The Write Way Home

Sunday, September 02, 2007

The Beautiful Birthing of Molly Rebekah

Labor began a little after seven in the evening. Having gone through two (count 'em -- two) rounds of Ha-Ha-This-Isn't-Really-Labor in the past six days, I chose to give the contractions as little attention as possible.

Ah, these were different, though. They demanded some attention. Even as Eric and I hunkered down to watch Chocolat, the contractions continued to come, every ten to fifteen minutes or so. And I couldn't ignore them. They made me concentrate, demanded that I breath deeply and close my eyes.

Anything that causes me to close my eyes when Johnny Depp is on the screen has got to be serious.

By the time the movie was over, Eric was ready to pack the car. Not me, though. I'd been burned twice; I wasn't going to be fooled a third time.

Call it denial; call it Fear of Looking Stupid. But I was insistent that we hang out and time a few contractions.

They were still Serious Contractions.

Naturally, nothing about me is ever going to be "text book." The contractions were still coming only ten minutes apart, but they were long and strong -- sometimes a minute and a half and NOT feeling too fun. Nothing in the This Is Your Labor charts talks about really strong contractions that aren't coming close together.

(And the Lord's gentle voice whispers, "Stop trying to fit into a chart. Trust Me.")

And so we called our doula, packed the van, woke the children to let them quietly know that This Was It.

As if on cue, the contractions began to pile up on one another, even as I made my way down the stairs and into the garage. By the time our starlit drive had taken us to the hospital, I was fairly convinced that I had entered transition.

Transition is not fun as one is wandering across parking garages and through meandering hospital corridors. But my dearest Eric, my beloved Birth Coach and Love of My Life, was with me with every heartbeat. Even as I hung upon his shoulder, pulled him toward the nearest bench, or breathed yet again, "Here comes another one," he was there. Unwaveringly, unhesitatingly, wonderfully There.

My first words when I walked (yes, walked) into my private room were snarky: "Turn off that stupid T.V."

(Well, I ask you -- who in their right mind would leave a television blaring for a laboring woman?)

After a quick trip to the bathroom, I curled up gratefully on the bed as another contraction rushed over me. Briefly, I saw the smiling face and heard the greeting of my midwife Linda, who had just entered the room.

"Hi, Sweetheart," I said to her, right before closing my eyes to breathe through the contraction.

No, I've never called my midwife "Sweetheart" before. But she didn't seem to mind.

After the contraction, Linda checked my progress. Heaven sang and my spirit soared when she announced, "Eight centimeters!"

Yes! I was stoked. Things were moving rapidly. Nicole, my doula, arrived, and now my Birth Team was complete. Our assigned nurse was sensitive and attentive. The lights were dimmed, the nurse whispered, Nicole spoke soft words of encouragement and stroked my arm, Eric caressed my hair and loved me through every moment, Linda was an ever-present voice of support and a reminder that all was being orchestrated just fine.

Except. I found, in the depths of my heart, that I was doubting myself. How could this be? I never had felt anything but confidence in the weeks and months leading up to Birth Day. Even in the midst of continual words of affirmation and praise from Eric and my Birth Team, each contraction brought with it a pain that I found myself hating, wanting to fight. I knew everything was going well; I knew I was staying physically relaxed and responding to my coach and my doula in a positive way. But a deep, inner part of me felt like the pain would break me any moment. I felt, briefly, as though I were failing.

It was time to change my position. I'd been lying in a left-facing relaxation position, and thought perhaps it was time to switch sides. As soon as I'd switched, though, it didn't feel right. I knew instinctively -- somehow, in some primal way -- that it was time to open my legs.

I feared not knowing what a sensation to push would feel like; feared I would miss it somehow. How could I know? I'd always been drugged, numbed, removed from my own body for my other births. An "urge to push" isn't something you can teach a woman, isn't something you can tell her about. She needs to experience it for herself -- to write her own story afterward.

But it was never really an "urge to push" for me. It was more of an "urge to open my mouth and vocalize my way through the baby's exit." And so that is what I did, without really knowing what I was doing. I only knew that it was right because I could hear Nicole and Linda praising me. I had to trust that they understood better than I did what was going on.

In the few moments of clarity before the baby emerged, I heard Linda giving Eric some instructions, and I knew that my precious husband was getting ready to catch his child. A wave came, I opened my mouth and "pushed" with my voice and tried to will myself to direct my energy downward. I didn't even know that Molly's head was already out by the time this wave had ended. I only knew tremendous pressure, only knew that I wasn't finished yet, only knew that I wanted to keep going so that it would be finished. My bag of waters, which had bulged its way forward, still fully intact, with the baby's head, burst in a magnificent explosion all over Eric's hands.

Linda and Eric were both calling my name, and I finally listened. "You need to stop, or you're going to tear," Linda said.

Stop? She had to be joking.

But I stopped. I panted. Then I began again. Yet even at this eleventh hour, I felt suddenly as though I needed someone else to do this for me. This was so much bigger than me, so infinitely physical and mental and emotional all at once. And I tried to protest through my vocalizing.

"Ahhhhhhh... I can't. Ahhhhhhhh... I'm tired. Ahhhhhhh....help me, I'm tired."

No one paid my words any mind. They all knew that I could, and that I would, even if I, in those last few seconds, didn't quite believe it.

And then Molly was born, and the ecstasy of release washed over me. Eric caught her, warm and slippery, and placed her on my belly. And the joy of her arrival superseded all.

I had no tearing, no damage to my body. I was on my feet again in about half an hour, using the bathroom and getting dressed for our trip down the hallway to the nursery. I drank some orange juice and smiled for pictures and fell ever more deeply in love with my new daughter.

Molly Rebekah Boehme.

Molly: A pet form of "Mary," which comes from the Ancient Egyptian name "Mr," meaning BELOVED.

Rebekah: From the Hebrew name "Rivkah," meaning CAPTIVATING, BEAUTIFUL.

We were back home by 10:00 the same morning, greeted by "Welcome Home Molly" signs and a toilet-paper-bedecked foyer (hey, it's cheaper than crepe paper). And so we have become a family of seven, and life is sweet and precious in these early hours and days of Baby Molly's life.

I am blessed and thankful and filled with the immeasurable joy that only a new child -- a new gift from God -- can bring. Thank you all for allowing me to share this joy with you.

Labels: baby, birth, family, pregnancy

Saturday, September 01, 2007

She Has Arrived At Last!

It is with great joy and thankfulness that I announce the arrival of our new daughter!

Molly Rebekah was born at 2:20 this morning. She weighs 7 pounds, 8 ounces, and is 19 1/4 inches long.

We are home now, and I'm going to take a nap while Molly is sleeping.

I will post pictures and the story of her birth as soon as I can.

Here's one wonderful tidbit that I must share right away: Eric CAUGHT her! A wonderful, amazing moment for Daddy Boehme, and I'm sure he'll be blogging about it in his own time.

I'm off to be pampered by my loving family. Oh, what a precious day!

Labels: baby, family, life, parenting, pregnancy

Friday, August 24, 2007

Writer On Hiatus

It's official. I am completely unable to pursue a single writing project, whether it be novel or children's book or following up on an agent's request. Honestly, I don't know how pregnant women in corporate America are able to work up to the last minute of their pregnancies. Nothing -- NOTHING -- matters to me more right now than birthing this baby.

Fortunately, my timing is perfect. The publishing industry is notoriously slow in August. My end-of-pregnancy stagnation fits well with the you-won't-hear-much-this-month coming from New York.

Not that I'm enjoying this. I thrive on being creative; I get a "writer's high" when I've had a productive day (you writers know exactly what I'm talking about). As it stands (or sits, really), the right side of my brain is at serious risk for atrophy. The left side, naturally, is thriving -- planning, calculating, administrating. Boring stuff in comparison, but vital to my current state of being.

So. Rather than drive myself insane by continually lamenting my non-productive state (while reveling in my reproductive state), I am making an official declaration of "I'm On Maternity Leave."

There -- I've said it. I'm on maternity leave! I don't have to finish the next chapter or re-work my rhyming children's book or touch base with anyone about anything.

I feel better already.

And as soon as Baby is here and we've had some time to rest and adjust and get the breastfeeding thing down to a fine art, I'll be back at my keyboard. Because I have, after all, a houseful of built-in babysitters. I have no intention of losing myself in a postpartum bog.

Having said all that, I'm off to pray for labor to JUST START ALREADY! May your weekend be joyful. Hopefully the next thing you'll read here is a birth announcement. If not -- well, I'll try not to be too grumpy about that.

Cheers!

Labels: pregnancy, writing

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

On Clueless Men In Stores

I know my belly is huge. It goes without saying that, these days, my belly is the focus of my complete physical person -- the sum total of Who I Am right now. I can't get around it, can't slide into tight spaces, can't hug my husband front-on, can't see my feet, can't even keep my maternity shorts from scootching down, like the pants of a beer-bellied fisherman as he emerges from the driver's seat of his Ford F-150.

And I know that I'm pretty much ALL belly. All baby. There's me, and then there's the Belly. I understand that it might come off a bit...alarming. But I'm never quite prepared each time I see a Clueless Man reacting to the Belly as I walk by.

It's not my imagination. It happens in two distinct ways: First, there's the direct approach. Man sees Belly, has a quick thought process of, "Holy cow, this woman looks like she's going to give birth right in front of me."

Then come the comments:

"You're not going to have this baby right now, are you?"

"Now you just take it easy, take your time, ma'am..."

"So. Urgh. How soon is that baby due?"

Secondly, there's the indirect approach, which amuses me beyond description. These are the men who see me in the store, and their eyes go immediately to the Belly. Within a nanosecond, they've sized up the situation, and the expression on their faces morphs into unmitigated horror. I get no verbal response, no friendly greeting, no offer to hold a door or push my shopping cart. No. I get the most indescribable deer-in-the-headlights responses I've ever seen.

You'd think they've never, ever seen a pregnant woman before.

And then they walk past me as quickly as ever they can, eyes still glued in terror to the Belly, as though it were going to leap out and knock them upside the head. Or maybe explode.

Even my husband -- my life partner, my birth coach deluxe -- is beginning to have moments of "Oh. My. Gosh." It's just that...big. Like there's no possible way for human skin to stretch any farther than mine has.

Of course, the women I encounter have no such reaction. They blithely ask me when the baby's due, sympathize with my end-of-the-last-trimester discomfort, and tell me that I look adorable. (Hey, I don't care whether they mean it or not. I just love hearing it.) I haven't had a single female over the age of four stare at me with terrified eyes.

No, indeed. It's just the men.

I do have to give one of these men some extra credit, though, for approaching the situation with humor. He looked at me and said, "I'm guessing you're about two months pregnant."

I smiled. "You're good! How did you know?"

"Oh, I'm really good at guessing how far along women are, and I can tell you have at least six months left."

Good man. He was the father of four girls, living in a completely Female Household. He knew his stuff. He didn't freak out or turn the other way. In his own, male-like manner, he sympathized with me. So this one gets a gold star.

The rest? Forget it. Climb back into your caves and try to remember what it was like when your own wives were great with child. Don't come back out until you've trained yourselves not to gape at pregnant bellies as though it's the final sign before the onslaught of Armageddon.

It's cliched and I don't say it often, but I've got to say it now: MEN!

Labels: pregnancy

Thursday, August 16, 2007

Announcing: The Big Guess-The-Birth-Day Contest!

It wouldn't be half as fun if we didn't make a little game of it, right?

So here's the skinny:

If you want to play, please leave your guess in the comment box of this post. Don't post anonymously; use a screen name that will make you easily identifiable.

Your guess must consist of two parts: The DATE of birth and the WEIGHT of the baby. We already know it's a girl.

Judging criteria are as follow: Contest entries will be based FIRST on the date. If two or more entrees have the correct date, the winner will be the one with the closest WEIGHT. Getting the weight correct but the date wrong does not a winner make!

You can add any other "guesses" you'd like, just for some fun conversation. However, the actual contest will be based solely on the above criteria.

What's the PRIZE, you ask?

It's a cool one! Jenn at The Virgin Bean will graciously supply the winner with a free Coffee Sampler, consisting of three, four-ounce samples of some of the most scrumptious, organic coffee beans you'll ever experience. (See the little red "X" to the right? That's supposed to be a logo for The Virgin Bean. We're still working on it. In the meantime, it's clickable, so head on over and check out their web site!)

As far as making educated guesses? Anything goes. My "due date" is September 5. I'm not known for going late. My earliest baby came at 38 weeks.

That's all I've got for you. Sweet Baby Girl will make her appearance when she's ready.

Want to play? The contest begins now!

Labels: fun, pregnancy

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

And Now For Some Photos...

...and one must certainly find oneself asking, exactly how wide does this woman's mouth open, and does she ever shut it?

Labels: life, pregnancy

Monday, August 13, 2007

Showered

Yesterday was my Big Baby Shower Day. No signs of impending labor, no last-minute disasters. Unless you include the fact that my right foot decided to swell to inhuman proportions, rendering me completely ankle-less. Even my toes were swollen, like a row of mutant grapes. I couldn't wear the sandals I'd picked out to go with my Baby Shower Outfit. I slipped them on an hour or so before the scheduled arrival of my hostesses and was chagrined to see my right foot slopping through the strips of leather like some sort of biological silly putty.

It was disgusting.

So I stayed quintessentially Barefoot and Pregnant during the shower. Which was apropos, since one of my sweet hostesses is Korean and never wears shoes in her home.

Disfigured foot aside, the shower was most certainly the most beautiful, most meaningful, most delightful baby shower I've ever had in my long history of Having Babies. My hostesses worked like a well-greased machine -- I felt as though I'd hired professional caterers for the affair. The spread was wonderful, complete with a beautiful fruit pizza and cashews in an antique, pedestaled bowl. Fresh flowers were placed on my coffee table, a balloon tied to my mailbox. I didn't even have to answer the doorbell when it began to ring; I simply sat there with my swollen foot and greeted my guests like a queen in her royal lying-in chamber.

I felt amazingly pampered and blessed.

My Oldest Friend since my move to Tennessee was there -- Fran, whom I've known for over nineteen years now. My Newest Friend since my move to Tennessee was also there -- Nicole, my beloved doula, whom I met in March. And all the friends in between. Some I hadn't seen in years. Some I'd seen recently, even had coffee with. All arriving with shining faces and bearing thoughtful, generous gifts for my new baby. Each one receiving a deeply sincere hug.

And nobody seemed to notice my edema-ridden foot. (Well, except Nicole, in whose face I stuck the offensive extremity with a "Look at this!" As if she had a choice. Poor girl. She didn't realize when she took me on that I'd expect her to make everything right.)

Yes, there are pictures. They are cozily tucked inside the digital camera, where they will unfortunately stay until Somebody is kind enough to dump them for me. Once they've been freed, I'll share a few.

And now I must go take a wee nap. As if one big celebration wasn't enough for this sorta-slowed-down pregnant mama (and I haven't even mentioned the shower-after-the-shower that my husband and children surprised me with!), today is Eric's and my nineteenth wedding anniversary, and he wants to take me out tonight. I hope he doesn't mind if I wear flip flops; my foot is morphing again.

So I continue to limp along toward the Big Day. Coming soon: a Guess the Birth Date and Size of Baby Contest, complete with a modest but delightful prize!

Labels: life, pregnancy

Monday, August 06, 2007

Labor Black-out Dates

Airlines do it all the time. Grab the super-low, round-trip tickets while you can, just in time for the holidays. But don't even think about flying on December 23, 24, 26, or 30. Or January 1. The timing of your arrival and/or departure for this trip will in no way be convenient to you or to your family members.

Right. Well, I'd like to order a few black-out dates for the arrival of my baby:

August 12 (Baby Shower)
August 13 (19th wedding anniversary, but who's counting?)
August 14 (Jonathan's first Biology class)

I'm not sure with whom I should clear these dates, though. My midwife? The baby? God?

And suddenly I'm at it again -- full steam ahead in Control Freak mode.

As if I have any say in the matter. When the time comes, it comes. It would just be really nice to, you know, enjoy the baby shower that my friends are so graciously, so generously throwing for me. And to have a romantic dinner with the love of my life on our anniversary (not to mention avoiding the sharing of this date with one of our children for the rest of our lives).

At any rate, my stress level today is much lower, having just installed our new infant seat in the van. One baby transport system, ready to go!

As I was preparing to clean out the van seat in order to muddle through the installation, my beautiful doula pulled up in my driveway bearing gifts. Unexpected gifts on a humid Monday -- what could be better? And among the gifts was her just-read copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Who knew that someone would pay that much attention to my blog whines?

Thank you, Nicole. You're a gem.

So my productive morning and the kindness of a friend have helped dispel the gloom from a way-too-hormonal weekend. I think I'll go put up my swollen feet and enjoy the somersaulting child within me, reveling in the ease of caring for her in this pre-born, pre-nursing, pre-diaper, pre-crying state.

May your Monday be as delightful as mine has turned out!

Labels: life, pregnancy

Thursday, August 02, 2007

Jury Duty: The Final Perk

I received a check in the mail for $31.50 for three days of jury duty. Which means, of course, that we were all paid $10.50 each day, whether or not we ended up actually sitting on a trial.

It's not salary material. And I didn't commit to serving just to get a few bucks back. But let me tell you, that $31.50 felt like a pot o'gold in my hands.

Know what I bought? A cute little "Coming Home From the Hospital" shirt. For me, not for the baby. It's a good thing these ridiculous, high-waisted babydoll styles are all the rage right now. They're perfect for hiding a post-pregnancy belly. Mind you, if I weren't going to be post-pregnant for the rest of the summer, I never would have purchased the shirt. But it's going to serve its purpose well.

I've still got $20 left. That's enough to finally purchase a copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, but I'm still holding out for some kind soul to hand me his copy out of sheer altruism. (Do you know how hard it is to avoid all the buzz and banter so as not to spoil the story for myself?) Instead, I think I may buy a little "Coming Home" outfit for the baby. Or maybe a stick of my favorite Clinique lipstick. Something that I won't have to share, you know? Because I've already promised Jonathan that he may read Harry Potter first. Then, of course, I'll have to be a good mom and allow Maggie to read it next. Which means I'd have to wait good and long to get my hands on it.

Why spend my hard-earned jury duty money on such a venture?

No, I need to spend the remainder on something non-communal. Maybe a T-shirt that reads, "I served on the jury in Williamson County." (For that matter, they might've had the decency to hand those out as we left the building. But that would have precluded the $31.50 payment, surely.)

Anyway, you know I'm into simple pleasures, and that check from the county powers-that-be certainly qualifies. And imagine this -- Eric was ready to confiscate the check and add it to our strained bank account. Honestly! I'm glad he saw the light of day before whisking my hard-earned check into oblivion.

At any rate, I've promised to hand over next month's royalty check. (What was I thinking?)

So tomorrow I'm going shopping. I love the way people hold doors for me and offer to carry things when they see the startling protrusion of baby attached at the front. So even if I don't find what I'm looking for, I'm sure to enjoy the attention.

Till then!

Labels: life, pregnancy

Monday, July 30, 2007

Sniffles and Contractions

That about sums up my weekend.

You know those annoying, little summer colds we sometimes get? Nothing serious, doesn't confine you to the couch for the day or even spike the tiniest fever. Just...sniffles and scratchy throat.

Well, I've got one. Normally it wouldn't bother me much. Toss great-with-childness into the picture, though, and you've got one fairly uncomfortable woman.

And, of course, as Murphy's Law would have it, yesterday was a let's-see-how-many-contractions-we-can-fit-into-one day sort of Sunday. Great stuff, these Braxton-Hicks. Gives me something to practice relaxing through without actually hurting. Reminds me how close I am, and how capable my body is of actually birthing this baby without ridiculous medical intervention.

But the sniffles and scratchy throat on top of all the contractions made yesterday...well, a bit rough.

Want to hear the Perfect Husband Response, though? He stayed home today. He knew, instinctively, that I needed him today. He did some work from home in the morning, of course. But he's taking care of me as well. Doing things for me. BABY-related things. Making sure I don't overexert myself today. Holding me when I need to be held. Checking up on me.

Because, yeah, he's not quite ready for this baby to make her arrival yet, either.

And, too, my doula is in Michigan until Thursday. She's a gem, though -- as we were saying good bye on Saturday morning, she assured me that, should I need her, she had a plane ticket at-the-ready, in order to come straight home. And her five delightful children? Nicole's mom is ready to drive them back to Tennessee for her.

Is that dedication or what? I love this gal. I think I love her mom, too.

But there's a moral to this story, and Eric's good at reminding me of it: I've got to learn to relax no matter what. I've got to stop relying on the situations around me in order to find my peace.

I've got to trust God to take care of everything. Period.

An ongoing lesson for this frenetic, tightly wound, passionate woman. Would that I'd learn it already and move on!

So. It's another sniffles-and-contractions day, but just having Eric home is an amazing balm. I may even be able to sneak in a little nap.

I suppose I should post a See If You Can Guess The Date and Time of Baby's Arrival contest soon. I'm not sure what kind of prize the winner ought to get, though.

Suggestions?

Labels: life, pregnancy

Friday, July 27, 2007

Baby In a Gross Liquid

My brief lessons on life in utero mustn't be getting across too clearly. Naturally I simplify things quite a bit when discussing the pregnancy with eight-year-old Spencer, but still. To give him credit, he is by far the most enthusiastic and excited sibling. He talks to Baby Girl daily, and gives her good-night kisses. He gasps with delight when he feels her kicking. And he's told me that he loves her already.

Very cool.

Spencer's an unusual little dude, though, with his own perceptions and ideas about life. So I wasn't completely surprised when he came up with his own description of amniotic fluid.

"It smells awful."

"Um, Spencer, it doesn't smell awful. It's a clean liquid that keeps replenishing itself."

"No, it's really gross and it tastes awful."

It tastes awful?

"Well, the baby doesn't think it tastes awful."

And have you noticed that Spencer doesn't ask questions? It's not, "Does the amniotic fluid smell awful?" or "Does it taste awful?" No. It's, "The amniotic fluid smells and tastes awful." Period. A declaration without debate.

Once Spencer has decided that something is true, there's no telling him otherwise.

(Someone please tell me he's not going to grow up to be one of those types of people.)

So now, no matter how hard I try, I cannot convince Spencer that his sister isn't going to come into this world bathed in a smelly, nauseating liquid.

That's what I get for trying to educate my children. Give them a little bit of knowledge and their vast supply of creativity kicks in and has its way with it. Especially Spencer.

I don't even want to think about what's going to come out of his mouth when he finally has the Birds and Bees talk with his dad. Fortunately I won't be there to hear it. It's "all boys together" and "all girls together" in our house for the Biggest Prepubescent Discussion Of Them All.

Lucky Eric.

Labels: parenting, pregnancy

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

A Page A Day

Sounds reasonable, doesn't it?

I'm thinking in terms of Baby's Due Date. Of course, the term "due date" is complete hogwash; nobody really knows when a baby is ready to make her entrance -- except Baby herself.

Still, I'm sequential enough that I need a date, so I'll continue to use September 5 to denote the Big Day.

Now, that's exactly six weeks away. If I were to write one page a day in my current WIP (Work In Progress), that's forty-two pages. That translates to roughly four or five chapters. Four or five more chapters before the baby comes! That would make me officially-just-about-exactly-halfway-finished with the first draft of this novel.

Wouldn't that be marvelous?

I could have my baby, rest a bit, and jump right back into a project that's already halfway finished.

Attainable? Yes. Realistic? Yes. Probable?

I'm not sure.

I do need to insert at this point of my hormonally disturbed narrative that Dear Eric, having read my last blog entry, rose to the challenge and finished painting the nursery last night. I might add that my last blog entry was the sole reason that he finished painting the nursery last night. So now I know exactly what to do with my Honey-Do lists in the future.

At any rate, that's one more pre-baby project completed, which gives me that much more peace. Which leads to more productivity and greater creative energy reserves (despite the killer flight of steps that I have to climb to get to my third story office).

The problem is that a-page-a-day doesn't take into account those times when the story just...stalls. I sit there staring at the character in question (yes, I can see them -- can't all authors?), trying to figure out exactly what he's going to do next, and why. Sometimes it's as clear as Caribbean waters, and other times it's a complete muddle. A-page-a-day doesn't take into account endless staring-at-the-screen sessions.

Still, a page isn't that much. If I curl up with my notebook and work out the kinks separately, then I think I can sit down with a fresh mind and get that daily page written.

I know I'll thank myself later.

Of course, there are other factors at play. There's my endless obsession with "checking for good news in my email box." I've got some promising coals in the fire right now and it's hard to put that aside and fully concentrate on my work. (Oh, for the day when I gladly hand over the business angst to a willing and devoted agent! There will be great rejoicing throughout Middle Tennessee and the World At Large...)

Then there's the ongoing Baby Prep. Sure, the walls in the nursery are finished. But now it's time to do the trim work and window sills. Then we have to pay off the crib, pick it up, and put it together. Then...well, you get the idea.

In short, we still have a lot to do. And we've got forty-two days or less in which to do them.

So. A page a day. Will you cheer me on? I'm terribly excited about the direction my new novel is taking, and it'll do me a world of good to immerse myself in its creation, rather than wringing my hands over what needs to be done before Baby Five's arrival.

Talk about the pressure of accountability. Okay, I'm at your mercy. Feel free to check up on me.

And I'm off to write my daily page.

Labels: pregnancy, writing

Monday, July 23, 2007

This and That and Very, Very Pregnant

My heart is still at the ocean. My head, on the other hand, is very much encumbered with Life Heading Toward Baby Number Five.

I've got the shuffle-waddle thing down pat. And I'm not doing it on purpose. Sometimes that little head makes it impossible for me to take a step without swinging my hips into a wide arc, like a bow-legged cowgirl home from the ride.

You should have seen me tailor-sitting on the floor in Lowe's on Saturday morning. I may have looked like a pregnant hippie, but boy did it feel good.

Lowe's = Home Projects (that's called "word math," for those of you who may be uninitiated), and this weekend was particularly exciting because Home Project = Baby's Nursery.

With Rachel's help, Eric got the first coat painted. If I'm very, very, very nice to him, I'm hoping he'll finish the second coat some time this week, instead of waiting all the way until Saturday.

My sanity requires it.

I've now got a total of three delightful women working together to make my baby shower a reality. Party Attendance = Slightly Less Than Half Of the Number You've Invited, which means we can expect eighteen to twenty ladies to show up. (No, I'm not that popular. I just have lots of different "circles." Yanno?)

My devoted sister, ever conscious of my need for decreased stress, has forbidden me to look at my Babies R Us registry any more. I have, in fact, handed over my password and promised her that I would be true to my word not to peek (I haven't peeked since I made the promise). She, in turn, has promised to let me know when the zeros start disappearing.

"You already know what you've registered for," she wisely said. "At least allow yourself to be surprised when people give you presents."

Well, okay! I can do that. I generally squirm when people "give" and "do for" me in general, so some genuine "ah!" when I open a gift will go a long way.

The shower is going to be at my house, which makes me happy because I can at least run the vacuum and swish the toilet and feel like I've contributed. Eric might disagree, but I really don't do well in Prima Donna roles. ("Come hither for your audience with The Pregnant One, and leave your gifts at her dainty feet.")

And I really don't like opening gifts in front of crowds.

But I love parties and I'm terribly fond of almost everyone on my guest list (let's be honest, there's always the odd "obligatory neighbor" or "better include this one"). I really hope most of them come because I want to see each one of them and give them each a big hug.

Yes, I'm really that sappy.

As for the cute guy in the above photograph? He's a keeper. True, he's starting to say, "Okay, I'm ready to have your body back." But that is ultimately a good thing, right? Frankly, I can see the benefits of being able to see my own feet again. For now, though, I'm going to keep enjoying this pregnancy. I absolutely love being pregnant and I make no apologies for it.

Besides, the little alien in my belly is endlessly fascinating, despite her penchant for head-butting my cervix and sticking her little foot into my rib cage.

And that's the ramble from my neck of the proverbial woods. Now I think I'll take daughter Maggie's advice and work on my latest novel. I would whine and say that I'm only on Chapter 7, but that's better than not having started the dang thing at all.

Yes. Right. Onward.

Peace!

Labels: life, pregnancy

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

OOOO, Baby!

I returned from a visit to my midwife a short while ago. It's never anything short of pleasant; unlike routine OB visits, there is no medical poking and prodding. In other words, no vaginal exams or any other unnecessary intervention. It is peaceful, noninvasive, and simply delightful.

And I adore my midwife. I really do!

So as Eric was preparing to listen to the heartbeat (Linda, my midwife, always hands him the Doppler and expects him to do it -- I love it!), I asked for some "bump identification" on the baby. Linda pressed a bit on the upper left: "That's a knee..." She palpated on the right: "That's her little rump..." And some more: "This is her back..." Then she felt way down low: "And here's her head!"

My baby is WAY head down. No wonder I have to pee every fifteen minutes. (You think I'm exaggerating, don't you?)

"I wouldn't be surprised if you went by thirty-seven weeks," Linda said.

"I'd love to take your word for it," I said, "but I know better."

"No, I'm serious. I think you'll go by thirty-seven weeks."

Hello. I know perfectly well that it's impossible to know exactly when a baby will be born. But this woman was dead serious.

Let's do the math. My estimated due date, according to my own, Top Secret Temperature Chart and Sexual Activity Information, is September 5th (possibly the 3rd or 4th). My estimated due date according to the Omniscient Ultrasound Lab Technician's measurements at seven weeks is September 10th. So Linda's "thirty-seven weeks" is more like my own "thirty-eight" weeks. And that's not cutting it quite so close.

I mean, my friends have planned me a Baby Shower for August 12. My own "thirty-seven weeks" is August 14 or 15. Linda's "thirty-seven weeks" is August 20. And my own "thirty-eight" weeks is August 21 or 22.

Ugh, forget it. I'm driving myself nuts.

I'm just immensely glad that Sweet Baby Girl is already in such a perfect position for birth. She can go ahead and wait until September if she wants. September's a lovely month for a birthday. And August is a perfect month for baby showers and painting nurseries, so I'd better have a word with my feisty little fetus about her impending Birth Day.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to pee.

Labels: pregnancy

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

And There Was Sunlight

I didn't have to report for jury duty today. I almost burst into tears of relief yesterday when I listened to the recorded message that announced the good news.

I must be pregnant or something.

So guess who grabbed her eleven-year-old daughter and headed to Babies R Us? We narrowed our paint choices down to two that matched the nursery bedding. Then, exactly as I'd hoped, Rachel's eyes reflected the glee of shopping-for-a-baby as she asked, "Could we just walk around and look a little bit?"

Twist my arm.

I even gave her the bar code gun so that she could add a few things to the registry; a rattle here, a bib there. She loved it. No, she more than loved it. She probably could have combed the entire store over the next three hours and never batted an eye.

I bought a fitted sheet for the cradle (which my unstoppable nesting instinct compelled me to set up today, with Jonathan's help). The eager, way-too-young store manager who waited on me said, "So, is this your first?"

"No, it's my fifth."

"FIFTH??" (I'm used to this reaction.)

"Yep."

"Wow. That's a lot of babies." No kidding. "I guess you really know what you're doing, then!"

Well, sure, I had to admit that I do know what I'm doing.

"I have one," he continued. "And I'd really like three more, you know? But ours is two and it's SO HARD."

He's telling a mother of four-plus-one-on-the-way that raising one two-year-old is hard? Okay, so he was young. And yes, raising even one two-year-old can drain the life from the most stalwart parent. Especially if you're not setting appropriate boundaries with the child. Naturally, I wasn't going to go there with Howdy Doody here.

"So, how old are your others?" he asked.

"Well, my youngest is eight, and --"

"Your YOUNGEST?"

"Ur, yeah, and my oldest is fifteen."

"Wow. You don't look OLD enough!"

Suddenly I liked this guy. I bobbed him a curtsy and said, "You just want me to come back and shop at your store again!"

Yep, I'll be back. When I'm at 39 weeks and feeling like a hippo in need of a chiropractor, I'll waddle up to his counter and wait for him to gush about how not-old-enough I am to be the mother of a fifteen-year-old. Then, in a fit of youthful glee, I'll buy something.

Well. It might be cloudy today, but my life's all sunshine. I'm almost ready to face another day in the county courthouse.

Almost.

Labels: life, pregnancy

Monday, July 09, 2007

Less Than Two Months

And the Final Stretch is upon me, and I'm fighting the urge to panic.

Not because I'm feeling unprepared for the birth. No, indeed. Eric and I are as excited as can be about our upcoming, Bradley-prepared, all natural childbirth experience. He's going to be an awesome birth coach.

No, it's just the Baby Preparation part (they don't offer classes for this). We finally got Spencer moved into his "new" room (Jonathan's old room), and the soon-to-be-nursery is completely empty and ready to be stripped down, painted, and decorated. A real Baby Nursery, unlike anything my other sweet children had.

Except.

Except I can't choose the paint color because I don't have any of the bedding or accessories. The shower my dear friend has offered to throw me hasn't been scheduled yet (trying not to break out in hives as I type this). My best bet is taking my pile o' paint chips and heading out to Babies R Us, where I can tote the bedding to the nearest window and check on the color matching.

Except. I can't make plans to do that this week because of jury duty. I'm forced to live life one day at a time, waiting to see whether I will be free to actually LIVE my day, or be trapped in a courtroom.

Not that life is terrible. It's just that...well, I'm tired of jury duty, and this week's run hasn't even begun yet.

(I'm not going to whine. I'm not going to whine. I'm...I'm whining, aren't I?)

But hey. I just finished typing up the first draft of our Birth Plan. That felt good. Getting all the "don't give me any medications" and "we are declining the eye erythromycin drops" down on paper definitely reduced my stress level.

For the moment.

I'm still enjoying pregnancy, still loving the sensation of the sweet life growing inside me (feisty little thing, she is!). Really, it's awesome.

I'd just feel better if the nursery were finished, and I could wash the small stash of infant things I've accumulated, and the not-so-small stash of infant things that my darling sister gave to me, and fold everything up and tuck each item away inside freshly lined drawers.

It's OK. It'll all fall into place. Baby Girl doesn't care what her sleeping quarters look like, and she's not going to time her arrival according to my to-do list or mental prerequisites. She's going to come when the Lord sends her, and it's going to be...well, nothing short of perfect.

I can have a good perspective when I put my mind to it. Blogging is, after all, fairly therapeutic.

Now if I could just find something chocolate...

Labels: life, pregnancy

Wednesday, June 06, 2007

On Endodontists and Jellybeans

It's true. Yesterday morning, I had a root canal. Not that I couldn't think of anything more enjoyable to do on a lovely Tuesday. It's just that, over the weekend, this horrendous abscess appeared in my mouth. It was...alien. And dreadfully painful. I'll spare you the details.

So when I saw my kindly dentist on Monday, he took an X-ray and immediately referred me to an endodontist. Okay, I'll admit it -- I'd never heard the word before yesterday. "Periodontist" and "orthodontist," yes. But endodontist was new to me.

I'm not sure who in their right mind would choose to make a living by performing root canals all day, but there you have it.

So I had the procedure done, no big deal. Well, yes, it was a big deal, financially speaking. Insurance only pays half. And suffice it to say that I could buy six weeks of groceries for the full price of one root canal.

I feel awful about that. But I digress.

So there I was, all numbed up on one side, hopping into the van for my next appointment, which was to see my midwife. That's not a big deal either, except for the fact that I had to eat eighteen jellybeans on the way. My glucose tolerance test was scheduled for 1:00, and those delightful jellybeans were my own preference, instead of the nasty, thick, orange, gaggy stuff they usually make you drink. I was very happy when my midwife okayed the jellybeans.

That, of course, was before I knew I was going to have a root canal right before the blood draw.

I opened the pre-counted bag of jellybeans, placed it on my lap, and reached in for the first jellybean. Chew. Chew. Chew. Careful only to chew on the left side, as far away from the fresh root canal as possible. Chew. Chew. Check for drool. Chew. Swallow. Reach for bean number two.

All the way through the bag, all eighteen jellybeans. Yep. I did it. I ate eighteen jellybeans less than an hour after a root canal. And nothing broke or fell off or produced a searing pain in my skull.

I checked in five minutes early for my appointment. No one was at the window when I arrived, so I was unable to remind them that I was all tanked up on jellybeans and ready for the needle.

You guessed it. Within the next ten minutes, the office suddenly became crowded. I was called back twenty one minutes past my scheduled appointment time.

"Were you given some orange drink when you got here?" said the nurse-who-left-her-personality-at-home.

"No, I ate eighteen jellybeans before I got here."

"Urr, what time did you eat them?" She was already looking as though she were ready to accuse me of something.

I wasn't going to let her go there. "Urr, you all are running a little late. I finished eating them at 12:05."

"What time is it?"

(Why was it suddenly my responsibility to know what time it was?)

"It's 1:21," Eric piped. Handy, those cell phones.

"Oh, it's too late now," said the dispassionate nurse. "If it's more than ten minutes past an hour, the test will be inaccurate."

Right. I had just left-side-chewed eighteen jellybeans while driving a van after a root canal, and now she was telling me that I couldn't have the blood test.

Fortunately, I adore my midwife and was able to make light of it the moment she entered the room. Unfortunately, I'm going to have to eat eighteen jellybeans all over again before my next visit, scheduled for the first week of July. Hopefully, it won't be after another root canal.

And that was my Tuesday. And no, I'm not particularly fond of jellybeans. Especially now.

Labels: life, pregnancy

Monday, June 04, 2007

Eating Crow Two Years Later

Wow. I just came across this article, written a little over two years ago for my MOMMY! Ezine.

Things change. I mean, really change.

How could I have known? How could I have foreseen what my life would be like two short years later? All the things I was delighting in, gloating over, crowing about. They've just...

No. There are no words. You simply have to read it yourself to see what I'm talking about.

Then, come on back and leave your comments. Laugh at me. Chortle. Shake your head. Be amused. You're allowed to.

Meanwhile, I'm just going to slink on over to the nearest dark corner with my pregnant belly in tow and...cower.

Labels: life, pregnancy

Friday, June 01, 2007

What the Heck's a DOULA??

That's what Eric said to me the first time I mentioned the word "doula." To be honest, I wasn't sure at the time that I wanted one, anyway. I mean, bare myself to another woman? Be vulnerable, in pain, and naked in front of a woman I hardly knew? Let's just say the thought made me feel...stretched.

Well, I now officially have one. Nicole, my wonderful Bradley instructor and an amazing mom of five children ages seven and under (yes, you read that correctly), is going to be doulaing for me. And I couldn't be more thrilled.

(Still wondering what the heck a doula is? Read Nicole's post to learn all about it.)

Nicole has the gift of making people feel comfortable with her immediately. She's highly knowledgeable in her field and she's an excellent instructor. So excellent, in fact, that I am able to wholeheartedly forgive her for being so much younger than I am.

That's no small feat, I assure you.

So while Eric is going to continue in his role as Birth Coach Extraordinaire, Nicole is going to be there to support both of us as we labor the natural way, offering me massage, acupressure, massage, photo-taking, massage, emotional support, massage, help and suggestions on labor and pushing positions, and...did I mention massage?

Heck, if I'd have known that doulas offered massage during labor, I would have hotly pursued a doula from the moment the stick turned pink.

Seriously, I'm beyond excited about giving birth without medical intervention. I really do trust my body to do what it was divinely intended to do. I really do believe that Eric is going to be fabulous in supporting me. And I am completely convinced that Nicole is yet another gift from the Lord in my life.

So. That's the scoop from the pregnant woman this Friday. D-minus-fourteen-weeks and counting.

Happy weekend!

Labels: pregnancy

Wednesday, May 30, 2007

In a Perfect World....

...I'd be finishing my first draft of "Book Two," since now's the time to get it done without the added responsibility of a newborn in the house (not to mention the subtracted sleep). In the real world, I haven't been sleeping all that well and I can't write when my brain has congealed into a fur-lined mass. Really, I can't. I just stare.

...I'd be writing lists of Things To Pack For The Shore, since lists are a great way of reducing the stress of trying to remember what to bring. In the real world, everything is swimming around in my head while I noncommittally check them off, one by one. Am I stressed about it? Not yet. Not yet...

...I'd remember to faithfully do my 200 Kegel exercises every day in preparation for natural childbirth. In the real world, I'm lucky to get in 50 or 60, because I can't seem to remember and...well, I hate them. And I can't do them while I'm typing. I'm just not that coordinated. (I know this because I just tried.)

...I'd stop worrying about gaining too much weight. Everyone tells me I look great, and everyone knows you should never "diet" during pregnancy. But the weight gain is the one (and probably only) part of pregnancy that makes me break out in hives. In the real world, I'm obsessing over it.

...I'd have gone to see At World's End on opening night, like the rest of the Pirates fanatics in this country. In the real world, Eric only just got back from a week out of town that night, and I'll be seeing the movie this weekend instead. Stay tuned for my next Jack Sparrow emote-fest.

And now, it's back to trying to balance my perfect world with my real one. Wish me luck...

Labels: life, pregnancy

Friday, May 04, 2007

Why Does This Frighten Me?

I needed to run a quick errand after lunch today, so I hopped into the van and turned the key. The day was a bit on the cloudy side, so I decided I'd better use my headlights.

And I couldn't remember how to turn them on.

This wasn't one of those momentary lapses that resolves itself in a matter of seconds. No. I sat there, completely bewildered and unable to remember where the correct lever was. I tried one of them -- and the windshield wipers started to move.

That's when I got really scared.

To be fair, I had just spent a couple of days driving Eric's BMW. The van was in the shop (soaking up over a thousand dollars worth of repairs, which is enough to make anyone have a momentary brain lapse, I'll warrant). And of course the BMW's headlight switch is completely different than our (dying) Sienna's. And yes, I did look on the dashboard at the spot where the BMW's switch sits, fully aware that I was thinking of the wrong vehicle.

And I still couldn't remember how to turn the headlights on.

"Don't worry about it," I said out loud (one of my self-calming mechanisms). I started to back out of the garage, sans headlights, and told myself that things would "click" for me once I was actually in motion.

They didn't "click." I was sitting in my van on the driveway on a cloudy day, and I still couldn't remember how to turn the headlights on.

I've been driving this van for almost a decade. If it weren't imperative that I actually look out the windshield to see where I'm going, I'm sure I could drive it blindfolded. Yet today, for a terrifying two to three minutes, I could not figure out how to turn the headlights on.

This was way beyond the typical "pregnancy brain" I've experienced during all five of my baby-currently-in-womb states.

Yes, I finally figured it out. But I had to literally sit there and eyeball the entire dashboard until my eyes rested on the elusive handle to the left of the steering wheel -- the one with the little drawing of a headlight on it (put there for morons who have trouble figuring out how to work the headlights).

Someone help me.

During my first pregnancy, I had a piano student to whom I not-so-affectionately referred as "The Geek." Her lessons were always on the same evening at the same time. During one of these same-evening-same-times, I was in the middle of a grocery store with Eric, doing the weekly shopping. I suddenly stopped and gasped and exclaimed, "Oh my gosh! I'm supposed to be giving The Geek her lesson right now!"

The Geek's mom was gracious and kind and insisted that she had had similar "pregnancy moments" like that. She even showed up on my doorstep, Geek in tow, a couple of weeks after Jonathan's birth, with a gift for the new baby.

Somehow, though, today's headlight incident feels like it's in a different category. We're talking really frightening.

I mean, can I really blame those innocent hormones for this incident?

Well, okay. I can. In fact, I will.

Yep -- it was the hormones. They started to surge the moment I turned the van on. And for the next three minutes, they blunted my brain function to the point where I couldn't remember how to turn on the headlights.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

And I'm not driving anywhere else today, either.

Labels: life, pregnancy

Monday, April 30, 2007

And So It Begins: Bradley Method Class One

It's official: I haven't given up my plan to enjoy a completely natural childbirth experience. So last night Eric and I attended our first of six classes in the Bradley Method.

It's a cool story, really. I met this amazing woman at the park last month (she has five children ages seven and under, and she's calm; that about says it all, don't you think?). Turns out she's a childbirth educator and doula, and...well, rather than sink money into a not-so-helpful hospital birthing class, we decided to support this terrific lady and sign up for classes at her home.

It was just Eric and me -- the other couple had a last-minute conflict. Which was fine with me, since I hear the other mama's only 21 years old. That's, like, half of me. So having a week to acclimate myself without the pressure of feeling older was a good thing.

We had a blast. And I came away from there feeling so affirmed. I mean, who knew that squatting was a skill? Evidently most American women lose their ability to squat, and have to be trained to do it as part of the Bradley technique. I happen to squat all the time, so we were able to skip that particular exercise.

Ladylike, aren't I? But hey, it's going to help me give birth without medication.

And wouldn't you know it, but my favorite sleeping position happens to be the best position for complete relaxation and comfortable labor. How lucky is that?

So I guess I'm on a roll. Why, I even hoofed it to Publix this morning to buy a few things that I needed. It's about half a mile to the store, so a mile's walk was awfully good for building Birth Stamina, don't you think?

The best part of the trip was when Jonathan appeared on his bike when I was still about three blocks from home. Having heard from his sisters that I had walked to the store, he immediately became concerned that the grocery bags would be too heavy for me to carry all the way home. So he came to my rescue, retrieving two of the bags and attaching them to his handlebars.

My hero! Honestly, life doesn't get much better than moments like that.

It'll be interesting, of course, to see how willing Eric is to practice our relaxation techniques every day. He was awfully cute during the class -- attentive, involved, witty as always. But without our teacher's watchful eye, will he rise to the cause? Remind me to do my pelvic tilts before bed? Work with me on relaxing to the sound of his voice and the touch of his hand?

We'll see.

Boy, am I loving this. This is by far the best pregnancy I've had, and I'm enjoying every moment. And to think that I'm going to have the wonderful experience of giving birth without medical intervention, without cranky nurses, without a needle in my arm or a fetal monitor slipped beneath my baby's scalp...well, it's overwhelming. I'm so blessed.

And that's your official Pregnancy Update for the week. I'm admittedly tired after my late night (our class ran an hour late -- okay, so maybe the teacher and I both like to talk a bit much) and my jaunt to the grocery store. But I really want to put in some time on my children's story, since I'm fairly close to finishing it. So here's to staying awake on a gorgeous Monday afternoon.

And here's to a gorgeous Monday afternoon to all of you as well!

Labels: pregnancy

Thursday, April 19, 2007

Ban Me From the Kitchen

I have a new warning for pregnant women: Don't try new recipes until after the baby's born. Because we all know that those hormones drain the thoughts out of your brain like a sump pump in overdrive.

I had a hankering for a nifty pasta and spinach salad. My usual trying-new-recipes method is to do a brief search online to get some good ideas, and then come up with my own recipe. It didn't take me long to concoct a passionate conglomeration of ingredients in my head, and I headed to the grocery store after dropping off my daughters at ballet.

Who could resist a spinach-and-wagon-wheel-pasta salad, redolent of fresh lemon juice and minced garlic, tossed gleefully with grape tomatoes, black olives, red onion, marinated artichoke hearts, grated Parmesan, crumbled Feta, and -- as a special tip of the hat to my husband -- pine nuts.

So I doused the pine nuts with olive oil and slapped them under the broiler while the water boiled.

Then I promptly forgot about them.

In the midst of grating cheese and slicing olives and stirring the boiling pasta, it occurred to me that something smelled odd. I thought maybe it was the permanent food crust that lives on my stovetop.

But no. It was Blackened Pine Nuts a la Jillian.

I was devastated. They were expensive. Eric is going to tease me mercilessly. And the entire downstairs smells like the residue from a kitchen fire.

Still, I quickly regrouped and continued to toss the remaining ingredients in the bowl. I sliced open the container of Feta -- ah, I love Feta! -- and it looked blueish-green. This wasn't a good sign. In a fit of panic, I read the lid to confirm my suspicion.

Yep. I had accidentally purchased crumbled bleu cheese. Two whole containers of it.

Ask me if my children like bleu cheese. Now ask me if I'm going to tell them that the cheese in their pasta salad isn't Feta.

Overall, the salad is beautiful, and even pre-soaking time, it tastes pretty darn good. Still, I think I would have been safer putting this one off.

I think tomorrow night we'll order a pizza.

Labels: cooking, pregnancy

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

The Fifty Yard Line

A strange analogy for someone who loathes football, but it's the first that came to mind. Today is my "official" (if there is such a thing) halfway mark for the pregnancy.

Twenty weeks down. Twenty weeks to go.

Little Girl is a feisty one. She doesn't just move around in there -- she dances. Seriously. I'm sure she's dancing. She especially loves to dance after I've had my morning coffee.

Slowly but surely, all thoughts are turning toward welcoming Child Number Five. Dreams have turned from blue to pink, and I find myself getting all gooey over teeny-tiny pink things, like socks and drool bibs.

I never thought I'd go all gooey over drool bibs again. Well, at least not until I became a grandmother.

And while I'm in a rambly sort of mood, I simply must tell you that on Monday, not ten minutes after I'd posted my "Stupid Questions" diatribe, I called my midwife's office to reschedule my next appointment. I explained to the receptionist that I had an appointment scheduled for May 18 that I wanted to change to May 15. Her response?

"Do you have a conflict?"

Does it ever end? No, I don't have a conflict, ma'am. I'm just changing the appointment to screw up your schedule. Because I love wasting my time changing appointments just for the heck of it.

Who hires these people?

Really, I'm not in a perpetually ratty mood. I actually just had a delightful trip to Babies R Us to finish up my registry. I've got a new hair cut. The weather is actually warming up. And my daughters are finally -- finally -- showing real excitement about the new baby. I was beginning to think it would never happen.

Life is good.

Now if I could just focus my hormone-impaired mind and get some writing done, I'd be in excellent shape.

Wish me luck.

Labels: life, pregnancy

Monday, April 16, 2007

Stupid Questions

I tell my children that questions are good. It's how we learn. If we don't ask, we don't get answers.

Right. Maybe it's my pregnancy hormones, but over the last few days I've had precious little patience for Questions That Should Not Have Been Asked.

Scenario One: Eric and I went to Toys R Us to register for baby gear. There's a kind of a rush involved in aiming the rectangular zapper (a twenty-first-century version of a medical tricorder) at much-needed merchandise and not spending a dime. Of course, the trick is to first overcome the frustration of getting the whole thing set up at the customer service desk. I rose to the task to spare Eric the pain -- after all, he was good enough to agree to come in the first place.

Miss Customer Service was (slowly) taking care of things. And in the midst of her rambly explanation of the system, she looked up at Eric and me and said, "Are you married?"

Now, I know that enough couples "do things backwards" these days that hardly anyone blinks an eye. But seriously -- Eric and I are way married. Eighteen years of it, and I'm sure it shows. We wear big, fat wedding bands. We're not young, boho lovebirds who can't keep our hands to ourselves. We're....well, yeah, married.

And I answered the poor gal with such incredulity in my voice that she was taken aback.

"Well..." is all she mustered in the way of a response. The implication being, of course, "Not everybody is."

Use your eyeballs, girlie. We're the epitome of Old Married Couple.

Scenario Two: I returned to Toys R Us this morning to add a few more things to the registry (which was annoying to begin with, since the stuff I wanted to add wasn't on the web site). When I'd finished making my choices, I was given into the care of a customer-service-gal-in-training who didn't quite understand the system. Gal Number One gave her some instructions about finding my name on the computer. After a minute or so, the new gal looked up from her monitor and said, "Are you Brittany?"

"No, it's Boehme," I said. "Jill Boehme."

Pause. "That's B-O-N-E?"

Hello. My last name was clearly displayed across the top of the medical tricorder. It did not say "Bone."

I spelled my admittedly unusual name for the poor girl, who frowned and shook her head as though my response made absolutely no sense to her.

Why do people like this work at customer services desks?

Scenario Three: And I've saved the Biggest Stupid Question for last. It happened on Friday while I was at my midwife's. Sadly, I didn't get to see her this time. The midwifery practice is affiliated with a hospital that happens to be a teaching hospital, so it's crawling with embryonic nurslings and doctors-in-training and a slew of medical student-types at various stages of their grasp for a degree. Seeing one of them from time to time is a given. You get over it.

So in walks a woman who introduces herself as a soon-to-be-real-nurse. This was strange enough, since usually the interns at the midwifery practice are training to be -- well, midwives. Last month I met an incredible gal who is going to make an awesome midwife some day. But I digress.

After offering a clammy hand for me to shake, Ms. Pre-nurse looked me up and down and said, "So. Gaining weight?"

If that isn't the stupidest opening question in the examination room of a midwifery practice, I don't know what is. I think my jaw audibly hit the floor.

And it didn't get any better from there. Her next question was, "Is this your first baby?"

Had she spent even twenty seconds perusing the small chart in her hands, she would have immediately discerned that this was, in fact, my fifth child. Hadn't she learned anything in nursing school? Step one: Glance over the patient's chart before you enter the examining room. She must have slept through that particular class.

I wish I would have had the opportunity to evaluate her. I'd have given her a zero on bedside manner. I'm not even sure why she's interested in working in a people-care profession.

She absolutely stank.

Blame the pregnancy if you will, but my tolerance for stupid questions and a general lack of people skills is at an all-time low. Don't stick me in a room or at a counter with someone who doesn't know how to smoothly interact with the rest of the human race. As my belly expands and my lung capacity decreases, it's only going to get worse.

Maybe I'd better let Eric do all the talking for a while.

Labels: life, pregnancy

Friday, April 13, 2007

It's a..............

Girl!

Stunned. Blindsided. Was absolutely certain it was going to be a boy.

But....well, isn't she beautiful?

I think I'm in love.

Labels: life, pregnancy

Wednesday, April 04, 2007

Ugly With a Capital "U"

I'll be the first to admit that, back in my 20s and early 30s, I had no sense of style. None.

I seriously cringe when I look at photographs of myself. Who is that shapeless, aesthetically void woman? is the question that pops to mind.

I never really thought about it, you see. Oh, I thought about a few things, like favorite colors and such. But in retrospect I can say that I was dressing to please others.

"Others" as in "My Mom."

Not that this was done on any kind of conscious level. It's just that my mom has always dressed very conservatively and largely uninterestingly. She'd rather "blend in" than make a style statement. I love her dearly and wouldn't trade her for the world, but it took me almost forty years to realize that I don't want to "blend in," and that I do have a style statement to make; not to please others, but simply to express myself and Who I Am.

Now, this is a lot easier to accomplish when one is in a decidedly un-pregnant state. And while it's true that maternity clothing in the last three or four years has done a remarkable turn-around, it's still relatively difficult to find cute, trendy maternity clothes without spending truckloads of money on obscure web sites and local specialty stores.

Eric is going to confiscate my bank card if I'm not careful.

Anyway, I went out on an Emergency Maternity Outfit Hunt yesterday afternoon. Why? Well, it's this dang directing-the-choir-on-Easter thing. I don't want to stand up in front of all those peoples and look like an off-kilter sack of potatoes. So I thought I'd hit a few stores that tout "maternity" as one of their departments.

Oh. Goodness. Me.

I don't think I've ever seen such ugly clothing in my life. Granted, my hopes were abnormally inflated due to my state of desperation. I unequivocally hate department stores and usually avoid them. But I knew that J. C. Penney and Sears were the most likely to have clothing-for-women-with-expanding-bellies, so off I went. And it's amazing that I didn't throw up right there in the store.

We're talking UGLY. UGLY as in big-splotchy-prints-from-hell in gawd-awful color combinations. Shapeless shirts that looked as though they might double as gas grill covers. Bits of fabric labeled "sleeveless smock" that looked like leftover E.R. scrubs with the sleeves removed.

I'm sorry. It's an affront to pregnant women everywhere. Maternity clothing should certainly be affordable, but to remove from it every vestige of beauty, of self-respect? It's appalling.

My most delightful experience occurred at Macy's. Having spotted the word "maternity" on their store directory, I began to peruse the endless rows of women's clothing, but came up empty. Finally, I asked a sales clerk where I might fight the elusive maternity department.

"Oh, we don't have maternity. I know it's on the sign..."

I don't normally glare at sales clerks, but this gal got my most whithering rendition. "Yes, it is," I said.

I hope she got the full effect of my dramatic sigh as I walked away.

So I ended up buying a sweater top at Target, which had been my first stop. (You know that saying, "Stop while you're ahead?" It's been tormenting me since yesterday.) I don't love the top, but I don't hate it. And it goes well with my white prairie skirt. I am completely through with stressing over what to wear on Sunday.

Naturally we are entering an unseasonable cold snap, and I will be freezing my lil' fanny off this weekend. After all that I went through to find the Perfect Spring Maternity Outfit, the weather fluke is par for the course.

Anyway, I've just self-medicated by purchasing a darling Gap maternity halter top on Ebay. And I'd better look darn sexy in it, or Eric will confiscate my bank card, for sure.

It ain't easy being pregnant. But I wouldn't trade it for the world.

Labels: pregnancy

Wednesday, March 07, 2007

Things I'd Rather Not Do While Pregnant

...but that I've had to do, anyway:

3. Crawl around on my hands and knees picking up minuscule bits of garbage from Spencer's bedroom floor. And I didn't even deal with the half-inch strips of masking tape stuck all over the carpet.

2. Vacuum. Well, I'd rather not do that, anyway. Actually, I'd rather not do anything remotely related to cleaning. It's just that being pregnant is an excuse to whine about it.

1. Have the dreaded This-Is-How-Babies-Are-Made talk with an inquisitive, grossed-out child.

"So, when is the last time that you and Daddy did....that?"

'Nuff said.

Labels: pregnancy

Wednesday, February 28, 2007

Stoked

What's a visit to the midwife for, if not to completely build up my ego and self-image?

First of all, the intern commented on how toned my arms are and asked me if I do yoga.

Yoga?!

You're all laughing as you try to picture that. Me, doing yoga.

I told her no, I just have "mommy muscles" from picking up babies and children for so many years. I might've mentioned that weekly ironing does a lot for biceps, too, but I didn't want her to think I was some sort of rabid housewife.

We heard the baby's heartbeat for the first time, which is always a precious, indescribable moment. That in itself could have made my day.

But there's more.

My midwife kept telling me how great I look. No, seriously. It was like she couldn't believe that an OLD pregnant woman might look anything short of a complete wreck. Maybe there was something in my expression that told her, "Hmm. This one needs a little bit of building-up. I'd better say nice things to her."

Yes, that's completely possible.

But whatever her motivation, I left there feeling like the poster girl for Attractively Pregnant Women Over 40.

And.

As if that's not good enough, here's the best news of all (not just for me, but for all you "kind of older" moms out there):

They (where "they" refers to The Medical Establishment) are seriously considering changing the cut-off age for "Advanced Maternal Age" from 35 to 45.

Did you hear that??

"Advanced Maternal Age" is already defined as over 40 in Europe. And more and more women are having healthy pregnancies and healthy babies well into their 40s.

Hah! I'm not so "old" after all!

Toned arms, good looks, my baby's heartbeat, and a reprieve from elderly motherhood.

A good day on the whole!

Labels: pregnancy

Monday, February 26, 2007

The Truth Behind My "Earth Mama" Approach

Some of the comments I received on my last post have spurred me to explain why I've opted to go "all natural" for the birth of my fifth child.

No, I'm not trying to "prove" something -- because I've already proven it. The birth of my fourth child (Spencer) occurred without the benefit of drugs. And it wasn't because I had chosen to do it that way; it was because the drugs didn't work. So you see, I've already been-there-done-that, under duress. And if I could do it without meaning to, I can certainly do it while intending to.

Here's the story, taken from My Lima Beans Are Allergic to my Spoon. It's much easier to reprint this than to retell the entire story. Especially on a Monday.

(The following is excerpted from My Lima Beans Are Allergic to my Spoon by Jill Schafer Boehme, Copyright 2002. All rights reserved. Used with permission.)

Labor? No Sweat!

Sometimes we are absolutely convinced that we are pros. Whatever the task, talent, or skill, we have told ourselves that, yes, indeed, we've got this one all wrapped up: another slice of the proverbial "piece of cake." And so it was when I went into labor with my fourth child. I had been there, done that. Three onsets of labor, three sessions of timing contractions, three trips to the hospital, three epidurals, and three vaginal births were all on my maternity resume. I was undaunted by Number Four.

As was my usual wont, I stayed away from the hospital as long as I comfortably could. Granted, babies do tend to come more quickly with each subsequent birth, but I felt confident in my ability to assess labor. Eric and I arrived at the hospital at around ten o'clock at night. Discovering that I was only four to five centimeters dilated was a letdown; during Labor Three I had arrived at the hospital at eight centimeters, and the entire nursing staff had been amazed that I wasn't yelling in pain. (Of course, my first question had been, "Can I still get an epidural?" I could not imagine birth as anything but a painless, smiling procedure.)

I settled into my routine of "hee-hee" breathing and posing for pictures. It was easy to comfort myself with the knowledge that soon the anesthesiologist would be arriving with her blessed needle and tubes, and thirty minutes later I would be blissfully numb. She arrived, and I curled up into the required fetal position. The few minutes of discomfort are well worth the results, so, as I had done three times before, I willed myself to relax and breathe.

She was doing an awful lot of poking, and I began to wonder if perhaps this was her first epidural. Patience is one thing I completely lack while in the midst of any amount of pain. After what seemed to me like a rather clumsy entry, the needle was in place, and I felt the warm rush of medicine.

Countdown to sheer pleasure. I knew that I would feel five or six more contractions, and nothing more.

Thirty minutes later, I was still in pain. This was unexpected, but not without remedy. I received a second dose of medicine. Having had a similar experience during Labor One, I was not overly concerned.

The pain continued. Heee-heee-hooooooo. Heee-heee-hoooooo. I flipped into denial. This wasn't really happening. I didn't HAVE babies this way. My deliveries were always painless!

I couldn't wish it away. My husband and I both had to swallow the truth: I was going to deliver without medication.

"Ice chips," I croaked to my husband. He lovingly placed one on my tongue.

I wasn't having fun. This wasn't supposed to happen! I didn't really care if women gave birth this way for countless centuries; the fact remained that I did not give birth this way. I wasn't prepared.

It was time to push. Somewhere in the midst of my experience I had come up with the idea that once pushing began, there wasn't any more pain. I couldn't have been more deluded.

Somebody was helping me prop my legs up. Surely they didn't expect me to push against this horrendous pain! This was inhumane. I could breathe through it, but there was no way I could push through it.

"OK, push!"

They had to be joking.

"I CAN'T!" I screamed. What a ridiculous thing to scream. Did I think they were going to let me off the hook at that point?

"Yes, yes, you can do it!" Oh, nice. Cheerleaders in the delivery room. Where was my husband?

I pushed. I yelled. I yelled more than I pushed. I don't think I ever screamed so loudly in my life.

The anesthesiologist was cringing in a far corner. Her evening was not off to a good start.

Round two began.

My eyes were closed. I yelled with every cubic inch of oxygen in my lungs. Somehow during that completely incoherent process, I gave birth.

The nurse placed my son on my belly. I couldn't focus on him; my eyes kept crossing. I was trembling all over.

"Looooooook, look at your little boy!" My what? What did she want me to look at?

Eric soon came into view, all smiles. The escapade was over; our second son had arrived, healthy and beautiful.

I was beginning to gather my wits about me. Little Spencer Michael wiggled and twitched in my arms, the way newborns do. We were both going to be all right. I had survived the unanticipated, and I held my prize in my arms. My consolation was that the passage of time would soon erase the memory of my unexpected natural childbirth. I was feeling better already. One day soon, this would be in the distant past.

Eric sat down in a chair beside the bed, video camera in hand. I was contented by the thought of his having put down the camera in order to support me through my time of duress. Then, like a rock through a pane of glass, his words shattered my fantasy.

"I got it all on tape!"

I was too weak to strangle him. All I could do was stare at him in disbelief.

"You didn't! I was yelling...I was screaming! I don't ever want anyone to see that! I don't ever want to see that myself! Please tell me you didn't film all that!"

He had.

More than two years passed before I was able to watch the video. The not-so-instant replay of my ordeal didn't do much for my self-image. (Let's just say that it was less than glamorous.) Even though my husband still praises me for being "a trooper," I think that, ultimately, I would rather not be reminded.

I no longer claim to be a pro.

Labels: pregnancy, writing

Thursday, February 22, 2007

It's Official

I'm wearing maternity tops.

Not bottoms, mind you -- just tops. Twelve weeks along and I finally gave in.

I'm ambivalent about this "showing early because you've been pregnant nine dozen times already and your stomach is just trained to stick out" business. I mean, I expected to pooch out a little early, but I was already "showing" at ten weeks. Ten weeks!

I mean, part of me likes it. Unless someone is paying absolutely no attention to my physical state, it's fairly obvious that I'm pregnant. That's nice, because carrying this "huge secret" inside my body has been a little bit exhausting. I'm meeting a dear friend tomorrow for lunch, and she doesn't know about the baby yet. Something tells me I won't have to say a word. I'll just get out of the car and let my belly do the talking. And, honestly, that's easier than all the "big announcement" type conversations I've been having lately.

Part of me doesn't like it. Back in early January, I finally reached my "perfect weight" goal. I enjoyed it for a couple of weeks and then the pregnancy pounds started creeping in. It's vanity, plain and simple. I know it and I admit it. I look at my favorite pair of jeans, now hanging forlornly in my closet, and sigh heavily.

Why can't we carry our babies in removable backpacks until delivery?

And this "showing" business has ramped up my frenetic "to do" list for the remaining six and a half months. I've got to:

*Move around and decorate three bedrooms in order to incorporate the baby into our family.

*Formulate a list of "things we need" for the baby

*Make sure I've signed up for birthing classes, toured the hospital, prepared a birth plan, and in all ways have "birth readied" myself for the big event

*Freeze a month's worth of lasagna, tuna casserole, and macaroni and cheese

*Finish the first draft of my current novel (book two in the series)

Just a few small things to accomplish, right?

And please don't ask me to post belly pictures. Not going to go there. Belly pictures will be emailed to those whom I love and trust -- and only if I am properly bribed.

You know. Gourmet chocolate, gift certificates to Plum Good Foods, trips to London -- simple things.

I love being pregnant, though. I really do. Eric says I "glow," and I think he's right. I may whine about my expanding waistline, but I do rub my belly and talk to the wee one nestled inside, smiling like a goon and marveling at the gift of being able to experience this one more time.

Neurotic? Maybe. But unmistakeably happy.

Labels: pregnancy

Thursday, February 15, 2007

Perfect Reaction

To surprise my sister-in-law on Valentine's Day, the children and I decided that we would present her with a poem that she would read out loud. The ending of the poem would reveal that we were expecting a new baby -- and that would be her big Valentine Surprise (lucky gal).

So I wrote a poem, printed it out, and the children presented it to her. She was a good sport, reading it out loud with expression and feeling. And when she got to the last line -- the Big Revelation -- she didn't get it.

"What?" she said, smiling. The expression on her face proved that she wasn't understanding.

Then, "WHAT?" she said, her face dropping into a dumbfounded, punch-me-in-the-nose expression unlike any I've seen. It was priceless.

And we got it all on video.

So I thought I'd share the poem with you. Not that you'll have the same reaction she did; you already know about the baby. But it's the day after Valentine's Day, I'm feeling a bit pooped, and I'd rather post something I've already written than struggle through something brand new.

Without further hoopla or fanfare:

We're blessed to have a special aunt
Who loves us all so much;
You're a doting, spoiling sweetheart
And you've got the "perfect touch."

Doesn't matter if it's raining,
If it's cold or wet or gray,
When you show up on our doorstep
You bring sunshine to our day.

But we wonder, dear Aunt Krissie,
If it's tricky to divide
All your love among four children
Who are standing side by side?

Do we each get just a quarter?
Do you measure it with care?
Do you slice it like a pizza,
Giving each an even share?

And we wonder even further,
Dear Aunt Krissie, if it's true,
That dividing all your love by four
Is easiest for you?

'Cause we don't mean to alarm you,
And we'd hate to make you cry,
But we think you'd better change things
By the time September's nigh.

We'll be patient, we'll be gentle,
We'll be quiet as a mouse,
While you find a new love portion
For the Baby in the house.

Labels: family, pregnancy