getting harder for me to change it.
Thing is, I'm not scared of the litter box despite the toxoplasmosis hype. The statistical prevalence of congenital toxoplasmosis is low, I've lived with cats and their litter boxes for nearly 40 years, my outdoor cats (who are more at risk for acquiring a parasite) never use the indoor litterboxes, and ... get this! I use gloves when I clean the box and wash my hands thoroughly with soap and water afterward.
But you wouldn't believe the shock and horror people react with when they find out that I've been cleaning Nina's litterbox throughout my pregnancy. Or, for that matter, when they find out I don't studiously avoid brie cheese, which I love. (Read the label, folks: most Brie in grocery stores is pasteurized.) And then there's my Philadelphia side that absolutely loves a good hoagie. OMG LUNCH MEAT! But again, look at the statistical prevalence of listeria infection. Both toxoplasmosis and listeria can be caught just by packing hamburger patties or other raw meat handling. But I have this nifty weapon I use meticulously: Soap and Water.
But more than anything, I feel an inner resentment when people lecture me about the litterbox--and it's something I've blogged about before, although I'm not inclined to dig up the links right now. Because unless you're going to foster my cat for the rest of my pregnancy (and at this point, it's moot) or come do my litterbox housekeeping for me, there's really just no point. During the part of my pregnancy where toxoplasmosis could have done the most damage, I was living, for the most part, alone.
Good thing they make gloves and soap, right? Oh, and I used a face mask too!
Grumble.
Thing is, I'm not scared of the litter box despite the toxoplasmosis hype. The statistical prevalence of congenital toxoplasmosis is low, I've lived with cats and their litter boxes for nearly 40 years, my outdoor cats (who are more at risk for acquiring a parasite) never use the indoor litterboxes, and ... get this! I use gloves when I clean the box and wash my hands thoroughly with soap and water afterward.
But you wouldn't believe the shock and horror people react with when they find out that I've been cleaning Nina's litterbox throughout my pregnancy. Or, for that matter, when they find out I don't studiously avoid brie cheese, which I love. (Read the label, folks: most Brie in grocery stores is pasteurized.) And then there's my Philadelphia side that absolutely loves a good hoagie. OMG LUNCH MEAT! But again, look at the statistical prevalence of listeria infection. Both toxoplasmosis and listeria can be caught just by packing hamburger patties or other raw meat handling. But I have this nifty weapon I use meticulously: Soap and Water.
But more than anything, I feel an inner resentment when people lecture me about the litterbox--and it's something I've blogged about before, although I'm not inclined to dig up the links right now. Because unless you're going to foster my cat for the rest of my pregnancy (and at this point, it's moot) or come do my litterbox housekeeping for me, there's really just no point. During the part of my pregnancy where toxoplasmosis could have done the most damage, I was living, for the most part, alone.
Good thing they make gloves and soap, right? Oh, and I used a face mask too!
Grumble.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Week 31: Baby, Get Out of My Ribs
...And into my pelvis.
I was in Washington D.C. last week for an event involving Government 2.0. Great conference. In the middle of one of the days there was a press conference--well, more like a press-only panel chock full of information that went above and beyond the conference topics. Being press, I showed up, and quietly found a seat in the back corner. But it was right at that moment that the baby had one of its moshpit moments atop my bladder, so I made a dash (as much as I can dash right now) for the ladies' room, up one flight.
I was worried that I'd miss the start of the panel, and sure enough, I did. So I slipped back to my seat as quietly and unobtrusively as someone 7+ months pregnant can in a crowded room, and reached down to my rolling briefcase to retrieve my laptop. I had to twist slightly to do this, and when I did, I felt a searing pain at the lower edge of my rib cage, right-hand side, right around the place that I used to have a gallbladder until its untimely demise in 2005.
It was all I could do to not scream out with that pain, but the look on my face was every bit as loud, drawing the attention of several nearby people as I clutched that narrow area between tummy and breast. I'm sure several of them must have thought I had just hit hard labor at that exact moment, but knowing labor pains as I do I know they don't start out like this and involve the whole uterus, not just the upper-right part of it. Fortunately, I was able to settle into the press conference and continue without any other problems, but the acute pain faded only into a soreness that continues to persist this week.
Believing I'd torn an adhesion from the gallbladder surgery, I called the midwife's office to see if I should be checked. They told me to call my primary care physician, so I did, again asking if I should be checked. They told me to call my OB office. Frustrated, I cut the loop off there and decided if it got worse I'd just go to the ER. It didn't.
But over the weekend, I had the pain again while putting groceries away. Same motion--just a hint of a lateral twist, and this time I did let loose with a stream of curses and cries of pain that set my husband running to my side. He made me stop, of course, and set me down on the couch while he finished the grocery-stowing. Then, later, he was massaging the area and we realized that one of my lower right ribs was actually a bit swollen.
I measured my fundal height and got the astonishing result of 40 cm. (It's settled back to a more sane 33 cm as of last night.) I swear this kid is determined to stand up in utero! And it feels like he has gone through every possible fetal position in the past week or two, including moments where he's lying transverse and his head is practically protruding out my right side. I'm convinced the placenta is on the left wall, because that is the one place I can't feel him at all, ever.
Fortunately his favorite position seems to be head-down. I'm learning the which-bump-is-which ropes pretty well, and the one thing that's consistent is that when his head is present, it's got a distinct hardness rivalled only by his back. One is round, the other is relatively flat. Limbs, on the other hand, are small enough that they are surrounded by softness.
But every now and then I can feel some part or another of him reaching up to that rib again. Argh! Baby, get out of my ribs!!
I was in Washington D.C. last week for an event involving Government 2.0. Great conference. In the middle of one of the days there was a press conference--well, more like a press-only panel chock full of information that went above and beyond the conference topics. Being press, I showed up, and quietly found a seat in the back corner. But it was right at that moment that the baby had one of its moshpit moments atop my bladder, so I made a dash (as much as I can dash right now) for the ladies' room, up one flight.
I was worried that I'd miss the start of the panel, and sure enough, I did. So I slipped back to my seat as quietly and unobtrusively as someone 7+ months pregnant can in a crowded room, and reached down to my rolling briefcase to retrieve my laptop. I had to twist slightly to do this, and when I did, I felt a searing pain at the lower edge of my rib cage, right-hand side, right around the place that I used to have a gallbladder until its untimely demise in 2005.
It was all I could do to not scream out with that pain, but the look on my face was every bit as loud, drawing the attention of several nearby people as I clutched that narrow area between tummy and breast. I'm sure several of them must have thought I had just hit hard labor at that exact moment, but knowing labor pains as I do I know they don't start out like this and involve the whole uterus, not just the upper-right part of it. Fortunately, I was able to settle into the press conference and continue without any other problems, but the acute pain faded only into a soreness that continues to persist this week.
Believing I'd torn an adhesion from the gallbladder surgery, I called the midwife's office to see if I should be checked. They told me to call my primary care physician, so I did, again asking if I should be checked. They told me to call my OB office. Frustrated, I cut the loop off there and decided if it got worse I'd just go to the ER. It didn't.
But over the weekend, I had the pain again while putting groceries away. Same motion--just a hint of a lateral twist, and this time I did let loose with a stream of curses and cries of pain that set my husband running to my side. He made me stop, of course, and set me down on the couch while he finished the grocery-stowing. Then, later, he was massaging the area and we realized that one of my lower right ribs was actually a bit swollen.
I measured my fundal height and got the astonishing result of 40 cm. (It's settled back to a more sane 33 cm as of last night.) I swear this kid is determined to stand up in utero! And it feels like he has gone through every possible fetal position in the past week or two, including moments where he's lying transverse and his head is practically protruding out my right side. I'm convinced the placenta is on the left wall, because that is the one place I can't feel him at all, ever.
Fortunately his favorite position seems to be head-down. I'm learning the which-bump-is-which ropes pretty well, and the one thing that's consistent is that when his head is present, it's got a distinct hardness rivalled only by his back. One is round, the other is relatively flat. Limbs, on the other hand, are small enough that they are surrounded by softness.
But every now and then I can feel some part or another of him reaching up to that rib again. Argh! Baby, get out of my ribs!!
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Week 30: The First Shower
This is belated, I admit it. Didn't have time to blog last weekend because I was in Philly--getting showered by friends from up that way from when I lived there between 1999 and 2004. They are my favorite friends in the world, and even though most of them don't have kids themselves, they still know how to throw one hell of a party, even without alcohol!
But the result of the shower is that I have more clothes than I know what to do with, and I'll probably have to find a way to exchange some of the newborn outfits (that fit up to 8 lbs and no one in my family has ever had a baby under 9 lbs), but what is most magnificent is the collection of hand-painted Onesies that Jenn provided the tools to make.
And here's a funny one of me. I'm actually trying to hide behind the presents because I'm suddenly huge, but instead it looks like I'm ready to nom the whole table of goodies.
The food was amazing, and the trip to Philadelphia was incredibly relaxing, although I'm rapidly finding that spending too much time in a car is uncomfortable, even more so in the back seat. I came back home and was in the office for one day before heading out to a conference in Washington D.C, which is about 75 miles from my house. The nice thing about this was that Dean and I got to carpool. The not-so-nice thing about this is that it absolutely wore me out, and here I am a week later still trying to recover.
But more on that in my week 31 post, and then I need to think about a week 32 post, because that's where I suddenly find myself! OMG, where does time go?
But the result of the shower is that I have more clothes than I know what to do with, and I'll probably have to find a way to exchange some of the newborn outfits (that fit up to 8 lbs and no one in my family has ever had a baby under 9 lbs), but what is most magnificent is the collection of hand-painted Onesies that Jenn provided the tools to make.
And here's a funny one of me. I'm actually trying to hide behind the presents because I'm suddenly huge, but instead it looks like I'm ready to nom the whole table of goodies.
The food was amazing, and the trip to Philadelphia was incredibly relaxing, although I'm rapidly finding that spending too much time in a car is uncomfortable, even more so in the back seat. I came back home and was in the office for one day before heading out to a conference in Washington D.C, which is about 75 miles from my house. The nice thing about this was that Dean and I got to carpool. The not-so-nice thing about this is that it absolutely wore me out, and here I am a week later still trying to recover.
But more on that in my week 31 post, and then I need to think about a week 32 post, because that's where I suddenly find myself! OMG, where does time go?
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Week 29 - Hello, sciatica, my old friend
Had to let the buckles out on my Berks and I get gimpier as the days go by. I'm getting twinges of sciatica, which was so bad during my first pregnancy I had to quit working during my seventh month. And here we are on the eve of a new seventh month, and those painful flashes shooting out of my hip are bringing back those memories. My belly is heavy, and sadly, I am not avoiding stretch marks after all, their jagged red streaks appearing along my under-navel belly region to join their silvered cousins from another pregnancy long ago. But my total weight gain so far is only 22 pounds. Will I explode during my last three months, though, or will I continue to gain sanely?
The napmonster has returned, but isn't as debilitating as it was first trimester. Now it's 1-2 hour naps instead of 3-4 hour naps. And I seem to have made it through the worst of the heat wave, but not without some blowback to the rest of the population. I'm still taking everything personally, finding myself irritated when I don't have the money to do something when it used to be I'd just accept it and move on, or finding myself insulted when people make light of how far out in the country I live. A huge busload of people that includes some professional friends of mine are a scant 8 miles down the road at a winery I've been meaning to visit, but knowing I could go there and get the tasting/tour for less than $10 really made me question whether I should shell out $40 to go spend a couple of hours there with the busload when... I don't need the bus. As it was, the napmonster attacked me right around the time everyone would have gotten there, so... I'm lame. Again. But also annoyed that it takes a $40/head special event to get people to come out to my neck of the woods. It would be lovely if a couple of people would organize some carpools to come back out here during the prettiest season of the year, since it's been really difficult for me to get out of the valley even just to get to work since getting pregnant. Whine, whine, whine. I know. I should get used to the changing dynamics of my social life. It's going to be this way for a while.
We did get out for a spell last night to hang out with some friends of ours who are getting ready to move to Alaska. I think I'm more wired for those smaller, more intimate meetups these days anyway. The 46" waist is very heavy hanging off that back, you know.
The baby feels awesome, even if I wish he weren't digging into my ribs and my bladder at the same time. Every now and then, he'll rotate such that the head is right in the pocket where my gallbladder used to be. It hurts a lot, but is also funny to feel his head right there, as if I could cradle him right off. He never stays there for long, though. He seems to be settling toward more head-down stuff. I just hope he stays there.
The napmonster has returned, but isn't as debilitating as it was first trimester. Now it's 1-2 hour naps instead of 3-4 hour naps. And I seem to have made it through the worst of the heat wave, but not without some blowback to the rest of the population. I'm still taking everything personally, finding myself irritated when I don't have the money to do something when it used to be I'd just accept it and move on, or finding myself insulted when people make light of how far out in the country I live. A huge busload of people that includes some professional friends of mine are a scant 8 miles down the road at a winery I've been meaning to visit, but knowing I could go there and get the tasting/tour for less than $10 really made me question whether I should shell out $40 to go spend a couple of hours there with the busload when... I don't need the bus. As it was, the napmonster attacked me right around the time everyone would have gotten there, so... I'm lame. Again. But also annoyed that it takes a $40/head special event to get people to come out to my neck of the woods. It would be lovely if a couple of people would organize some carpools to come back out here during the prettiest season of the year, since it's been really difficult for me to get out of the valley even just to get to work since getting pregnant. Whine, whine, whine. I know. I should get used to the changing dynamics of my social life. It's going to be this way for a while.
We did get out for a spell last night to hang out with some friends of ours who are getting ready to move to Alaska. I think I'm more wired for those smaller, more intimate meetups these days anyway. The 46" waist is very heavy hanging off that back, you know.
The baby feels awesome, even if I wish he weren't digging into my ribs and my bladder at the same time. Every now and then, he'll rotate such that the head is right in the pocket where my gallbladder used to be. It hurts a lot, but is also funny to feel his head right there, as if I could cradle him right off. He never stays there for long, though. He seems to be settling toward more head-down stuff. I just hope he stays there.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Working and breastfeeding
As Dean noted in his last post (are you catching the vibe that he prefers to blog about sustainable lifestyle topics?), we have acquired a vacuum food sealer, a dehydrator, and a freezer in recent days. But I have a confession about that freezer. It's so I can freeze breast milk.
My first son weaned himself at 8 months, and that was largely because I was working quite a bit and had returned to school. I was devastated. Granted, we had started solid foods at this point, but I felt a tremendous amount of disappointment because I had wanted to nurse him for a full year. He just wasn't interested anymore, and I suspect it was because we'd started supplementing with formula: we didn't have a good system for storing breast milk, much less the means to afford a good pump. I remember being on the night shift at Hilltop House--I was a CNA back in those days--and having excruciating pain because Elder Son had refused the breast the evening before.
Now that I'm older and more well-established in my (non-health-care-related) career, I have a better shot at succeeding with this. My mother instilled in me a trust in my body to provide for my children; she breastfed us back when it wasn't encouraged at all. So even though I'm pretty sure I won't be able to cloth-diaper the kid the way I would if I were a stay-at-home-mom, I am reasonably sure that I will be able to do keep providing breast milk for son #2 for the full year and then some, if possible. I have a supportive work environment that includes a room for such things, and I'm working on the day care piece of it.
But the freezer eliminates the storage-space worry I'd been having. I like putting food by, and find that when I don't, I overbuy and watch things overspoil. So the freezer portion of my fridge is always packed. I started looking out for a supplemental freezer, preferably a small chest style, for under a hundred dollars. On Tuesday, I scored.
I dated a guy whose family was Mennonite for a year and a half some years back, and one of the best things I got out of that relationship was an appreciation for managing food storage. Buying a dozen ears of corn, for instance, when you're only eating two; cook the whole batch; slicing the kernels off the extra ears, and freezing them in quart-size freezer bags is a great way to never buy a bag of much-less-tasty commercial frozen corn, for instance.
Now I can pursue more of that, which will come in very handy as I make my own baby food as well. So you can see why sustainable living is an important topic in our family life, as people, and as parents. And as we shift out of pregnancy mode in a few months and into life with baby, we'll continue to share our little piece of how we're making the world better for our kids.
Speaking of which, I need to finish Elder Son's laundry....
My first son weaned himself at 8 months, and that was largely because I was working quite a bit and had returned to school. I was devastated. Granted, we had started solid foods at this point, but I felt a tremendous amount of disappointment because I had wanted to nurse him for a full year. He just wasn't interested anymore, and I suspect it was because we'd started supplementing with formula: we didn't have a good system for storing breast milk, much less the means to afford a good pump. I remember being on the night shift at Hilltop House--I was a CNA back in those days--and having excruciating pain because Elder Son had refused the breast the evening before.
Now that I'm older and more well-established in my (non-health-care-related) career, I have a better shot at succeeding with this. My mother instilled in me a trust in my body to provide for my children; she breastfed us back when it wasn't encouraged at all. So even though I'm pretty sure I won't be able to cloth-diaper the kid the way I would if I were a stay-at-home-mom, I am reasonably sure that I will be able to do keep providing breast milk for son #2 for the full year and then some, if possible. I have a supportive work environment that includes a room for such things, and I'm working on the day care piece of it.
But the freezer eliminates the storage-space worry I'd been having. I like putting food by, and find that when I don't, I overbuy and watch things overspoil. So the freezer portion of my fridge is always packed. I started looking out for a supplemental freezer, preferably a small chest style, for under a hundred dollars. On Tuesday, I scored.
I dated a guy whose family was Mennonite for a year and a half some years back, and one of the best things I got out of that relationship was an appreciation for managing food storage. Buying a dozen ears of corn, for instance, when you're only eating two; cook the whole batch; slicing the kernels off the extra ears, and freezing them in quart-size freezer bags is a great way to never buy a bag of much-less-tasty commercial frozen corn, for instance.
Now I can pursue more of that, which will come in very handy as I make my own baby food as well. So you can see why sustainable living is an important topic in our family life, as people, and as parents. And as we shift out of pregnancy mode in a few months and into life with baby, we'll continue to share our little piece of how we're making the world better for our kids.
Speaking of which, I need to finish Elder Son's laundry....
Dad post: Better frugality through appliance acquisition
We've had a run on appliances. . . That's a big deal for a luddite such as myself. But these, I think really are worth the weight in coal they consume. For me it is both sad and frustrating to see such powerful devices designed for the scope and scale for use by the average homemaker to preserve, process, and prepare their own food gather dust in the corner of a cluttered pantry or kitchen while the Starbucks culture forgoes these options for the frozen meal-in-a-box, grocery store convenience of what more often than not basically amount to the modern suburban MRE; dog food for humans who are perfectly comfortable being "kept", all the while maintaining the illusion that they are free and independent. There is no genuine independence without food independence.
First Mrs. scored us a vacuum sealing FoodSaver doohickey at some ridiculous sale price, and at such an opportune time when my home-grown hops were (I hope) at their peak of readiness and potency. With this harvest I was able to glean 1 oz. of Cascade, and 3 oz. of Brewer hops, each weighed out and packaged in single use portions. But better still it allows us to vacuum seal cuts of meat and a myriad of other stuff that I've seen all too often end up in the trash.
For a while I've had a food dehydrator that I've used over the many years, mainly for making a favorite jerky recipe. But, lately, Pops has been using it almost to the point of exhaustion (the appliance, not him) from preserving a bumper crop of tomatoes, eggplants, peppers, and some more stuff from the garden. Tomato chips, where certainly strange, are actually very good to eat as they are, put on stuff like pizza, or reconstitute into sauces, etc. He replaced my old one with a revved-up stainless steel model with an adjustable heat setting making it perfect for curing herbs. Again, very timely for drying my hop flowers! As soon as I can find some London broil or bottom round steak at a good price I'll plan to make some beef jerky again; it's been a while.
And then yesterday Mrs. locates a smaller chest freezer on craigslist offered for $95. So we scored that on the way home from work this evening. This, I'm hoping, will help us better manage food storage giving us more room to actually set food aside - bulk grocery trips to better take advantage of sale opportunities for the sole purpose of freezing, intentional food-saving and, hopefully, reduce the amount of produce that goes into the worm bin (worms should eat free!) I foresee cold winter days when we actually spend entire afternoons preparing sauces, pastries, entrees, and a host of other foods, together as a family, to stock the freezer as time and space allow. Yes, the dried, vacuum-sealed hops go into the freezer, ready for the next brew day!
First Mrs. scored us a vacuum sealing FoodSaver doohickey at some ridiculous sale price, and at such an opportune time when my home-grown hops were (I hope) at their peak of readiness and potency. With this harvest I was able to glean 1 oz. of Cascade, and 3 oz. of Brewer hops, each weighed out and packaged in single use portions. But better still it allows us to vacuum seal cuts of meat and a myriad of other stuff that I've seen all too often end up in the trash.
For a while I've had a food dehydrator that I've used over the many years, mainly for making a favorite jerky recipe. But, lately, Pops has been using it almost to the point of exhaustion (the appliance, not him) from preserving a bumper crop of tomatoes, eggplants, peppers, and some more stuff from the garden. Tomato chips, where certainly strange, are actually very good to eat as they are, put on stuff like pizza, or reconstitute into sauces, etc. He replaced my old one with a revved-up stainless steel model with an adjustable heat setting making it perfect for curing herbs. Again, very timely for drying my hop flowers! As soon as I can find some London broil or bottom round steak at a good price I'll plan to make some beef jerky again; it's been a while.
And then yesterday Mrs. locates a smaller chest freezer on craigslist offered for $95. So we scored that on the way home from work this evening. This, I'm hoping, will help us better manage food storage giving us more room to actually set food aside - bulk grocery trips to better take advantage of sale opportunities for the sole purpose of freezing, intentional food-saving and, hopefully, reduce the amount of produce that goes into the worm bin (worms should eat free!) I foresee cold winter days when we actually spend entire afternoons preparing sauces, pastries, entrees, and a host of other foods, together as a family, to stock the freezer as time and space allow. Yes, the dried, vacuum-sealed hops go into the freezer, ready for the next brew day!
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
I'm glad I didn't have an epidural
I gave birth to my first son in 1992. A lot has changed in those years, but a lot hasn't, too. Now, 17 years is a long time to hold on to a birth story, and I didn't keep a journal of experiences in those days so much as I kept a journal of emotions, so I know that during my pregnancy I was incredibly depressed. I was 21, for most of it, and had married that February and gotten pregnant on the honeymoon--the same honeymoon that we had to cut short because we found out my then-husband was losing his job. I spent the entire pregnancy on WIC, food stamps, and Medicaid. Thank you, taxpayers of Virginia.
I remember more about the birth itself the closer I get to my due date, now. I had been flirting with toxemia; my blood pressure and weight gain were the biggest concerns but I was starting to show protein in the urine. But I was already showing signs of effacement and dilation, so the doctor made a decision to go ahead and induce me the following Tuesday with an amniotomy.
I remember coming in on what felt to be the coldest day of the year. It was blustery as my then-husband dropped me off at the door; he parked, we went up together. I don't recall checking in, but I do remember getting set up in the bed to be induced. The nurses started an IV. Ten minutes later, the doctor walked in, and asked why they had started an IV. They were visibly startled; I was just impressed. "I want to see how she does after we break her water. I have a feeling she won't need Pit."
I honestly can't recall how insistent I was at that time for a low-intervention birth, but I must have made myself clear at some point. The amniotomy itself didn't bother me; it struck me as a physical intervention rather than a chemical one. But what surprised me was what the doctor said upon examining me. "She's already 3 centimeters. She's having this baby today anyway." I had been in labor all morning and not felt a thing--something that is common to my mother and my grandmother. He performed the amniotomy; I didn't feel that either. By 10 a.m., labor was well established. "No need for Pit," the doctor said again.
I called my mom. "You'll have this baby by 1:30," she said. We all had a laugh, but it turned out she'd be right--I was ready to start pushing around the time that everyone else was finishing up lunch. Suddenly, the entire world turned round: my eyes, my mouth, my soul was all formed into a perfect "O" shape--and everything I could see *felt* round. (I'm prone to synesthesia, so in hindsight that makes better sense than it did at the time.) The head was out, and the nurses were pleading with me to pant, because one of my son's shoulders was hung up on my pelvic bone, a condition known clinically as shoulder dystocia. The doctor deftly worked him up, then down, then up, then down, rocking him past the barrier--and then my son came into the world, all 9 1/2 pounds of him.
One of the nurses who was helping me breastfeed made an offhand comment to me that has stayed with me ever since. "It's a good thing you didn't have an epidural," she said. "Oh?" I replied, asking her to explain. I was 6 weeks past my 22nd birthday at the time, and didn't have any more of an understanding of labor other than what I'd gotten from "What to Expect," my childbirth education class, and my mother's tales of carrying me and my brother. But I suppose I was influenced by my mother's explanation of the difference between her birth with me, done under twilight, and with my brother, done completely natural. I showed up in five hours; my brother in 3. (We're wondering, actually, whether I will have time to even get to the hospital at all, if I don't know I'm in labor until I get to 5 cm and I roll through dilation half as quickly as I did with Elder Son.)
The nurse explained that she'd seen cases where an epidural actually caused a labor to drag on and on. "Your baby was so big, that it was a good thing you and all your muscles were fully present to work with your baby and your body to get him out. I think, if you'd had an epidural, you'd have wound up having a section."
This made me curious, even then, about whether we should always trust in medication. Sometimes I think we're taught to be afraid of the pain, so afraid that the epidural looks like an attractive option. So many women in my childbirthing ed class this time around have the attitude of "pass me an epidural as quick as you can!" And while I'm a huge advocate for allowing women to make their own choices about pain management in labor, there are times when I wish this aspect was made more clear to women. Interventions have a funny way of cascading. I feel like I'm lucky that my doctor was Pitocin-averse, at least in my case--because I've heard so many stories about how Pitocin creates unnaturally strong contractions that leaves a woman begging for epidural relief. Then, sometimes the epidural creates a difficult environment for pushing; other times, the pitocin makes it such that the oxytocin rush that I think I felt in that O-moment of birth never happens. Either way, it can lead to that nebulous diagnosis that scares me so much: failure to progress.
As if women didn't have enough "fail" pressure in their lives, right?
So anyways, the point is: in 1992, I was told--after the fact--that having an epidural would have made my life more difficult. I'm glad I turned it down. And will do so again with this pregnancy, even though I'm 17 years older.
I remember more about the birth itself the closer I get to my due date, now. I had been flirting with toxemia; my blood pressure and weight gain were the biggest concerns but I was starting to show protein in the urine. But I was already showing signs of effacement and dilation, so the doctor made a decision to go ahead and induce me the following Tuesday with an amniotomy.
I remember coming in on what felt to be the coldest day of the year. It was blustery as my then-husband dropped me off at the door; he parked, we went up together. I don't recall checking in, but I do remember getting set up in the bed to be induced. The nurses started an IV. Ten minutes later, the doctor walked in, and asked why they had started an IV. They were visibly startled; I was just impressed. "I want to see how she does after we break her water. I have a feeling she won't need Pit."
I honestly can't recall how insistent I was at that time for a low-intervention birth, but I must have made myself clear at some point. The amniotomy itself didn't bother me; it struck me as a physical intervention rather than a chemical one. But what surprised me was what the doctor said upon examining me. "She's already 3 centimeters. She's having this baby today anyway." I had been in labor all morning and not felt a thing--something that is common to my mother and my grandmother. He performed the amniotomy; I didn't feel that either. By 10 a.m., labor was well established. "No need for Pit," the doctor said again.
I called my mom. "You'll have this baby by 1:30," she said. We all had a laugh, but it turned out she'd be right--I was ready to start pushing around the time that everyone else was finishing up lunch. Suddenly, the entire world turned round: my eyes, my mouth, my soul was all formed into a perfect "O" shape--and everything I could see *felt* round. (I'm prone to synesthesia, so in hindsight that makes better sense than it did at the time.) The head was out, and the nurses were pleading with me to pant, because one of my son's shoulders was hung up on my pelvic bone, a condition known clinically as shoulder dystocia. The doctor deftly worked him up, then down, then up, then down, rocking him past the barrier--and then my son came into the world, all 9 1/2 pounds of him.
One of the nurses who was helping me breastfeed made an offhand comment to me that has stayed with me ever since. "It's a good thing you didn't have an epidural," she said. "Oh?" I replied, asking her to explain. I was 6 weeks past my 22nd birthday at the time, and didn't have any more of an understanding of labor other than what I'd gotten from "What to Expect," my childbirth education class, and my mother's tales of carrying me and my brother. But I suppose I was influenced by my mother's explanation of the difference between her birth with me, done under twilight, and with my brother, done completely natural. I showed up in five hours; my brother in 3. (We're wondering, actually, whether I will have time to even get to the hospital at all, if I don't know I'm in labor until I get to 5 cm and I roll through dilation half as quickly as I did with Elder Son.)
The nurse explained that she'd seen cases where an epidural actually caused a labor to drag on and on. "Your baby was so big, that it was a good thing you and all your muscles were fully present to work with your baby and your body to get him out. I think, if you'd had an epidural, you'd have wound up having a section."
This made me curious, even then, about whether we should always trust in medication. Sometimes I think we're taught to be afraid of the pain, so afraid that the epidural looks like an attractive option. So many women in my childbirthing ed class this time around have the attitude of "pass me an epidural as quick as you can!" And while I'm a huge advocate for allowing women to make their own choices about pain management in labor, there are times when I wish this aspect was made more clear to women. Interventions have a funny way of cascading. I feel like I'm lucky that my doctor was Pitocin-averse, at least in my case--because I've heard so many stories about how Pitocin creates unnaturally strong contractions that leaves a woman begging for epidural relief. Then, sometimes the epidural creates a difficult environment for pushing; other times, the pitocin makes it such that the oxytocin rush that I think I felt in that O-moment of birth never happens. Either way, it can lead to that nebulous diagnosis that scares me so much: failure to progress.
As if women didn't have enough "fail" pressure in their lives, right?
So anyways, the point is: in 1992, I was told--after the fact--that having an epidural would have made my life more difficult. I'm glad I turned it down. And will do so again with this pregnancy, even though I'm 17 years older.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Week 28: The cankles cometh, and suddenly huge
I haven't gained very much weight this month--only 2 pounds, compared to last month's 12. I attribute this mostly to my appetite leveling off after a very hearty second trimester of making up for a highly nauseated first trimester. My midwife says that on the whole my weight gain is right on track.
But more interesting is that despite the lack of weight gain, I have a startling amount of girth gain. At the beginning of the month I was still being told, regularly, that I didn't really look all that pregnant. During the past two weeks my rib cage has expanded a rather astonishing 3 inches, leaving me dashing for the bra extenders and yielding the predictable third-trimester side effect of heartburn after the mildest meals. Tums is my friend. I've been insisting for weeks that the baby is big for date, and for the first time, this morning my midwife measured my fundal height and agreed that my uterus was about 2 cm taller than it should be right around now. That's fine with me; my first was 9 1/2 pounds at birth and I'm quite sure son #2 will make an equally impressive appearance.
It's been a rough week, on the whole. Dean totaled his car this weekend and we've been frantically chasing down bureaucratic nonsense involving his traffic citation, his insurance, and being a one-car family all of a sudden. We're thankful he's ok, of course.
The restless leg syndrome is a lot worse, and I think Bunky has it too. The constant kicking and movement is curious; I could swear Elder Son was never this active, but it has been about 17 years, so, who knows what it was like. I was saying to Dean the other day that I'm a lot more present in this pregnancy than I was in my first. Paying attention to new symptoms as they come along, and noting them in a journal like this? Never thought to do that with my first, and then I was excessively preoccupied with my own misery in an unhappy marriage, whereas now I'm fascinated with the process of gestating life. But today's new symptom is nothing weird. In fact, it's a favorite topic in my childbirth ed class--most of the women are ahead of me, and so have already been having fun with cankles: the phenomenon of ankle swelling such that they disappear into one's calves. The funny thing about this is that the women in my immediate family--my aunts--suffer with this all the time, and not because of swelling. My grandfather had no ankles, to speak of, and my aunts got his legs, and all despised him for it. In fact, my mother spoke enviously of my ankles as I grew into womanhood, and it made me wonder what the hell all the fuss was about. But right now? I'm totally missing my ankles.
Dean said they look uncomfortable. They're not, really--they just feel... puffy. They want a massage, really. That's all.
But more interesting is that despite the lack of weight gain, I have a startling amount of girth gain. At the beginning of the month I was still being told, regularly, that I didn't really look all that pregnant. During the past two weeks my rib cage has expanded a rather astonishing 3 inches, leaving me dashing for the bra extenders and yielding the predictable third-trimester side effect of heartburn after the mildest meals. Tums is my friend. I've been insisting for weeks that the baby is big for date, and for the first time, this morning my midwife measured my fundal height and agreed that my uterus was about 2 cm taller than it should be right around now. That's fine with me; my first was 9 1/2 pounds at birth and I'm quite sure son #2 will make an equally impressive appearance.
It's been a rough week, on the whole. Dean totaled his car this weekend and we've been frantically chasing down bureaucratic nonsense involving his traffic citation, his insurance, and being a one-car family all of a sudden. We're thankful he's ok, of course.
The restless leg syndrome is a lot worse, and I think Bunky has it too. The constant kicking and movement is curious; I could swear Elder Son was never this active, but it has been about 17 years, so, who knows what it was like. I was saying to Dean the other day that I'm a lot more present in this pregnancy than I was in my first. Paying attention to new symptoms as they come along, and noting them in a journal like this? Never thought to do that with my first, and then I was excessively preoccupied with my own misery in an unhappy marriage, whereas now I'm fascinated with the process of gestating life. But today's new symptom is nothing weird. In fact, it's a favorite topic in my childbirth ed class--most of the women are ahead of me, and so have already been having fun with cankles: the phenomenon of ankle swelling such that they disappear into one's calves. The funny thing about this is that the women in my immediate family--my aunts--suffer with this all the time, and not because of swelling. My grandfather had no ankles, to speak of, and my aunts got his legs, and all despised him for it. In fact, my mother spoke enviously of my ankles as I grew into womanhood, and it made me wonder what the hell all the fuss was about. But right now? I'm totally missing my ankles.
Dean said they look uncomfortable. They're not, really--they just feel... puffy. They want a massage, really. That's all.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Ho hum, here's a post. . .
Immediately, all the potted plants on the back deck, our "garden" this year, are dying of thirst as if they haven't been watered in days. I placed reservoirs under as many as I could fit and hope that the wilting isn't as permanent as it looks. It's the dog days of summer and my bees are displaying an inordinately high level of activity this morning around the entrance to their hive. I don't have enough experience yet to judge as to whether or not this is normal or what might be the cause of it, I just know I haven't seen them this active since the day I hived the colony. I fired up the smoker and went in briefly looking for something obvious but there was nothing but busy bees to be seen, and a single small hive beetle in the feeder portending trouble I do not yet have. I've decided to dump the vermiculture bin that I've kept in the basement for composting kitchen scraps by way of worms because I believe it might be the source of fruit flies that plague Mrs. in the kitchen. The bin is supposed to be full of worms but springtails and the curious scattering of what appears to be fruit fly pupae attached all along the underside of the lid are more the rule than the exception lately. I shall try again later with a place in the basement where Mrs. can put kitchen scraps this winter but in the mean time I will construct something quick and simple for outdoor use.
While in the basement this morning, I noticed a strange pattern of dried liquid that had recently streamed across the floor like the ancient "ocean beds" of the martian surface and had pooled under the furnace. Oil? No, there's mold growing on it. Water, of course, but it's not from streaming in through the gap under the door from the outside stairwell that sometimes happens after a heavy rain . I followed it back to . . . the water heater that BiL had only just installed a few months earlier (panic!!!) but luckily that wasn't the source, either. Last week I put a small wine rack over in that corner of the basement that we'd rescued from a dumpster some years earlier, and there I discovered that fully half of the dozen bottles of homebrewed cherry lambic I had stored on their side there the previous week had ruptured their corks and spewed all over the concrete floor. Joy! I had expected to have and keep those for a while, to break out on the rare occasions when we actually have company. I'll set one of the remaining bottles aside for Mr Lange, the comptroller of the hospice organization I work for who brews beer with his church, and take the rest to the honey extraction/BBQ I've been invited to attend tomorrow. Better enjoyed now, for certain, than saved for a possible calamity, later. Four and a half liters wasted. . . . It seems that everything I try to save for a rainy day only ends up getting washed away in the deluge, and I'm reminded that there is only this moment. Relax, it's later than we think.
Next, my job: I stopped by (local sports bar) after work yesterday evening for barley pops and oat sodas with Todd, the consultant who is assisting with our capital campaign and James, one of our IT managers. Being a rank-n-file, non-exempt employee with little business sense for the organization beyond what I do there in the Philanthropy dept. (and do well, I might add) the conversation with these two was a way for me to "check the vitals", in a sense, to get an overview of the organization that recently went through a location transition, and a couple years prior to that replaced their (our) CEO with a woman from West Virginia who is decidedly from a more clinical background than what the organization is accustomed to. Since then she has adopted a business model put forth by a company called Multi-View, Inc (sketchy much?) that is in keeping with her clinical experience. Within this multiview model there's precious little in the budget for technology and nothing in the way of fundraising, or development as it's sometimes referred to. So, I'm getting a sense of an early, distant warning of my impending lay-off despite that the director of my department is actively trying to retain me with flexible schedules and promises of a decent increase in compensation. We've been counting on my job as a source of health insurance, at least, because my income there is fairly marginal (and outright crap for the market we live in). I do okay for a guy lacking certain educational credentials, I earn just enough in wages and benefits to make my job very difficult to replace. But worse, it keeps me from moving to the valley, an hour and a half west of D.C. on a full time basis. Oh, something has to give eventually! In what we know as the future there exist perceptual corners around which logic and speculation cannot sense and I shall remain cautious with what I wish for!
But all those are possible future scenarios, and isn't this supposed to be a blagh about babies and diapers and daddyhood, and such. I have to admit that I really don't have the time/mental capacity right now for the "examined life" as it were. Far from wanting to be the main source of angst here at GA, I'll try to chime in here occasionally over the next few months, preferably when I actually have something relevant to share. Daddies like me, the reluctant type, come into these things from the outside-in especially being that all the real action currently is still happening in utero. I still have 87 days until Bunky's here, 87 days to live what I call "my life": working my job establishing and maintaining adequate distance between shit and fan and sorting paperclips for hospice, tending to my bees and garden, hopefully putting some libations aside for when I don't have the luxury of time nor the peace of mind. 87 days of cleaning and mending, deep breathing and learning and re-learning to rise to meet the needs and expectations of the beautiful mommy-to-be-again at my side. 87 days to get my house in order, whatever that means. And after that I die again, or at least the world I enjoy goes into remission to make way for a new life. His, mine, and ours.
While in the basement this morning, I noticed a strange pattern of dried liquid that had recently streamed across the floor like the ancient "ocean beds" of the martian surface and had pooled under the furnace. Oil? No, there's mold growing on it. Water, of course, but it's not from streaming in through the gap under the door from the outside stairwell that sometimes happens after a heavy rain . I followed it back to . . . the water heater that BiL had only just installed a few months earlier (panic!!!) but luckily that wasn't the source, either. Last week I put a small wine rack over in that corner of the basement that we'd rescued from a dumpster some years earlier, and there I discovered that fully half of the dozen bottles of homebrewed cherry lambic I had stored on their side there the previous week had ruptured their corks and spewed all over the concrete floor. Joy! I had expected to have and keep those for a while, to break out on the rare occasions when we actually have company. I'll set one of the remaining bottles aside for Mr Lange, the comptroller of the hospice organization I work for who brews beer with his church, and take the rest to the honey extraction/BBQ I've been invited to attend tomorrow. Better enjoyed now, for certain, than saved for a possible calamity, later. Four and a half liters wasted. . . . It seems that everything I try to save for a rainy day only ends up getting washed away in the deluge, and I'm reminded that there is only this moment. Relax, it's later than we think.
Next, my job: I stopped by (local sports bar) after work yesterday evening for barley pops and oat sodas with Todd, the consultant who is assisting with our capital campaign and James, one of our IT managers. Being a rank-n-file, non-exempt employee with little business sense for the organization beyond what I do there in the Philanthropy dept. (and do well, I might add) the conversation with these two was a way for me to "check the vitals", in a sense, to get an overview of the organization that recently went through a location transition, and a couple years prior to that replaced their (our) CEO with a woman from West Virginia who is decidedly from a more clinical background than what the organization is accustomed to. Since then she has adopted a business model put forth by a company called Multi-View, Inc (sketchy much?) that is in keeping with her clinical experience. Within this multiview model there's precious little in the budget for technology and nothing in the way of fundraising, or development as it's sometimes referred to. So, I'm getting a sense of an early, distant warning of my impending lay-off despite that the director of my department is actively trying to retain me with flexible schedules and promises of a decent increase in compensation. We've been counting on my job as a source of health insurance, at least, because my income there is fairly marginal (and outright crap for the market we live in). I do okay for a guy lacking certain educational credentials, I earn just enough in wages and benefits to make my job very difficult to replace. But worse, it keeps me from moving to the valley, an hour and a half west of D.C. on a full time basis. Oh, something has to give eventually! In what we know as the future there exist perceptual corners around which logic and speculation cannot sense and I shall remain cautious with what I wish for!
But all those are possible future scenarios, and isn't this supposed to be a blagh about babies and diapers and daddyhood, and such. I have to admit that I really don't have the time/mental capacity right now for the "examined life" as it were. Far from wanting to be the main source of angst here at GA, I'll try to chime in here occasionally over the next few months, preferably when I actually have something relevant to share. Daddies like me, the reluctant type, come into these things from the outside-in especially being that all the real action currently is still happening in utero. I still have 87 days until Bunky's here, 87 days to live what I call "my life": working my job establishing and maintaining adequate distance between shit and fan and sorting paperclips for hospice, tending to my bees and garden, hopefully putting some libations aside for when I don't have the luxury of time nor the peace of mind. 87 days of cleaning and mending, deep breathing and learning and re-learning to rise to meet the needs and expectations of the beautiful mommy-to-be-again at my side. 87 days to get my house in order, whatever that means. And after that I die again, or at least the world I enjoy goes into remission to make way for a new life. His, mine, and ours.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Week 27: More of the strange, childbirth ed
Still enjoying the antics of my geographic tongue, which for several weeks has caused my tongue papillae to do their own doodling. If I'd had my camera, sense of humor, and decent lighting in the same place when it started, I'd have started a time-lapse montage of the doodles on my tongue just as a silly retort to all those bump time-lapses I see, tongue-in-cheek because it's taken me this long to be able to tell the difference between my pregnant belly and the fat belly I had a year ago. (Hint: the fold above one's navel finally smoothes out. I still have a crease there, though!)
Other strange symptoms that have crossed my attention: The occasional worrisome elevation of my pulse to about 120 for up to an hour at a time; the very sudden (within a week!) expansion of my rib cage by a whopping three inches (no wonder I can't breathe!), and a change in the cell-phone sensation in my lower uterus. It now pulses from time to time; shorter duration but longer intervals of sensation. So help me, Dean is going to put his ear to my belly one of these days and instead of a heartbeat, he's going to hear the T-Mobile jingle and then a mischievous giggle. I'm sure of this.
Speaking of Dean, haven't yet persuaded him to dad-blog but hoping I can soon; I'd really like to get his perspective on our childbirth education class. We're the only second-timers there, in a room of 15 other couples all on their first. It's our first together, of course, and I need a refresher after 17 years, but more importantly, I want Dean to get a better understanding of how to work with me and guide me through the experience. He gets very squeamish during the class, and when I notice this I tend to take his hand and squeeze it, or lean on his shoulder to let him know I'm there and I understand. During dinner afterward, I realized what this was. "I'm banking my positive energy with you," I told him. "So that you can feed it back to me when I'm in need of it." In other words, I'm being strong for him now, as I have been since the beginning of this pregnancy; I resented it during the first trimester but now I am enjoying it because I do see it as feeding him with the energy I will need in three months, and knowing it can be safely stored with him.
About 8 months in our relationship, I was felled by a gallbladder attack that landed me in the emergency room at about 3 in the morning. Dean didn't leave my side the entire night, even when I vomited prolifically and was howling in pain. Similarly, when Dean dislocated his shoulder earlier this year, ER staff had a hard time prying me away from his side. Glad they did though, because it was later that week I found out I was pregnant and the further I was from the X-ray machine, the better. I've realized that with both of us, when we see the other suffering we do all we can to radiate healing energy and compassion toward the other. And I sense it radiating back to me when we're practicing breathing. I feel that love and I'm just amazed by it, and know oh so well that Bunky was created out of that love.
Well, that and a generous helping of absinthe. It was a crazy Valentine's Day night, after all.
So anyhow, here's hoping I talk him into writing a post soon. I'm wagering his perspective on childbirth education will be much less mushy and much more hilarious.
Other strange symptoms that have crossed my attention: The occasional worrisome elevation of my pulse to about 120 for up to an hour at a time; the very sudden (within a week!) expansion of my rib cage by a whopping three inches (no wonder I can't breathe!), and a change in the cell-phone sensation in my lower uterus. It now pulses from time to time; shorter duration but longer intervals of sensation. So help me, Dean is going to put his ear to my belly one of these days and instead of a heartbeat, he's going to hear the T-Mobile jingle and then a mischievous giggle. I'm sure of this.
Speaking of Dean, haven't yet persuaded him to dad-blog but hoping I can soon; I'd really like to get his perspective on our childbirth education class. We're the only second-timers there, in a room of 15 other couples all on their first. It's our first together, of course, and I need a refresher after 17 years, but more importantly, I want Dean to get a better understanding of how to work with me and guide me through the experience. He gets very squeamish during the class, and when I notice this I tend to take his hand and squeeze it, or lean on his shoulder to let him know I'm there and I understand. During dinner afterward, I realized what this was. "I'm banking my positive energy with you," I told him. "So that you can feed it back to me when I'm in need of it." In other words, I'm being strong for him now, as I have been since the beginning of this pregnancy; I resented it during the first trimester but now I am enjoying it because I do see it as feeding him with the energy I will need in three months, and knowing it can be safely stored with him.
About 8 months in our relationship, I was felled by a gallbladder attack that landed me in the emergency room at about 3 in the morning. Dean didn't leave my side the entire night, even when I vomited prolifically and was howling in pain. Similarly, when Dean dislocated his shoulder earlier this year, ER staff had a hard time prying me away from his side. Glad they did though, because it was later that week I found out I was pregnant and the further I was from the X-ray machine, the better. I've realized that with both of us, when we see the other suffering we do all we can to radiate healing energy and compassion toward the other. And I sense it radiating back to me when we're practicing breathing. I feel that love and I'm just amazed by it, and know oh so well that Bunky was created out of that love.
Well, that and a generous helping of absinthe. It was a crazy Valentine's Day night, after all.
So anyhow, here's hoping I talk him into writing a post soon. I'm wagering his perspective on childbirth education will be much less mushy and much more hilarious.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Please, no formula samples. I'm breastfeeding.
This link floated across my twitter stream just now. Aside from the unfortunate headline that mentions "breastfeeding discharge bags," which conjures up a very strange visceral image, it makes an interesting point. When I first went in to my doctor's office for my prenatal interview, I was offered a bag of goodies that included coupons for free formula. I took those out and handed them back. "Someone else may need these more than I will," I said.
Apparently Lansinoh has taken note of this and partnered with Cottonwood Kids to create a different goodie bag for new moms leaving the hospital with their babies--which is what they mean by "discharge bag." The Healthy Baby Bounty Bag, as it's called, is:
According to the article, these bags will "soon" be available at more than 200 hospitals across the country.
Of course, there is not even one Virginia hospital on the list at Lansinoh's blog, but I am going to call and ask the question, because perhaps by making the hospital aware that it exists, I'll be more likely to receive one.
Here's the press release on the Healthy Baby Bounty Bag. Which leads me to my newest tag: Want!
So now for my next question: If my hospital doesn't participate, or if I'm birthing at home, will you still find a way to get me a bag? :D
(Side note: I'm terribly amused to see that they are using Gregory FCA Communications for their PR campaigns, because... honestly, those folks are my favorite PR company, as a former journalist who benefited from the attention they paid to what my beats were, and who at one point lived literally around the corner from their office.)
Apparently Lansinoh has taken note of this and partnered with Cottonwood Kids to create a different goodie bag for new moms leaving the hospital with their babies--which is what they mean by "discharge bag." The Healthy Baby Bounty Bag, as it's called, is:
... an insulated bag you can use to store pumped breast milk. Inside it has samples of products, coupons, and resources - all that can help breastfeeding mamas succeed plus a few other goodies.
In my bag was Lansinoh milk storage bags and disposable nursing pads, Boogie Wipes samples, SaniHands for Kids hand wipe samples, an Aquaphor sample, even some Traditional Medicinals Organic Mother's Milk tea bags (my fav part!) and a card with a code to redeem a free gift from Cottonwood Kids.
According to the article, these bags will "soon" be available at more than 200 hospitals across the country.
Of course, there is not even one Virginia hospital on the list at Lansinoh's blog, but I am going to call and ask the question, because perhaps by making the hospital aware that it exists, I'll be more likely to receive one.
Here's the press release on the Healthy Baby Bounty Bag. Which leads me to my newest tag: Want!
So now for my next question: If my hospital doesn't participate, or if I'm birthing at home, will you still find a way to get me a bag? :D
(Side note: I'm terribly amused to see that they are using Gregory FCA Communications for their PR campaigns, because... honestly, those folks are my favorite PR company, as a former journalist who benefited from the attention they paid to what my beats were, and who at one point lived literally around the corner from their office.)
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Week 26: Catching Up
Well, here we are at almost week 27 and I'm only now getting my week 26 post up. Couple of things of note that happened during this otherwise unremarkable week. First, I nearly got into a fight with a woman for a chair at a political rally; second, I had a bona fide baby scare that lasted exactly 20 seconds.
On Thursday, I went to see President Obama speak at a rally for the democratic gubernatorial candidate. By virtue of my journalistic-oriented employment, I'm not really able to talk openly about my political positions, whom I want to vote for, or anything like that and at times it really chafes me, because I'm an ardent gay-rights supporter and a bizarre mix of pro-life-but-anti-abortion-criminalization. I can say that here because I'm semi-anonymous. Whee! Anyhow. I was at this rally, and about the time that our current governor got up to speak, the room started spinning for me. I don't handle crowds well even when I'm not pregnant, so this wasn't completely unexpected, but what did throw me for a loop was the behavior of the woman whose seat I politely asked for, since she wasn't sitting in it.
There were very few seats in the venue, actually. Other people around me could see that I was in some distress, and some were actively trying to help me into the chair. "I'm so sorry," I said. "I'm six months pregnant, and I just need to sit down for a few minutes."
Her retort was scathing. "Well, I have cancer!" she said, indignantly. "Only for a minute!" She grabbed her purse and her shoes, since apparently I looked like I wanted to make off with them. She was wearing evening attire; I was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. But the women behind me shot her withering looks, one in particular handing me an ice-filled glass to hold to my face. I felt flushed and hot, but according to my helpers, I was pale. As she continued to glare at me, I said, "I'm sorry to hear that. We're all in this together, right?"
She stomped off in a huff; I was amused later when Obama came to the podium and actually said, outright, "We're all in this together." Which is true. I'm a political moderate and really hate partisanism. Anyways, I enjoyed Obama's speech even if there was a lot of rhetoric in it that felt like it was catered to the "base." It was humbling for me to sit in the same room as a sitting president. The closest I came to him was about 15 feet, when he was out in the crowd after his remarks, but I just wasn't feeling aggressive enough in the crowd to try to meet him. And as I moved through that crowd, I found out why evening-gown lady was so intent on holding on to her chair even though she wasn't sitting on it: I saw her standing atop another chair, cheering and waving her flag as though to music.
The other thing that happened this week--and it happened last night, actually--was that I was sitting in my den catching up on Burn Notice episodes and working on a cross-stitch project for the nursery when it occured to me I hadn't felt the baby move in several hours. I freaked out, on the spot, trying to remember when he'd moved last, thinking I needed to start tracking these things. Then I took a deep breath, focused inward, put my hand on my belly, and asked aloud: "Everything ok in there?"
Bunky thwapped me so hard you would have thought he was reading a book and didn't appreciate my interrupting him.
This morning he's back to his usual squirmy self but I imagine he is starting to settle into sleep/wake patterns right on schedule. I just need to get used to when they are, and hope that a nice, uninterrupted jag of sleepytime becomes his norm and stays that way after he's born.
On Thursday, I went to see President Obama speak at a rally for the democratic gubernatorial candidate. By virtue of my journalistic-oriented employment, I'm not really able to talk openly about my political positions, whom I want to vote for, or anything like that and at times it really chafes me, because I'm an ardent gay-rights supporter and a bizarre mix of pro-life-but-anti-abortion-criminalization. I can say that here because I'm semi-anonymous. Whee! Anyhow. I was at this rally, and about the time that our current governor got up to speak, the room started spinning for me. I don't handle crowds well even when I'm not pregnant, so this wasn't completely unexpected, but what did throw me for a loop was the behavior of the woman whose seat I politely asked for, since she wasn't sitting in it.
There were very few seats in the venue, actually. Other people around me could see that I was in some distress, and some were actively trying to help me into the chair. "I'm so sorry," I said. "I'm six months pregnant, and I just need to sit down for a few minutes."
Her retort was scathing. "Well, I have cancer!" she said, indignantly. "Only for a minute!" She grabbed her purse and her shoes, since apparently I looked like I wanted to make off with them. She was wearing evening attire; I was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. But the women behind me shot her withering looks, one in particular handing me an ice-filled glass to hold to my face. I felt flushed and hot, but according to my helpers, I was pale. As she continued to glare at me, I said, "I'm sorry to hear that. We're all in this together, right?"
She stomped off in a huff; I was amused later when Obama came to the podium and actually said, outright, "We're all in this together." Which is true. I'm a political moderate and really hate partisanism. Anyways, I enjoyed Obama's speech even if there was a lot of rhetoric in it that felt like it was catered to the "base." It was humbling for me to sit in the same room as a sitting president. The closest I came to him was about 15 feet, when he was out in the crowd after his remarks, but I just wasn't feeling aggressive enough in the crowd to try to meet him. And as I moved through that crowd, I found out why evening-gown lady was so intent on holding on to her chair even though she wasn't sitting on it: I saw her standing atop another chair, cheering and waving her flag as though to music.
The other thing that happened this week--and it happened last night, actually--was that I was sitting in my den catching up on Burn Notice episodes and working on a cross-stitch project for the nursery when it occured to me I hadn't felt the baby move in several hours. I freaked out, on the spot, trying to remember when he'd moved last, thinking I needed to start tracking these things. Then I took a deep breath, focused inward, put my hand on my belly, and asked aloud: "Everything ok in there?"
Bunky thwapped me so hard you would have thought he was reading a book and didn't appreciate my interrupting him.
This morning he's back to his usual squirmy self but I imagine he is starting to settle into sleep/wake patterns right on schedule. I just need to get used to when they are, and hope that a nice, uninterrupted jag of sleepytime becomes his norm and stays that way after he's born.
Friday, July 31, 2009
The Battle Royal
Historically, Dean has always been squicked out by pregnant women. One of the things I've struggled with is helping him get over that aversion when it comes to his own wife, but we've both been amused at how strange pregnancy can be on a body, especially when Bunky does things like distend my abdomen lopsidedly or send out a series of kicks and jabs that makes my whole stomach look like an alien is about to explode out of it. His response to this, and some of my descriptions of odd internal sensations, is always "gross." It's a private joke between us, but since Elder Son has moved back in, there's a lot less privacy in general. So as I was telling Dean I had a new idea for a blog tagline, the following exchange happened:
Me: "A teen, a tween, and a bean."
Dean: Gross.
Me: Damn, I was hoping for a "laf." Also, Elder Son has taken to saying "gross" any time I mention anything having to do with the baby. Be careful what you model. :)
Dean: chuckly chuckly chuckchuck chuck ------ Damn. [pause] Babies are gross, though ;)
Me: Great thing to teach his big brother. I'm calling him on it, and can't very well call him on it if you continue to do it around him, even joking.
Dean: Can I say "ew"?
Me: *facepalm
Body Blahs; Teenage Victories
Elder Son and I wound down a busy day watching fireworks from our front yard, which is two blocks away from the town park. Haven't figured out the occasion for the fireworks, but it was fun, even if I think we startled Bunky half to death several times. But he's still kicking, so we're now prepared for next year's Fourth.
Elder Son got registered for his new school today. He's taking Astronomy, Latin 2, World History I Honors, AP US History, Advanced Phys Ed, Driver Ed/Fitness, English 11 Honors, and Algebra II. I'm proud of him for not shirking away from the challenges and hope I can help him with the motivation, confidence and organizational issues he had while living with his dad. We also got a state ID card for him and picked up the manual for him to get his learner's permit. Fingers crossed that he'll be a licensed driver come spring, and I've been joking that I'll have him trained on the stick shift in enough time for him to drive me to the hospital when I go into labor but I won't be capable of being his "supervision" that he has to have to drive with a learner's permit. Ha!
I'm still a couple of weeks shy of third trimester but two of its unpleasantries that I remember from Elder Son have already started to set in: my ankles have swollen up twice, although I suspect it's the heat and the struggle to stay hydrated, and at my checkup this week my blood pressure was 135/85, which is higher than the midwife would like--mostly because she "doesn't want the OB to steal" me away from her. A little mindful meditation later, we ran it again and got 124/66. This just reinforces for me how important it is for me to stay in touch with my body.
I just wish I had air conditioning, now that it's muggy, or at least more fans in the house. But it's only been bad for a week or so, and it's just a few more weeks of dog days. One thing today made me realize is that I don't have any shorts, much less shorts I can wear pregnant! So I went down to the local Evil Box Store and got two pairs of extra-large, elastic waistband workout shorts that I will never wear in public but am so glad I have for wearing around the house and under dresses, now.
As for my ankles, I looked up compression stockings and my GOD, they are expensive, and I have no idea whether they will fit! Where does one find affordable ones, and how does one know what size to get? (I have heavy thighs, to the point that being nearly 6 mos. pregnant mostly just makes my belly look proportional to them, so sizing is difficult even when I'm not pregnant--size 12 waist with a size 20 thigh. ugh.) Finding maternity clothes in stores is impossible anymore, too. I'm sick of Target's offerings, but can't seem to find maternity sections anywhere else. There used to be one at my local Kohl's, buried in a corner behind the infants section, but as they've remodeled, the section has vanished. And I hate paying boutique prices, having enough trouble keeping up with the mortgage.
So cheap workout shorts it is. At least I feel a bit cooler now.
One last weird symptom, because I seem to have all of them: geographic tongue. The little bumps are falling off my tongue, leaving strange creases and white borders around patches of weirdness that almost look like outlines on a map, and are different each day (hence the name "geographic tongue"---partly because it looks like a map and partly because the lines 'wander'). Not much is known about this disorder, but apparently it's hormonal in nature, mostly harmless (stings a bit with hot or cold), and should go away after my hormones come back into balance.
Elder Son got registered for his new school today. He's taking Astronomy, Latin 2, World History I Honors, AP US History, Advanced Phys Ed, Driver Ed/Fitness, English 11 Honors, and Algebra II. I'm proud of him for not shirking away from the challenges and hope I can help him with the motivation, confidence and organizational issues he had while living with his dad. We also got a state ID card for him and picked up the manual for him to get his learner's permit. Fingers crossed that he'll be a licensed driver come spring, and I've been joking that I'll have him trained on the stick shift in enough time for him to drive me to the hospital when I go into labor but I won't be capable of being his "supervision" that he has to have to drive with a learner's permit. Ha!
I'm still a couple of weeks shy of third trimester but two of its unpleasantries that I remember from Elder Son have already started to set in: my ankles have swollen up twice, although I suspect it's the heat and the struggle to stay hydrated, and at my checkup this week my blood pressure was 135/85, which is higher than the midwife would like--mostly because she "doesn't want the OB to steal" me away from her. A little mindful meditation later, we ran it again and got 124/66. This just reinforces for me how important it is for me to stay in touch with my body.
I just wish I had air conditioning, now that it's muggy, or at least more fans in the house. But it's only been bad for a week or so, and it's just a few more weeks of dog days. One thing today made me realize is that I don't have any shorts, much less shorts I can wear pregnant! So I went down to the local Evil Box Store and got two pairs of extra-large, elastic waistband workout shorts that I will never wear in public but am so glad I have for wearing around the house and under dresses, now.
As for my ankles, I looked up compression stockings and my GOD, they are expensive, and I have no idea whether they will fit! Where does one find affordable ones, and how does one know what size to get? (I have heavy thighs, to the point that being nearly 6 mos. pregnant mostly just makes my belly look proportional to them, so sizing is difficult even when I'm not pregnant--size 12 waist with a size 20 thigh. ugh.) Finding maternity clothes in stores is impossible anymore, too. I'm sick of Target's offerings, but can't seem to find maternity sections anywhere else. There used to be one at my local Kohl's, buried in a corner behind the infants section, but as they've remodeled, the section has vanished. And I hate paying boutique prices, having enough trouble keeping up with the mortgage.
So cheap workout shorts it is. At least I feel a bit cooler now.
One last weird symptom, because I seem to have all of them: geographic tongue. The little bumps are falling off my tongue, leaving strange creases and white borders around patches of weirdness that almost look like outlines on a map, and are different each day (hence the name "geographic tongue"---partly because it looks like a map and partly because the lines 'wander'). Not much is known about this disorder, but apparently it's hormonal in nature, mostly harmless (stings a bit with hot or cold), and should go away after my hormones come back into balance.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
The Smell of Dreft Things
This is a test, mostly. I'm trying to get twitterfeed to talk to bit.ly and so on.
Also, I'm trying to figure out why my clothes smell like Dreft today. I hate the smell of Dreft, and can't wait to burn through the bottle I got for washing baby handmedowns because nothing like buying a gigantic bottle of it for a good price only to find that the smell sets off one's gag reflex. But I'm not wearing anything that got washed with baby clothes.
Hunh. What else is good for washing baby clothes? I think I used All Free and Clear with Elder Son, but it was so long ago that I really have no idea. And given how much I *love* the smell of lavender these days, I'm wondering if I can scent my own detergent using essential oils somehow.
Anything but Dreft, please.
(The title of this post is a play on a short story title of mine, called "The Smell of Dead Things." Laugh now, be disturbed later. I probably should have called it "Scents and Sensitivity.")
Also, I'm trying to figure out why my clothes smell like Dreft today. I hate the smell of Dreft, and can't wait to burn through the bottle I got for washing baby handmedowns because nothing like buying a gigantic bottle of it for a good price only to find that the smell sets off one's gag reflex. But I'm not wearing anything that got washed with baby clothes.
Hunh. What else is good for washing baby clothes? I think I used All Free and Clear with Elder Son, but it was so long ago that I really have no idea. And given how much I *love* the smell of lavender these days, I'm wondering if I can scent my own detergent using essential oils somehow.
Anything but Dreft, please.
(The title of this post is a play on a short story title of mine, called "The Smell of Dead Things." Laugh now, be disturbed later. I probably should have called it "Scents and Sensitivity.")
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Week 25: Feeling Pretty, Oh So Pretty
....and that's saying a lot, considering that on Monday I felt like I was coming down with something horrible, but I did chalk it up to pregnancy fatigue, took the afternoon off, and rested up and now feeling much more glow-y than I think I have all summer. Of course, perhaps it's because I got my eyebrows cleaned up and so my face looks more normal to me than it has in a while, or perhaps it's because in 95˚ super-muggy weather without any air conditioning, of course we're all going to positively glisten. But since it's taken this long, til the last week in July, for the humidity and hot temperatures to set in this year, I'm taking it in stride.
Bunky is a very active baby but right now seems to be enjoying a siesta. I am wondering if he's starting to get into a groove of sleep and wake. But all in all, we're doing ok. Weight gain a wee bit higher than I'd like, but a lot of it is coming on now as the baby gets bigger, and I really only have two more months of weight gain before I hit the top end of the curve. Had a minor blood pressure scare, but it was back down by the end of the appointment; I really think I'm going to start doing yoga workouts before my appointments and start doing more focused meditations. I'm through most of the pregnancy anxieties at this point and starting to process the labor and delivery anxieties--most of which revolve around a tangible fear that my first labor and delivery was so near-perfect that there's no way I'm going to be able to do a re-run. But statistics really are in my favor; easy labors (as labors go) run in my family and Elder Son's rapid arrival does more to establish that I can handle a large baby with no problem than would be the case if he wasn't around to be Mr. Precedent.
But as I was describing his birth to the midwife, her face was brightening. More people should tell their positive birth stories, she said. And she reassured me that we would work together to make sure I had another one, easing some concerns I had about being able to eat and drink in labor and her own caeserean rate (8 percent). One thing I didn't know about her that made me really happy to hear was that she had originally been a midwife in practice with the obstetrician who delivered Elder Son, and that obstetrician, other than ordering an amniotomy to trigger active labor (I'd been walking around at 3 cm with no idea I'd been in passive labor), steadfastly avoided ordering any interventions, even going as far to fuss at the nurses for giving me an IV without his asking for it.
I registered for childbirth education classes. To be honest, they are more for the Mister than for me; I'm realizing I would love to teach childbirth education, would love to be a doula, would love to be a midwife like I originally planned to do when I was 23. Because I can't imagine a health-care reform landscape without midwives and doulas. At the very least, I want to find freelance writing opportunities that fit this new passion of mine--or, rather, this reactivated passion of mine.
Bunky is a very active baby but right now seems to be enjoying a siesta. I am wondering if he's starting to get into a groove of sleep and wake. But all in all, we're doing ok. Weight gain a wee bit higher than I'd like, but a lot of it is coming on now as the baby gets bigger, and I really only have two more months of weight gain before I hit the top end of the curve. Had a minor blood pressure scare, but it was back down by the end of the appointment; I really think I'm going to start doing yoga workouts before my appointments and start doing more focused meditations. I'm through most of the pregnancy anxieties at this point and starting to process the labor and delivery anxieties--most of which revolve around a tangible fear that my first labor and delivery was so near-perfect that there's no way I'm going to be able to do a re-run. But statistics really are in my favor; easy labors (as labors go) run in my family and Elder Son's rapid arrival does more to establish that I can handle a large baby with no problem than would be the case if he wasn't around to be Mr. Precedent.
But as I was describing his birth to the midwife, her face was brightening. More people should tell their positive birth stories, she said. And she reassured me that we would work together to make sure I had another one, easing some concerns I had about being able to eat and drink in labor and her own caeserean rate (8 percent). One thing I didn't know about her that made me really happy to hear was that she had originally been a midwife in practice with the obstetrician who delivered Elder Son, and that obstetrician, other than ordering an amniotomy to trigger active labor (I'd been walking around at 3 cm with no idea I'd been in passive labor), steadfastly avoided ordering any interventions, even going as far to fuss at the nurses for giving me an IV without his asking for it.
I registered for childbirth education classes. To be honest, they are more for the Mister than for me; I'm realizing I would love to teach childbirth education, would love to be a doula, would love to be a midwife like I originally planned to do when I was 23. Because I can't imagine a health-care reform landscape without midwives and doulas. At the very least, I want to find freelance writing opportunities that fit this new passion of mine--or, rather, this reactivated passion of mine.
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