No, I am not in labour

Sigh. I give up. This baby will come when it damn well wants to, no matter what. I shall give up all hope and predictions. take it away, mother nature!! This is clearly not my show.

Is it now? No? Maybe? Yes? God, who can tell??!

We are currently at a state of uncertainty with this kid, unfortunately. While there have been a few signs that seem to indicate possible progression of labour (like general discomfort and some ... well, let's not go into details so as to avoid grossing anyone out, shall we? If you've had a baby, you know what I mean. And if you haven't, and are REALLY curious, you can email me), there aren't any definitive ones (you know, like contractions. at least not any contractions that aren't easily dismissable). The baby sits low, and if last time was anything to go by (which it isn't) this baby will arrive within a day or two.

But it's clear this kid has a mind of his / her own, so hell, it could still be weeks.

In the meantime, I'm going to lie back, watch a movie, and try not to think about it much.

Ha ha ha ha ha. Like THAT'S possible.

Operation Sweep: FAIL

I was really rather hopeful around noon this morning when I felt actual, if irregular, contractions. There were even enough of them to time them. And then even when they stopped a couple hours later and I was just sitting here feeling uncomfortable for two hours, I was hopeful that things were just ... well, moving along without contractions.

But two hours ago when I lay down to rest and both the contractions AND the uncomfortableness diminished completely, I figured things had come to an end.

And ... yeah. Nothing. We got nothing here people.

Oh, sure, sure, midwife says it could be anytime in 24 hours, and things do often happen at night and all, but ...

I think I may have to resign myself to another week -- or more -- of pregnancy.

And let's not forget that one of the things the midwife said this morning was "Hey, how big was The Boy at birth again? Almost eight pounds? At three weeks early? Yeah, let's get this one out so it doesn't get any bigger!"

Eleven pound baby, here we come.

:: sigh ::

Swept

This morning I sat and looked the midwife in the eye and simply said "Please get this baby out of me. I don't care how."

So she (TMI Alert!) swept the membranes in the hopes of getting something going. I'm just so done of the waiting. I'm large and uncomfortable and it's just damn well time.

She said this sometimes doesn't work, but I'm 2cm already and this should, all being well, start things off in the next 24 hours.

If not we'll repeat next week and hope for the best.

Guess we'll just wait and see ...

The Energizer Boy

Yesterday I don't think that my kid stopped talking from the moment he woke up at 6:30 or so until he conked out almost mid-sentence at 8:30 at night. He certainly didn't stop moving from the moment he got out of bed until the same time. The Man and I are astounded that he has that much energy. How is any adult supposed to keep up with that? We did the best we could, but both of us collapsed onto the couch once he finally fell asleep, and the remnant dishes from last night's excellent dinner are still cluttering the kitchen.

Since I have a data point of one, I don't know if this is normal or not; it is what it is. He's not hyperactive per se, he concentrates well on each activity, and can spend great amounts of time with me playing a game or making structures, it's just that his mind never stops moving from one thing to another. Being bored is, already, a horrifying thing to him. He can't lie in bed until a decent hour because it's boring; he doesn't want to lie still to go to sleep because it's boring.

Unfortunately for him, I think learning how to be bored is going to be a vital life skill.

Right now, after breakfast, he is sitting in his chair playing with my iPhone. He chats as he does it, tells me what he's doing and discovering, and his little legs are moving moving moving under the table. For me, first thing in the morning, it's too much stimulus to cope with, and I have to tune much of it out so that I can retain my sanity.

And now he's off, for more adventures. Thank heavens it's Monday, and he can run about the daycare all day, finding toy after toy and never once being bored.

And now ...

I've packed away all the maternity clothes that no longer fit -- leaving the one pair of pants that does and a few for those after weeks when I know I'll need something stretchy.

This is all the more remarkable given that I was lying in bed yesterday morning barely able to lift my head with a sinus cold.

And now that I know the dishwasher is done, I'm having trouble sitting here not emptying it.

Pregnancy, if I may say it again, is CRAZY.

I might be nesting

A sudden burst of energy has had me clean out the toys in my son's room, re-organize boxes of baby things, find a basket for baby toys, and FINALLY clean out the basket o'crap that we have in the living room (parenting tip: it's helpful to have a basket of some kind in the living room designated the basket of crap, into which you throw all kinds of small cars, lego pieces, puzzle pieces, and random small toys that belong somewhere else. It makes a quick clean nice and quick, and you can go back and sort later. Also when your son asks where X is, tell him to search the basket, as it's often there. It saves my sanity.)

I've also done all the laundry in the house, sheets and towels included, and cleaned the kitchen.

If I start scrubbing the walls, we'll know the baby is imminent.

On the way home

The Boy: mama, do you know what love feels like?

Me: no, what?

TB: like cheese sauce!

Me: (surprised silence)

TB: only you can't touch it.

TB: because your hand would get sticky.

I suppose that this isn't so surprising given he told me the other day
that he loved macaroni and cheese more than me.

Edited because I can't type on a cell phone. It's supposed to be "love", not "live"!

I'm off work now, for good, since the midwife just kind of said ... meh, do you need to go back to work? And I agreed with her. After three weeks of bedrest working from home, I was more than halfway out the door anyway. And ironically now I have a head cold. You know you're over doing it when you finally go on "vacation" and you get sick. Although in my case apparently overdoing it is just growing a whole new human, because it's not like I've been working late or running marathons here.

Every day when I arrive at the daycare to pick up my child, one more of the parents asks me "how much longer??!" or "Are you still here?" So far I'm not totally annoyed by this, but I imagine in two weeks I might snap and say something rude.

I spent part of today putting together playlists for delivery. One slow and calm and relaxing, and one of basically clubbing music so I can turn it way up and drown everything else out. I've come to the realization that a.) I have a terrible music collection and b.) I'm pretty deluded about labour. If I think disco tunes will take away the realization that my body is going through this, I really must be crazy.

But despite all this, I am still totally in denial about this labour thing. I mean, seriously, I'm pretty sure that my brain doesn't think that I'm going to go into labour at all. Perhaps this is because I passed the mark when the last baby arrived, and my brain is thinking it'll be another 37 weeks.

When I think about, say, having a contraction or my water breaking, the next emotion my brain processes is SURPRISE. Yeah. SURPRISE. Because I haven't been doing this gestating thing for 38.5 weeks already and preparing for this moment and all. I mean, we did this on purpose to have a baby, and my brain is still surprised that we might have this as a possible outcome.

I boggle my own mind on occasion. And not in a good way.

I'm sorry that this blog has become non-stop gestation for ... well, forever, it feels like. But there you go, this is what's going on. Oh, I did some laundry today and tidied the kitchen and stuff. But really that's more boring than waiting to give birth. Not much, I'll grant you.

The only other news is that my kid has decided to leave home. His new home? The easy chair in our living room, which he turns to face the fireplace. It's his "house". And the couch is mine, which seems reasonable given how much time I've spent there recently. It's just awesome how they get these great ideas, isn't it?

And ...

In the gutter.

I love Vancouver.

Aftermath

Of the blossoming trees. Petal drifts in the grass.

Note to self

When trying to avoid aged cheeses to prevent the current frequent
migraines, a bowl of pasta with black beans, tomato sauce, green
pepper and onion may SEEM like a good idea, but will actually turn
your mild but annoying heartburn into something resembling a raging
inferno.

Still. Keep in mind tums are a heck of a lot easier to take than the
feeling that your brain is going to explode, and there's nothing you
can do about it.

Yet another thing that made me cry

The short article I read this weekend about JK Rowling, and how she views staying in Britain as "patriotism" -- because she pays taxes that help out people who are struggling, much as she was before the Harry Potter books came out. She believes in the welfare state and since she benefitted from it, is happy that her taxes do the same.

I know. It's not worth crying over. But I have real respect for this women for this and several other things she's said publicly.

And, you know, that she's got some serious marketing savvy. Not to mention some good ideas for books.

Seriously if I could be her I think all would be well with the world.

More of the crazy

I'm headachy, grumpy, and uncomfortable. I am convinced this baby will never come. I feel heavy and sluggish and annoyed at everything. I am tense and anxious and hungry all the time. I am very tired of being pregnant and can't wait for it to be over.

The Man just looked over at me on the couch, in my pajamas, unshowered. "You look lovely this morning," he said.

I started to cry. And laugh. And then I cried harder. And laughed some more.

God I hope this means this baby is coming soon. Neither of us will survive another two weeks of this.

Also

I've been reading the headlines about the volcanic ash and transportation woes in Europe -- how crazy is that? One tiny island in the North Atlantic, one single volcano, and tens of countries are grinding to an air travel halt? Wow.

And one wonders -- when will this stop? As far as I know, volcanic ash eruptions can go on for days, if not weeks. I mean, is it really feasible for air travel to stop across Europe for weeks?

Well, at least maybe there'll be some savings in jet fuel.

Waiting waiting waiting

I never got to the any day now stage of pregnancy last time. By the time it was safe for The Boy to be born ... er, he was. It's kind of a strange feeling, sitting here, knowing that it could happen any second now -- or not for three weeks of course.

My gut feeling is that it isn't going to happen soon. I don't know why this is. I don't have the "I'm going to pop" feeling that I had with the last one. I don't have the "I can't go on" feeling or even just the "God, I'm enormous" feeling.

But then again, I think I felt those things last time mostly because I was so swollen and heavy, and I'm not this time, and so maybe I'm totally ready, and I just don't really know it. I had thought that swelling up was a necessary precursor to labour, but either that's not true or this baby is going to stick around for several more months.

Eeep.

A better view

This is what I've been missing

Cherry blossoms as far as the eye can see!!

37 weeks

In true keeping with the last few posts I'm unsure if I hope this is
the last photo of me before labour or not.

Beginning the countdown

There was, I admit, about an hour last night when it seemed that this baby was going to engage his / her brother in a race to see just how close their births might be to the exact same gestation -- but aside from perhaps more intense pre-labour symptoms, nothing transpired at all and I woke up this morning more pregnant than ever. In this pregnancy, and really in previous pregnancies -- given The Boy was already out at this point, I am now more pregnant than I have ever been.

I mentioned this on the phone to my sister this morning and she laughed a little and said ... "Uh ... Congratulations?" I assured her that I did not feel that this was in any way an accomplishment or achievement of mine. I mean, the body does what the body does. I suppose in that way my body might be congratulated, but this certainly wasn't through any kind of conscious effort on my part.

But suffice to say -- I'm 37 weeks along now, and officially "full term" and this baby can vacate the premises any darn time. I'm not posting an eviction notice per se but I think we'll become much more encouraging, with more activity.

Because as I also said to her -- the one thing I'm MORE scared of than birthing this baby is birthing this baby at 42 weeks after being induced and trying to get an 11 pound child out of me. Eight pounds was HARD ENOUGH, thankyouverymuch.

I know, I know. It must be very amusing (or perhaps confusing) to read posts that in less than 24 hours volley between "NO NO NO NO NO I CAN'T GO INTO LABOUR" to "DEAR GOD, I WILL WALK A MARATHON DISTANCE TODAY TO JUST GET THIS KID OUT."

I can only blame the pregnancy crazy.

The only way out is through

Early this morning, around 4am, I woke up in bed and had to use the bathroom. And I thought, "No, I remember what happened LAST time I was 36.6 weeks pregnant and got up in the night to pee! My water broke!"

And since I am not ready to have this baby, I stayed in bed. Such is the irrationality of 4am. And pregnancy.

(Literally: this is the day I was in labour with The Boy, this far along in my pregnancy exactly.)

The doula suggested to me some weeks back that I spend some time visualizing the birth of this baby. With great positive results, as in, no interventions, just a nice peaceful birth. I'm into this. I think positive visualization is a great thing -- for me, it involves thinking positively for once, when I'm usually consumed with negative thoughts. Which regardless of the outcome and / or effect of positive thinking, is a good thing.

And while I was able to do this a few weeks or even months back, I can't do it now. I have spent some time over the past week trying to do this, because, hey, let's face it: birth is something that will likely happen in the next month. Even in the next few days. And each time I try, my mind skitters off in another direction. Onto something usually completely unrelated. And it's been frustrating.

And then I realized what the problem was.

I'm scared.

Scratch that. I'm f*cking terrified. See, the last time I went into labour, things went swimmingly. My water broke, and I went through early labour with nary a pang -- or at least, nothing more painful than a cramp here and there. And then when things got serious, it only lasted just under three hours. I went from probably 3cm dilated to 10cm and ready to go in under three hours. It was an intense three hours, to be sure, but hey -- three hours! No problem!

And then everything stopped. And it stopped going well. And there was no pushing, and the contractions went from intense sensations to OMG I'M GOING TO DIE painful, with no progress on the baby, and it took eight hours ... EIGHT HOURS ... of interventions, drugs, pushing attempts, and God knows what else (my memory is hazy!) to get the baby out.

What's worse, no one else seemed to be able to figure out the problem either. Not the nurse, not the midwife, not the obstetrician on call who eventually was called upon to deliver the child.

I distinctly remember only two things from those eight hours: 1. The panic of feeling like something was going wrong, but I had no idea what, and no idea how to fix it and 2. my first words when the baby was placed on me. Not: hello! not: wow, my baby! No. My first words were "it's over!" and I bawled like a baby.

A few weeks ago, if someone had asked, I would have shrugged and said -- well, come on, it's unlikely to happen again, and if it does 1. I can have a c-section and 2. well, I made it through last time, I can do it again.

But now all I can see is the terrifying side of it. The emergency c-section (because it would be), the epidural (which freaks me out when not in screaming pain from labour. I mean -- hello! Injecting something into your SPINE? Seriously??!), the complications, and the recovery -- oh, GOD, the recovery when I was unable to cope without morphine from all the bruising / trauma for three days and the four days after that when I didn't get out of bed and ... well, the lots of other less pleasant aspects of having a baby. And this time? THIS TIME I get the knowledge that my four year old will be freaked out by the loss of mommy and while I'm trying to get the strength to sit up he'll be desperately clingy and whiney and difficulty because his little world has just turned upside-down and he's scared as hell because mommy isn't getting out of bed and playing with him like normal.

And then -- ha ha! -- there'll be that small person to deal with too.

And so it's no wonder I don't want to think about it. I'm in denial that I'm going to have to do this at all. Don't babies just stay where they are? I can't just be pregnant for the next, oh, fifty years?

Although that's not much of an option either. Considering that putting on socks has become a major feat of gymnastic skill.

So I'm 37 weeks tomorrow, officially, and at that point we're good to go. Baby can arrive at any time. Baby likely will arrive reasonably soon (if by "reasonably soon" you mean "a few weeks" since let's face it, I'll be induced in early May if nothing happens by then. And that's only a few weeks away.) And I'm not quite sure what to do about this fear.

Logically speaking -- which is a rarity for me, heh -- logically speaking, there's very little I can't do for 24 hours. Which is about the longest I'd be allowed to go on trying to give birth without major interventions. And however scared I am of major interventions, at least the baby would be out and it would be over. Which was a major relief last time.

Logically speaking it's likely to be easier to get a baby out the second time given that one came out the first time in that manner which typically makes the second easier.

Logically speaking there's no reason why my body can't do this, even if it didn't the first time. If I try to relax and let my body do what it needs to do, it will likely just do it. I do have faith in the ability of any woman's body to give birth naturally, even my own, even if it doesn't always work out that way. Which it didn't. And often doesn't for some reason or another.

Logically speaking with a midwife and a doula and some experience and a good hospital, there's no reason to expect a negative outcome of harm to me or the child.

Logically speaking my four year old will get over his clinginess soon enough and won't be overly traumatized by it.

Many many years ago, I was taken hiking in the Lake District in England by a kind relation. We were on what was actually quite a difficult trail over a peak, and I was neither equipped nor in shape enough to really do it well. It was a wet and foggy day, and when we got to the rocky trail to the peak, we couldn't see where we were going, and there were sharp drop offs from a slippery wet trail to either side. I was terrified. My legs shook with every step, and I desperately wanted to turn around and go back, but we couldn't: the way back was every bit as treacherous. And I remember at one point thinking to myself, "The only way out is through" -- as in, the best way to get out of this situation is to plough through it. And I found some renewed strength, hiked the top of the peak and down the other side. And felt amazingly accomplished because of it.

And I think that perhaps that's the only way I'm going to make it through this birth. There's no going back on having the baby come out now. One way or another, before a month is out, this baby will no longer be in me, and it's got to come out some way or another. And I think perhaps I should just take my son's window crayons and scrawl on every window and mirror on the house, "The only way out is through." One way or another, I'll make it through this birth. Or rather: just one way. The only way out is through.

Things I need to learn about felting

... apparently.

1. Felting will reduce your knitted object by almost half. Those booties you thought would last a year may not last a month. Especially if this kid is having a growth spurt and comes out over ten pounds as you currently fear.

2. Things don't felt evenly. It's a good idea to stuff those booties with something non-feltable to ensure that a.) they don't completely lose their shape and b.) don't come out of the laundry with some parts well-felted and some hardly felted at all.

3. When the pattern says to pick up stitches and knit with waste cotton, don't scoff and think -- I'll just put the stitches on a waste-cotton holder! The waste cotton holder will felt into the booties, whereas the picked up stitches might actually have left some holes for you to pick up stitches and knit. Sewing on ribbing might now be our only option.

What's life without a little experimentation, right??!

So they felted ....

Very well. Must remember not to wash the sweater in the washing machine.

Alas now they are SO tiny that the baby will have cozy feet through
May but not in the fall. Which is fine ... It's not a big deal. Not
what I was planning but then is life ever?

:)

Our musical but polite child

We've been listening to a lot of music lately -- seems to keep the kid stimulated enough that he doesn't try to do too many crazy things such as launch himself about the house in the manner of a crazed and rabid dog. So one of this morning's songs was the oldie that goes "Gimme gimme some lovin'" and our son looked up from his activity with a frown on his face and said with a great censorious tone,

"He's not saying PLEASE!"

Weekend project

What do you do when you have leftover wool from the baby sweater? Make
matching booties of course!

I'm going to try and felt these, and then knit ribbed tops. Wish me
luck!

Bedrest: 1; labour: 0

Two weeks of bedrest have apparently done their job well -- most of my prelabour symptoms are much lessened, and I feel like this pregnancy could go on for weeks (despite the fact that it was clear lying in bed this morning that this baby measures from my bladder to my ribs, and from one of my sides to another, and while I'm not yet concerned about getting it out, I sure soon will be!)

Of course this Wednesday it's ok for the baby to arrive, and given it's apparent size I'm kind of hoping for delivery sooner rather than later. So as of Wednesday I see myself googling for all kinds of interesting and probably somewhat crazy ways to get labour started. I'm tired of being kicked from within, and more than ready to meet this person.

Soon.

Walking

From my reclining position on the couch, I look outside and see sunshine and blue sky. I'm told by reliable reporters that it's cold out, and not that nice being outside, but all I really want to do is go outside for a walk.

Actually to be honest I'm a teeny tiny bit excited about work right now, and so I've been working all morning and not pining about the outside. But tomorrow? Tomorrow I will want to go outside. And I probably will. But walking along the beach on a sunny day and sitting bundled up in your backyard are not quite the same thing.

When I was first pregnant with this baby, I tried to get out and walk as much as I could. It helped the tiredness and it helped a little with the nausea to get outside, and plus it was just plain old good for me. I would walk at work, through a small grove of trees, and I would talk to the baby and tell him or her to stick around, because if he / she did so, I'd walk there with him / her when she was out and show him / her all the nice things.

It's just one of those things that hormones makes you do.

And to be honest, one of the things I am most looking forward to with this baby is getting outside and going for walks. I did that almost every day of my mat leave with The Boy, and I remember those walks as some of the nicest times of my leave. And since The Boy was an early March baby, we could do that no problem for six months or so of his life. And more, of course, weather permitting.

Sitting here, baby moving lazily within, confined to the indoors, makes me wish forward for those times even more so than I was before. Hopefully some day soon I will be able to do that. Oh, not for another three weeks or so at the very least -- one week before baby is really ready to arrive, and two weeks for me to recover from the birth enough to walk around. Still. It's tangibly close. A month from today I could conceivably be putting this wee babe in a carrier, bundling up, and heading for a nice slow walk in the sunshine.

It's thoughts like this that make this waiting just a little easier.

Techie boys

One of the advantages of working where The Man does is the tech stuff.
Today he brought home an iPad for us to see and play with. He and The
Boy are entranced.

Bedrest fun

At least I finished the knitting I started for the baby. If it looks a
little big... It is. I knit the three to six month size. After all
kiddo won't be wearing a wool sweater with hood in July. At least I
hope not.

Wishing

This morning there were tears. Just The Boy's. He woke up this morning in a foul mood, and when I didn't look at him right (no, I'm not kidding) he stormed off in a huff. He was mollified by his favourite breakfast from his dad (he asked nicely, and we're not going to hold a grudge) but then spent a half hour in tears because he didn't want to go to daycare. No amount of reasoning, cajoling, or threats would do it. He had to FINISH HIS MECCANO build or NOTHING WOULD EVER BE THE SAME AGAIN.

It was not a good morning.

I went to get him at daycare this afternoon and saw outside a broken cot and was honestly anticipating that they would tell me he did it. Despite the fact that I think the thing had been wrenched in half, and was made of metal. My kid, in a fury, seems super human.

This afternoon at daycare he seemed fine. He was eager to go and cooperative. We got in the car. We drove home. We chatted. We got home and I made pizza.

But he was hungry. And it took twice as long as it should have. And so by the time it was ready, he didn't want to eat. He was cranky and grumpy.

And so was I.

And then it was bedtime, and we entered another dimension. The dimension of insanity.

I can't re-hash it all here -- you wouldn't want to read it anyway. Suffice to say there was great defiance on his part. There were messes made (by him), there were nasty words screamed (by him) there were things thrown (by him), there were people hit by those things (me), and kicked (me) and hit (me).

There were tears. On both sides.

Two. Hours.

It took all the strength I had and then a second wind after a bout of tears (me) to remain calm. I love that kid more than life itself, and when he finally wore himself out to sobbing hiccups in his bed he clung to me and told me how scared he was that I would go away, and that he loved me so much and he didn't ever want to be away from me.

And I know that this is all coming from the part of him that sees all the change -- the changes in mommy, the changes in his routine, and fact that mommy will go away to have the baby, and the biggest change of his young life -- a new sibling. And it's scary. Hell, let's face it, these are the types of changes that freak out many adults. If the person you relied on most changed so they weren't so reliable, and you switched jobs and added someone new to your family, you'd be freaked out too. It's HARD. I get that. I know that. It's hard for me.

And I just want to tell him that it's going to be ok. But the fact is that I can't, because things are going to change. Sure, they are going to be ok, but they will never be his version of ok ever again.

All I can do is sit in the dark, and hold his hand and stroke his head and tell him that no matter what changes, I will still love him for always and forever, that that will never change. And he hiccups slowly, and clings to my hand, and falls into sleep completely exhausted from his emotional discharge.

And I come back out to the living room, wishing for a glass of wine, and wondering for the millionth time if this new baby thing is a good idea.

And feeling horribly bad for making his life so hard.

And wishing somehow that I could just make it all better.

And I can't.

When the midwife first said "bedrest" I admit that I wasn't terribly perturbed. The idea of spending some time by myself with my feet up didn't sound too bad. Of course as the news got out to friends, I heard a lot of gasps and "Are you going CRAZY yet?" And I said no, I'm keeping busy. And I am, after all -- I have work to do, I have a good book or two (or a million), I have knitting and there's always the internet. Add to this I'm an introvert and not a terribly active person, so being forced to be a couch potato on my own ... sounds not too bad!

But here we are closing in on two weeks of this, in which my interactions have been limited to my partner, my four year old, my midwife and the nurse at the hospital who did the non-stress test ... with whom I had lots of conversation, which for me is unusual. And I find myself draggy and bored despite everything, and I think ... I need to get out. Oh. Do I. Maybe I'm becoming less introverted, or appreciating just short walks, but MAN, do I ever need this.

I went and picked up the kiddo at the daycare today, first time in a week and a half, and felt absolutely energized by the interactions with parents. Conversation! True, it was all about the baby and bedrest, but God it was nice.

So yes, I think it's true. I AM getting a little crazy.

One more week, says the midwife. One more week. As of the 14th, I'm officially 37 weeks and if I show up at the hospital in labour, no one will blink twice. I'm counting on it.

Right now, even a month more of pregnancy seems do-able if I can Just. Go. Outside.

It's out there ...

No question what's going on here, that's for sure.

36 ish

Both me and the babe. Hah.

Ok, that wasn't even remotely funny.

It's rather disconcerting to walk into the midwife's offices at 36 weeks and meet, for the first time, the partner midwife. I think I mentioned before she'd been off on maternity leave, and is now back. And she's perfectly nice, and I think she's quite competent -- I have enough confidence in the first midwife to know she'll pick a partner who is competent -- but ... still. It's weird to think that I met this woman for the first time today and she may very well deliver my baby next week.

Should that happen.

The midwife experience continues to be a good one, but ... the thing with midwives is that they are very casual. I revelled in this last pregnancy -- after 30 years of obeying the medical world like their word was God, it was a total revelation to realize that I had a choice. And I really loved it. But at the same time, I'd really like one of them to commit to something. You know. Just ... commit. And I know they can't and I know that with pregnancy you can't. You know -- the baby could come this week; it could come five weeks from now. Bedrest might help; it might not. Those feelings you have might mean early delivery; they might not. No, there's no use checking your cervix, because it's rather likely you are dilated, being a second pregnancy and all the activity lately, but you can be dilated for weeks with nothing happening; conversely you can also have a cervix that's closed and go into labour tomorrow. Your water could break before labour this time; it might not, and if it doesn't, you're more likely to go farther in your pregnancy.

The thing is that I know that this is true regardless of your pregnancy, even if you have an obstetrician, but it does seem to me that the obstetrician is far more likely to say "you need to be on bedrest, for sure, the baby will likely come too soon otherwise." As in, they will TELL you what to do. And right now I could sure use someone to make the decisions for me. Part of me is thinking, damn, let's just get this party started, screw this resting thing and part of me thinks -- another week really will help this baby's brain and lungs and fat stores get to the place where there are no complications. And then part of me thinks -- what the hell is the difference? The baby will come when the baby will come and who knows if resting or walking or whatever will make any difference at all???!!

Blech.

Anyway, the good news is that I'm measuring great for dates, the baby is sounding healthy, is head down and back out and to the left, in perfect positioning, I haven't gained any more weight (NO, not that I'm concerned, it's just that it's totally normal for my weight gain to drop off at this point, so I'm just following the textbook pattern which is good because it doesn't indicate any complications from gestational diabetes or preeclampsia or anything.) Baby is moving and reacting to outside stimulus and all is well. I'm experiencing all the things that are normal for pre-labour, but no hard signs of yes baby is coming so it's same old, same old.

Which is good, I know. No complications and no problems and no strange things -- all good.

I'm not complaining. I'm just ... I just am ready for this to be done. That's all.

At last, an article on babies that doesn't entirely blame mom

I like this article, but mostly because -- granted, if you read ALL the way to the end -- it says that we shouldn't blame the MOM for all of this, because better policies (and, one might suppose, mat leave in the US) are needed before this can succeed.

I'm just plain old relieved that someone decided that they needed to add that point. It's not your fault that you can't breastfeed for six months if you have to go back to work mere weeks or months later and there's no place for you to pump (or even if there is, pumping sucks.)

While I'm at it I'd just like to give thanks to whoever is was in the federal government who many years ago extended my own leave to a year. Because it means I can do this without much extra effort on my part (provided this new baby is a good nurser like the last one). And while I like doing this and the health benefits are just an added bonus as far as I'm concerned, I am still grateful to have this leave.

The silver lining, I suppose

In light of this whole bed rest / contraction thing, this morning I charmed my darling man into ferretting out the baby clothes from the storeroom downstairs. He dutifully did so and now I am washing baby clothes and swaddling blankets and burp cloths, and have cleared some space in a bureau for them. It may be weeks, but at least the kid won't be naked.

One advantage, I suppose, of having a nephew who was less than 3 pounds at birth is that I have several sleepers for the five pound child. I was thinking to myself that I'd just chuck those right into the consignment bin, because goodness knows a full term baby from me would be at least seven pounds, if not nine ... but now I feel that much more prepared knowing we wouldn't have to scramble to clothe an early one!

Cultivating personality through names

When I was pregnant with The Boy, The Man and I reflected that while we were ok with giving a daughter a more unconventional name, we wanted a fairly conservative name for our son. It just seemed to us that going through life for a man with a very unconventional name was going to be strange; girls could get away with it more.

And until recently, I've held the same view, but a few days ago I had another glance over our list for boy names and made a face. I didn't like any of them. And now we're looking into books once again, but the names that are making the list for our potential second son are much, much more unconventional than the name we gave our soon-to-be older son.

I'm not sure why the change; partly it's because I picture a younger son as a younger child -- my older son as the responsible, cautious one (he is cautious, I'm not painting this on him. Responsible, not so much. But he's four.) And my younger son as the rebel, the fun one, the funny one, the one who can get away with a less conventional name.

And I realize that before one is even born, and before one's even fully formed, I have these conventional ideals for my sons that may be nothing like who they are. Maybe my second son will be the conservative lawyer that I picture for my first; the first will be a circus gymnast (unlikely. but still.)

And I feel bad about this, this picturing, because as their mom I do have a fair amount of influence over them, and I worry (a little, not the sitting up at night kind) that in naming them I am unduly creating paths for them that they may not want for themselves.

My parents did this. They gave my sister a nice, respectable name. They gave me one, too, but then they called me a nickname that frankly surprised The Man when he first learned it -- that a grown woman would use that name. I still use it; I can't imagine myself any other way. But it did cause someone once to ask me in a job interview, someone who knew my sister, if I was the younger irresponsible sister. I was put into that box as a late teen, most notably by my father, and I chafed against it, was resentful of it.

And I don't want to do that to my son.

It will be so much easier in some ways if this child is a girl.

(I did have a dream last night that I gave birth to a girl, a girl that I had to dress all in blue because we only have clothes for little boys. A little girl who was nameless for a week because her father had to go on a business trip the day after she was born and the name we had chosen wasn't appropriate and we hadn't yet decided on a new one. Everyone in the dream asked me her name and I couldn't answer. I registered my displeasure over the actions of the dream Man with the real one upon waking.)

I don't think that naming is destiny; my child River may well become that conservative lawyer despite his name. (No, we're not naming him River.) It's more the expectations I have formed, already, in my head, for the two of them. The expectations I will have of them as children. How they will behave, whether I will be more lenient with behaviour with my second child than I will be with the first.

I already know things will be different for this next child. With the first one, I was the cautious mother. He didn't interact with a screen until he was two; even then it was shows of less than five minutes in duration. For months afterwards I would always sit with him when he watched. He didn't eat non-organic food until he started daycare (because then I had no control!). He drank only water for two years until I introduced juice -- the fresh squeezed kind, organic, and only heavily diluted. He never had a bottle. No processed food. He didn't have candy until he was three, no fast food, no chocolate. He was never left to cry, not once.

All of this has been completely dismissed, by the way. Today he ate chocolate for breakfast and he'll likely spend several hours watching shows while I do something different. There are processed crackers and cookies in the kitchen that he eats, all non-organic. Oh, we still try and feed him well, but the point being that the standards have relaxed. A LOT.

My greater purpose with this reflection is that I won't be able to do that for the second kid. There will be screen time before two, juice in a bottle, and Pepperidge Farm fishy crackers as one of his first finger foods. There will likely be some sleep training, and he'll be left to cry just because I'm trying to dress a four year old and get breakfast and make a lunch and there's only one of me. Things will be different just because they are different now. I don't have the time -- or the clone needed -- to create the same environment for this next kid.

I suppose that that will create a different personality for this kid as much as any name I happen to give him. My recollections of childhood are vastly different from my sister's; perhaps it is indeed true that each kid in a family grows up in a different household. And that, more than any name, will be the deciding factor in conservative lawyer careers.

Which then in the end gives me the leeway I need to name him River.

Happy Easter!

Last weekend I had the foresight to go to the local chocolate store and buy Easter eggs for my child, because clearly other than going to hospital I haven't been going anywhere this week. Last night before bed I got them out and hid them around the house.

This morning, despite repeat reminders this week and yesterday about what was going to happen today, my kid still had to be reminded about what day it was. But then he was perfectly happy to run about the house searching for foiled eggs -- we had to point out most of them, though. He's perfectly capable of counting them and even doing intricate sums (for a four year old) with them but finding them is still difficult. I guess this is what they call asynchronous development.

Thursday afternoon and Friday were good days for le bebe (well, let's face it, it's not really the baby we're so worried about, it's the over-eager uterus) and I got up and did chores around the house, because I really can't stand having a kitchen that's only barely tolerable, and I paid for it yesterday with not only lots and lots of braxton hicks contractions whenever I stood up, but back pain, lower abdominal pressure, and the occasional menstrual-like cramp which as I recall was exactly what labour felt like last time. So today after getting the kid going on the egg hunt and starting off breakfast I'm back lying down. Fun. According to the internet (which I realize is not the most accurate source, but it gives a survey, at least) it seems that babies born at 36 weeks spend very little time in the NICU, but babies at 35 weeks vary greatly -- some spend a week or more, some spend no time at all.

The Man and I were discussing symptoms last night before bed and I joked we'd probably be having this same conversation in two weeks, wondering when the baby would come, now that we're being so cautious, and he laughed and said actually it sounded like we were going to have an Easter baby. I think we should establish a bet, and the loser has to change those first dirty diapers. Heh.

I cannot believe ...

I still have visible ankle bones at 35 weeks. Last time I was so
swollen I had to wear old lady support hose. Crazy.

35 weeks and a whole lot of random thoughts

Well, we made it to the end of the week.

That's pretty much all I have to say about that.

Exactly two weeks from now, if this baby is like his / her brother, he / she will be born. Right now I'm torn between the "getoutgetoutgetout" feelings and the "staystaystaystaystaystay" feelings. Not surprising, I suppose. Part of me just wants this part over with; part of me knows it's better for the babe to stay. Maybe I just need to fast forward the next two weeks and it'll all be fine.

And I figure that once I hit 36 weeks next Friday I can start up my usual activity, since the baby won't come instantaneously, and I'm fine with a 37 weeker. So that's really only one more week.

(Incidentally, at the hospital yesterday I got another good idea of just how tiny I am in this pregnancy ... lots of ladies MUCH bigger than me. The nurse who was doing the NST had worked in labour / delivery / maternity care for 25 years, sized me up and said she'd guess I'd have a 6 or 7 pounder. Which startled me, since The Boy was almost 8, The Man was 9.5 and I was 9 at birth; I'm expecting a big one. But at the same time, this baby does feel TINY to me given the size I am compared to last time. "It'll be a nice little girl," she said confidently. I smiled politely, and didn't mention that I knew a lady who had a 10 lb 3oz baby girl. Apparently even 25 years in maternity nursing doesn't make you immune to the old wives' tales of size and gender being correlated.)

We have a lovely group of friends here, friends who have offered help and playdates and reassuring stories of babies born at 34 / 36 / 37 weeks who are all FINE and WONDERFUL and had NO PROBLEMS (well, the 34-weeker spent 13 days in the NICU, which obviously isn't ideal, but still. My nephew spent eight weeks there. Let's consider the options and realize our boat ain't so bad here.) Right now, Good Friday, The Man and The Boy are near the ocean watching astronauts learn how to pilot submarines. No kidding. One of our friends has a very cool job. (No, he's not as astronaut, he's the engineer involved. Still.) He invited them to go and join him and his kids to watch. Never mind it's not exactly a great thing -- it's pouring rain, cold, and windy, and the kids are Not Happy, but still. It was a nice offer, and would have been great if the weather were better.

And we have playdates for tomorrow and Monday so The Man can get a little time off, already.

So it's good. It's all good. It's all going to be fine.

Now if I could just convince myself of that.

Stress

For as much as I can remember yesterday, le bebe was quiet. Very quiet. Some stretching, as I recall, but no kicking, punching, jabs, head butts, or other uncomfortable movements that I'm getting used to. I didn't think much of it, as this baby sometimes has quiet days. But then I woke up at 4am this morning, and there was nothing. Not a peep. Not a quiet roll over in sleep. Nothing for a half an hour or more, and this is a baby that regularly plays Dance Dance Revolution in the wee hours of the morning.

I admit it: I freaked out. I've been stressed about this pregnancy from Day One, and I am stressed about delivering early with the recent symptoms. I've been actually not too bad (for me!) about waiting another day, not taking fears too seriously, not freaking out, and generally staying sane, but ... this morning I just ... well, I just wanted some kind of reassurance other than a voice on the phone saying "it's probably fine!" I'm tired of trying to reassure myself about something that I really have no reassurance for. So I called the midwife and said "what can we do?!"

She must have heard the desperation in my voice, so she sent me off to the hospital for a non-stress test. Baby still wasn't moving much all morning, so I was pleased to go, but of course as soon as I sat back the baby kicked it up about seventeen notches and was not only dancing her little heart out, but had a heart rate as high as I've ever seen on a small fetus (The Boy was, at this late stage, always around 140 / 150; today I saw rates in the high 180s). The perinatologist declared the child "perfectly healthy!" which was of course the perfect thing to hear.

But. You knew there was a but coming, right? I feel a bit dumb. I know that The Man thinks it was kind of silly of me; I also know I have a midwife who has probably never panicked in her life (an excellent quality in a midwife, I think) so she won't really understand. I'm tired. I'm tired not only of being pregnant, but of thinking about being pregnant and wondering what's going on and hoping that things are ok even when they change and feel different and the baby is completely still for hours. I'm tired of just getting through when I'm worried, and I'm tired of feeling like everyone else thinks I'm being hysterical (just to be clear: neither The Man nor the midwife has said anything remotely like this to me; it's mostly just my perception of their reaction.) I just want to hold this baby in my arms and see his / her little face and watch them breathe and know that that part, at least, is done.

I know, I'm neurotic. But still.

So I feel better about the baby. I feel better about the risk of early delivery too, although given that I was lying down for the test and never get contractions lying down anyway, only when vertical, I still think it's a possibility. I just don't feel like every time I get up my water will break.

But this keeping the faith thing? Is just plain hard.