Thursday, May 31, 2007
Janae's birthday in April,
Toby's birthday in June,
and mine in July,
our family would be perfect if this baby came in May.
And then I look at the clock, observe the calander and realize that it's now 24 hours and counting before the month of May has expired.
Boy, do I need those contractions now.
The best labor advice I've read so far was "let your dog out... the morning my baby was born, I let the dog out, heard a pop and later that day went in labor."
Yes. It must've been the dog for sure.
I'm so desperate though, I think I will let the dog out in the morning. For that matter, I should let all the neighbor dogs out. Maybe that would work even faster.
Then, I'll eat spicy buffalo wings for breakfast, have a snack of eggplant parmesan later in the morning, take a brisk 3 mile walk before lunch, wash my dinner down with castor oil and spend the afternoon relaxing on a Yoga ball.
Any other tips?
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
The other day, I lost my appointment card. I felt sick. I had looked in my wallet, my purse, my old wallet, my new wallet, the pen holder by the phone, on the kitchen counter where such things usually get left, in the calender, on the table, you name it, I looked there. But that card was gone.
It wasn't just any old piece of paper with a mere appointment noted on it; this was the card that had all 6 of the last appointments I had for the rest of my pregnancy. This was my key to the end of my pregnancy. The one link I had to knowing that by the time the last appointment ended, I'd have a new baby. Okay, well I'd be closer to having that baby anyway.
And now it was lost. My treasured, golden ticket LOST!
The receptionist had been so kind to make each appointment and then conveniently write each date and time out on ONE card. That way, I wouldn't have a million little cards floating around my purse and other surroundings. That simple, one card was a good idea on cutting down on extra junk in my purse. Plus, by having one card, this pregnant woman wouldn't have to keep track of more than one thing; it was all on that one important card.
And then I lost it.
Bright and early the next morning, I called my doctor's office. The friendly voice that answered got an earful as she listened to the remorse and regret heavily tainting my voice. I admitted to losing the card she had so kindly filled out for me. I apologized for my negligence. I verbally sorrowed over my regret at misplacing it. I may have blamed it on my scattered pregnancy brain (can't remember for sure if I did) but even if I did that, I was still fully willing to take all the blame myself.
After making my heart wrenching spiel, I went to the calender hanging in the kitchen. The one where I write out all my appointments on. I planned to write out the next several weeks worth of appointments while the patient receptionist relayed them to me.
I turned the page to June, narrowing in on the end of this week. The receptionist told me I had an appointment on Friday at 11am. I went to write that out and there on Friday, an 11am appointment was recorded. A week following that appointment, was another such appointment. A week following that one, another appointment was listed. Ironically these appointments all lined up right to the day after my due date.
And then it dawned on me: I intentionally threw the appointment card away the day I got all those appointments recorded -- no wonder I couldn't find the card.
Sheepishly I managed to wish the kind lady a good day and then hang up the phone, all the while shaking my head and trying to figure out when in the world I had written those appointments out.
But, it didn't matter when they were written out: as long as they were there, that's all that mattered.
Before I got over my embarrassment and had quit shaking my head, I happened to be chatting with Toby the next day. We were just making small talk, talking about the baby, kids, work, the new house, baby names... you know, typical parent stuff.
Until we got to the part about the baby's name.
"What's our baby's name again?" The father of my baby asked me, the scattered brained pregnant mother.
It should be understood that for several months, we've had our baby's name picked out. It was never a question as to what first name should go with the middle name or what middle name should be used. It was always agreed on.
But here was my thoughtful loving husband asking me the name of our child.
I had to blink a couple times and think back... when this name was discussed, was Toby even there? Was I discussing this with someone else? Did I come to agreement with someone else on this? A million concerning thoughts whirled in my head as I tried to process this situation.
While I attempted wrapping my head around this obvious problem, standing in front of me waiting for an answer, was my child's own father requesting to know the name of his own child.
"C'mon Honey, what IS his name?" he asked me again, as if I was enjoying keeping a secret from him.
I wouldn't fall for it though. Suddenly I remembered this had happened once before so surely by now, the dear man HAD to remember his own child's name. I mean, you can forget once but not twice, right? Wrong.
He kept prying for information, desperately wishing to know our baby's name. I realized this was real and he wasn't playing on my typical gullible tendencies.
They say a pregnant woman is forgetful but they forget to tell you about the dad.
So, I let him back in on the secret and walked away glad that even if I forget my doctor's appointments, at least I don't forget things of importance like my baby's name.
But, I don't complain. At least Toby hasn't forgotten that I am pregnant. The new recliner sitting in our living room is proof of that. I guess remembering the baby's name isn't really all that important as long as you don't forget about your wife. And that Toby would never do.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Describes the condition of a 36 week pregnant woman.
So many things are imminent.
A contraction is imminent. The threat of your water breaking is imminent. The onset of true labor is imminent. The arrival of your baby is imminent. And complete change to life as you know it is imminent.
Okay, so this could all happen sometime before 45 weeks are up... or 50 perhaps. But still, my baby's arrival is imminent no matter how you look at it.
Unless... has anybody ever stayed pregnant forever? That birth was always imminent, right? Whether it was 37 weeks or 50. Even 50 weeks is better than forever.
Being famous has it's pros but that's one thing I wouldn't want to be put in the Guinness Book of World Records for: Woman Who Stayed Pregnant Forever.
I like the concept of imminent so much better.
But then I realized... if only imminent guaranteed a deadline I could know about... If only imminent could be more exact... If only imminent could happen soon... If only imminent could get my baby here.
Imminent is only reactive to an event; imminent doesn't cause the event to take place.
If I stay pregnant forever, imminent does me no good. But it sure was a nice idea while it lasted.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Every 20 minutes, the child is asked if she has to go potty.
Any excuse to get behind the exciting and until now, forbidden bathroom door and mingle with water and soap and flushers is way too exciting for a 2 year old. Especially when it involves water.
A steady stampede is repeated throughout that day. And the next. And the next. And the next. And so forth until the child turns 3 or 4.
Of course, at home this scene isn't repeated quite as often. The child is left to play uninterrupted with pull-ups on or some other fancy fanny wear and eventually she learns that all she has to say is the "p" word and the whole house swarms to her side in order to meet her request before an "accident" takes place.
Soon it gets boring to go to the bathroom so often. The water and toilet paper and flushers just aren't quite as appealing as they were before. Eventually the child takes on the schedule of any well potty trained individual; not too often and not too infrequent. A healthy balance.
But, when it comes to church time, the former schedule of every 20 minutes comes into action. Only this time, you drop the 0 and keep the 2, making it about every 2 minutes. In a short service, that child can be seen being ushered down to the enthralling throne room at least a half a dozen times. The look of glee and contentment on the child's face is seen by all except the well meaning parents who "just don't want another accident."
After repeated episodes of trips to the bathroom, I had to wonder if the child had a severe bladder problem. Surely it is never healthy for anyone to have to go to the bathroom every few minutes. But, maybe a 2 year old's bladder is just a bit more active. Her parents don't seem to be too concerned but I had to wonder if a trip to the doctor the next day would perhaps be a good idea.
But I knew the truth. I have a two year old. A girl too. She plays on every chance she can to do something "fun," something interesting and something with water. I also know she'd have to go potty every 10 minutes at Church too, if she knew the beauties that the Church bathroom beholds.
And if you're like me and inwardly smirk at the predicament of parents to their child's whims and wants for the Church bathroom, you have all you can do not to discreetly get the child's attention and then mouth "POTTY" across the pews when you happen to see the child actually sitting for all of five minutes between potty sessions.
You know you'd see the little face turn up to the bathroom-weary-face of her poor father and then she'd pull on his neck and whisper the powerful "p" word and off they'd rush to the bathroom. Again.
But I couldn't do it. Some time in the near future, my 2 year old girl will be fancily clad with becoming fanny wear and sitting in Church wishing she could be down in the bathroom too. And she really won't have to go potty either.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Don't ask if we're settled. Everyone asks that question and I've come to the creative conclusion to just say, "no."
But, we're ready and waiting for the baby.
The combination of a busy move, frantic unpacking, semi-settling and then a bout of the flu, made this pregnancy jump ahead a couple weeks. They tell me I'm only 35 weeks but the labor activity I have on a daily basis puts me right about at 40 weeks. It could be anytime.
So, I guess if I don't have the baby real soon, he'll be considered over due then... or, maybe not...?? I'm confused too. It's just a strange feeling to compare a 35 week pregnancy with past 35 week pregnancies and come up way off.
The good news is we are moved into the "new" house and the old house is ready to sell and boasts a cheery for sale sign in the front yard. That was a huge hurdle to get over but we made it -- flu, contractions and all.
As for the settling part, we're getting there. Not only do we have to settle this house down but we also had to work on getting the baby's stuff ready.
Britt and I are quite the team: nothing can be missed by our blonde (me) and blondless (her) brains. (notice I said brains, not hair.) But tragically, the imminent birth of the most recent child was daily being left very unprepared for. The diaper bag was unpacked, the clothes were unwashed and the blankets were unfound. Our brains had just not quite registered the importance of setting other daily tasks aside and focusing on this all important occasion.
The quote of the day was heard at my latest midwife's appointment. Bear in mind that I am very ready to have this baby so you can understand that her kind words were like the healing balms of Gilead on my worn and weary spirit and body.
The dear, kind woman said, (and I quote) "if labor starts now, we won't stop it."
I just chuckled and said, "good, because I won't let you."
But then I realized that not even though I felt ready to have this baby in body and spirit, domestically he would be hideously lacking in many vital necessities. I know they say it doesn't take much to take care of a baby (not to put down the typical American lifestyle of 'see it, gotta have it') but he does need necessities like diapers and blankets at least, not to mention a few socks. I really don't care about the wipes and bottle warmers, just get a few blankets washed, please.
This morning, the first words out of my husband's mouth weren't "good morning honey." Rather, he shared what must've been pressing on his mind all night.
"So Honey, are you all ready for the baby?"
I could tell he expected the answer to be, "Oh, of course dear." But I had to tell the truth.
"Nope. Not a thing done," I confess boldly to him.
Confused, he didn't know how to respond. I heard a long drawn out, "Soooooo.... you at least have the diaper bag packed, right?"
"Not even the diaper bag, Hun." Another brave confession.
"Not even your bag then?" he asks me, obviously catching on that nothing is done.
"Nope, don't even know where the luggage is," I bear my soul.
"Well, don't you think you should get that done first?" Now he's thinking!
Today set a new milestone: the baby's stuff is ready. But, that's only due to the thoughtfulness of the baby's kind aunt. Between trips to the park and hauling arm loads of boxes, my sister set to work getting the clothes ready while I nursed a flu ravaged body back to full health -- whatever that is. Being 9 months pregnant makes it hard to feel anywhere close to "full health" but at least the flu isn't quite as bad as it was.
And now we wait. The changing table is ready. The diaper bag is packed. My bag is almost packed. The blankets are washed.
But, this couldn't have all been done except by some very well meaning and affectionate dear ones -- including both the baby's father and the baby's aunt. A little motivation helps this pregnant diva to really get in gear... once in a while anyway.
As I struggled to merely get in bed last night while juggling all 5 of the necessary pillows around our bed and huffing as I positioned the king size pillow between my knees and stopping every couple minutes to let a contraction go by, my strong husband casually looks over the top of the book he was reading on his side of the bed and in sublime comfort and ease as he lays on his back on ONE pillow, calmly asks me if the next 4 weeks will be like this. I think he was concerned I was turning into an asthmatic or something, with all my breathless breathing and puffing.
Between my huffs and puffs and sighs, I assure him, "Babe, there won't be another 4 weeks of this."
At least, there better not be. The blankets are ready, the pillows are getting to be a hassle and I'm ready to sleep on my back again. And contractions don't keep babies in for very long.