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I don’t particularly want to be That Person whose life becomes entirely devoted to babies! babies! babies!, yet at the same time, I do want to chronicle this pregnancy in a way that will help me remember the things I want to remember, or that are funny, or that will hopefully keep me from giving awful advice in the future (see also: “get your sleep now because you’ll never sleep again.” ALREADY NOT SLEEPING, THANKS).
And then again, it’s my blog. And here’s the part where I strongly resist adding, “Neener, neener.” I am thirty, after all.
Anyway, here’s how things are going. Skip if you’re uninterested and/or terribly cynical and bitter.
1. Pregnancy sucks.
The horrible thing about feeling this way is that my pregnancy, by all standard measures, has been a good one. I got through the first trimester’s morning sickness, I haven’t had complications, my baby looked great at its 20-week ultrasound, and there is nothing worrisome aside from some high blood sugar that seems to be controlled by diet and exercise. Yet in spite of all the good things that I am taking for granted, I am tired and self-concious ALL THE TIME: I’m only 31 weeks along and have attained roughly the size and weight of a young killer whale*; I cannot clip my toenails, much less paint them, and I nearly fell over this morning trying to put on underwear. I won’t even address the indignity of putting on a swimsuit twice a week for my class where all the other moms are cute first-timers in bikinis showing off their adorable bellies, whereas I cover my blubber with the World’s Ugliest Suit, the kind I swore up and down I’d never wear. Ha. Ha ha. Oh, Karma, you are such a bitch.
Pregnancy also sucks when you work in a men’s prison and people make inappropriate comments. It sucks when your hormones make you want to cry and punch someone at the same time. It sucks when you want to drink beer and watch football — in fact, that sucks so much that one might even go out and waste $7 on a pack of O’Doul’s, just to see if it’s worth it (soooooooooo not). It sucks when you realize you cannot fit both the dog crate and the baby’s carseat in your car. It sucks when your husband leaves for a weekend and you don’t go, because spending five hours in a car is about as comfortable as a 24-hour plane ride and your pelvis feels like it will slither down your hips and land right at your ankles when you’re finally able to get out and walk around. It sucks to get up at night to pee. It sucks to get up again, and again, and to know that the light at the end of this parenting, sleepless-nights tunnel is about eighteen years away, if not longer.
2. When it doesn’t suck, it’s great.
Feeling the baby kick is probably the best part. Monday night I came home from work and was chewing ice cubes. Every time I swallowed, I’d get a swift kick to my stomach about eight seconds later because that baby was not enjoying the cold sensations. (I know, what kind of twisted parent gets enjoyment out of freezing their child? I AM SO CRUEL.) And pretty much every night when I go to bed, I watch my belly bounce around for at least ten minutes.
And seeing that little heartbeat during the ultrasound? Watching the arms and legs of a 6 oz. baby flail about? Seeing him suck his thumb and bonk himself in the forehead? Feeling him push back when I poke my belly in the morning to make sure he made it through the night? Internets, I love him so much already that I think I have enough love to not only make it through labor and delivery, but also the terrible twos and up through age 12 awkwardness and then the angsty teen years.
And then there’s the husband, who talks to my navel and explains how he loves the baby so much he’s going to make a special doghouse for Baby and Lucy to share (Lucy would LOVE it), and how we’re going to decorate baby’s nursery in a special extra-sharp-and-pointy Samurai theme, and how the baby is going to secretly be named Ziltoid (over baby’s mother’s dead body, apparently). And there are other things he does, like giving me Kleenex when I burst into tears over the goddamn fruit tart not coming cleanly off the baking sheet or when I throw my burger in his lap and scream, “FINE, THEN I JUST WON’T EAT.” Husbanding this big ol’ bag of crazy is not for the faint of heart, and yet he does it better than anyone else could, and rubs my feet and mows the lawn to boot.
*acknowledgements to J.K. Rowling
Why, Internets, WHY is baby stuff so ugly?! If it’s not a clichéd pastel like Pepto-pink or baby blue soup, it’s bright and garish and cheap and plastic or it has polka dots marring the surface (you know, polka dots used to be a sign of the plague… JUST SAYIN’), or it has malformed baby animals because lions and alligators and bears are just so goddamned cute and cuddly, right, or it has a zillion mind-numbing patterns that make me want to tear. out. my. hair. Will my child’s brain not develop sufficiently if he is presented with a normal, day-to-day palette of colors? Will it melt and ooze out his nose if he has to see pictures of real animals? Will a muted upholstery patterned with yellow and gray instead of BARN RED WITH NEON GREEN CIRCLES!!! stop him from going to Harvard some day? Will he, alas, sit toyless and unimaginative on the carpet, day after day, his little fists empty of Made-in-China plastic, staring at his boring beige wall as the dog licks the drool from his chubby chin?
Men: I don’t care how genuine or sarcastic you’re being when you do it, but let me just say that it is NOT OKAY to pump your fist and say “YES!” when the childbirth educator announces that next week we’ll be talking about breastfeeding. Icky ick ick ick ick creepy creeperson. I will be skipping next week’s class, thank you.
Fucking dilatation. I hate being wrong.
It’s a bit hard for me as a teacher to sit as a student in a class. It’s kind of like rafting after I learned to row: no way am I not going to be the one in charge of where the boat is going and what rocks and waves it’s going to hit.
I may, come to think of it, have a bit of a control issue.
Anyway, this is relevant because in last night’s childbirth education class, I found myself mentally critiquing the educator, which of course is ridiculously hypocritical since it’s not like I’m the most fabulous teacher to spin the magic web of rhetoric. But seriously, I give you the following situations:
1. To start with, she made a sexist generalization at the beginning of class, something about how women’s labor stories are like men’s fish stories (implying something about lying about the length thereof, I guess), and mostly I was offended because I fish, too. And I have not yet lied about my labor experience (head’s up: I WILL win), so the expectation rankled.
2. Then there was this dandy question, clearly meant to gin up some discussion in the class:
Educator: How do you time contractions?
[ten seconds dead silence]
Me: Um, with a watch?
I knew what she was getting at, although not exactly — something to do with frequency and/or duration of contractions — but when you ask an unclear question and no one answers, rephrase and clarify what you mean. Or else you get smart-asses like me answering. (Though, professional confessional time: I love smart-asses. They make class fun and keep me on my toes. Double bonus. Although I’m not sure this educator feels that way about me.)
3. This is a rhetorical complaint: Everything she says is declarative: You WILL do this, you WILL do that, you WILL like this, you WILL not like that, etc. Um, no, thank you. Being told what I will and won’t do or think works about as well on this 30-year-old as it did on this 15-year-old. I realize I’m knocking my own maturity level here, but thanks to feminism and consumerism AND SCIENCE, women have a lot more childbirth choices than we used to, and I don’t appreciate childbirth “education” being presented as a map with stations where you get your hand stamped before moving on to the next level. If that works for the next woman, great — but not me.
Tangential confession: Last night I was a little taken aback when the educator asked who all was reading books on childbirth and I was the only one who raised a hand. Seriously?! How can you approach one of the biggest events in your life without planning? (And no, I don’t think childbirth education indoctrination counts.) I mean, I know I like to plan, but … HOW DO YOU NOT PLAN?
4. Finally, this childbirth educator pronounces the word “dilated” “dillatated.” THAT IS NOT A WORD, and I know because I triple-checked it on dictionary.com so as to not be made an ass of (which happens often enough as it is). And I know I should be more worried about what it means to be 10 cm “dillatated” than how she mispronounces the word, but it strikes at the heart of her ethos and those twelve or whatever years she spent on a Labor and Delivery ward.
Ugh. Somehow in my life I have morphed from the back-row, I’m-not-here student into the front-row, know-it-all critic. What’s worse, I remember how I hated those people in college, and thus this post is halfway between a cry for help and a blubbering confession. I guess when I’m stuck spreadlegged and naked at 8 cm dillatated and wondering why my epidural isn’t working, I’ll have time to ponder this further.
(Okay, not much of one)
I admit that a very small (teensy, really) part of my liking for the boy’s name we have mostly settled on is that it would sound great if an NFL sportscaster were announcing it as part of the Broncos starting lineup. What can I say — I have a sickness.
Have been grading papers all day — only four left, so I was browsing the Interwebs for Shit the Baby or I Might Need, and I found this:
Holy hellballs, people. Knowing what these were for would have kept my virginity intact a good ten, fifteen years more.
me: ohmygod, how are we going to know what to do with it when the thing gets here?
soon-to-be-father-of-our-child: y’know, awhile ago in a moment of angst i asked you the same thing. you said all we have to do is feed it and change its diaper, and as it grew more complicated, we’d learn what to do.
me: …
me: well…don’t throw my words back in my face!
father-to-be: obama’s a muslim!
By now you should’ve seen the update and at least one ultrasound photo — we’ve posted liberally on Facebook, Twitter, and this blog, so yeah: it’s a boy. And seeing as how most people we know have one, if not two, girls, we’re pretty stoked to do what we do best: things differently. It prevents us from having to ask, much less take, others’ advice.
Anyway — back to the title. When we scheduled the ultrasound, I was a little consternated when they told me to come with a full bladder. You know coffee? That delicious, delicious beverage I’ve been drinking for nearly as long as I could breathe? It has wreaked wonders on my bladder, the type I’ll pay for when I’m fifty and am wearing diapers to my child’s college graduation. But dutifully, this morning, I drank four tall glasses of water (about 15 oz each), the last three of which in the hour and a half before the appointment.
Hospitals, let me say this: It is NOT NICE to tell a pregnant woman to have a full bladder AND KEEP HER WAITING. Ten minutes to do paperwork may be on time for hospitals, but all I could think of was taking that cheap ballpoint pen and fashioning a shunt for my bladder. It was another achingly painful ten minutes before the ultrasound tech deigned to take us into her lair. But the powers of observation were strong with this one:
“Are you uncomfortable?”
YA THINK, LADY?
“Um, I really have to go to the bathroom,” I said. The jury conferred briefly before handing me my Understatement of the Year trophy and a sash, which I’m still wearing.
“I could see it in your eyes,” she said. Because they were five feet in front of my head? “Let me just take a quick peek and see if you can empty some of that,” she said.
Yeah, right, ‘some of that,’ I thought, pondering that when a dam breaks, it doesn’t just empty some of the reservoir behind it.
She got me on the table, put that ooey gel on my belly, and set the transducer against my skin. On the screen, all you could see for miles was an ocean of bladder. There was a tide and current and everything, even a faint Coriolis effect in the lower hemisphere.
The ultrasound tech deemed it acceptable for me to evacuate part of my bladder, and duly fished out a disposable coffee cup and sent me along to the bathroom. “You can let out a cup, no more.” Right. And you can breathe, but please, just once a day.
Fast-forward (you’re welcome) to the scan: Internets, we have a very active little boy. Of the two times we’ve seen him, he has not been still for an instant. The does not bode well for Ye Olde Mother-to-Be, but we’ll see how it goes. Fetus spent most of the hour-long scan banging his head against his placenta, kicking about, and stubbornly facing away from the tech.
Tangent: My 100% Scandinavian mother married my recalcitrantly Scottish-and-whatnot father, and lo, their genetic material met, found each other to be suitably obstinate, and mated. The net result is Me, and if stubbornness were an Olympic sport, I’d be a medal contender every year.
So really, I’m just reaping what was sown before my time.
Most of the scan went well, although there were a few uncomfortable moments: one, when I was squinting at the screen, wondering why the vertebrae looked triplicate: does the baby have three spines? The tech explained something about “facettes,” which sounded like mispronounced “facets” to me, but whatever. Another odd moment was when the tech decided to perform exploratory surgery in my lower right quadrant with the transducer, trying to find an ovary, or perhaps that quarter I swallowed when I was four. I was pleased when the baby kicked at the wand. That’s my boy.
However, the worst part was when the tech was exploring the other side of my abdomen for whatever its Bermuda Triangle had taken from her. Evidently she found it, or didn’t find it, and scanned back towards the baby’s spine. I saw the image appear on the screen, and she exclaimed something that was the Old Conservative Adventist version of “Fucking hell!” (it was actually “Oh my goodness!”), and time stopped.
About ten hours later, him gripping my hand so tightly they’d have to surgically unfuse the pair, Matt asked, “Um, is that good or bad?”
“You get what you want if you wait for it,” the tech said triumphantly. Either the baby had a momentary lapse of stubbornness and we finally had a good profile shot, or else she is very good at covering up a verbal gaffe.
It’s a boy.
Today is the Big Ultrasound, the one that not only tells us the sex of our fetus, but also the one that tells us if there are any abnormalities. Like if the child has forty-two fingers and three toes. Or something more serious. And Internets, I confess: I am so nervous. What if all those bagels and cream cheese and green grapes caused some sort of problem? What if that week I ate an entire casserole of macaroni and cheese has plugged baby’s heart? What about that one time I took ibuprofen by mistake?
So as excited as I am to find out if we’re having a Nameless Baby Girl or a Nameless Baby Boy (yeah, still stuck there), I’ll be far more excited next week after we meet with our doctor and she, hopefully, tells us that everything looks great. In the meantime, stay tuned for gender news….
Internets, pardon me while I violate the sanctity of my marriage. You know my husband? sometimes known as @misteranthropic? the one who knocked me up? Yeah. Him. Recently, he bought the newest version of the iSlut, sorry, iDumb — no, that’s not it — iClone? Anyway. You know. That shiny thing he never uses to actually talk to people on, the one that requires you to purchase its insanely priced data plan which is only offered by one company that also leases your testicles when you buy it? That.
My ire was not terribly aroused by this purchase because he’d saved up for it, is selling his iPod and just sold his old iPhone to pay for the new thing. So fine, get the new phone, see if I care, as long as my bank account doesn’t change.
Life could have been just fine, oh yes it could’ve, if he’d just outlined the cost, how he was paying for it, and never said another word. BUT COULD HE DO THAT? OH NO. Here’s what happened instead, night after night.
So I’m pregnant, right?
(“Oh my god, yes, we get it. Shut up already about being pregnant.”)
Well, fine, but that state of being plays a prominent role in my going to sleep before @misteranthropic and getting up well after he’s left for work. Because I don’t actually sleep during that time: I fall asleep, sure, for a few, blissful hours. Then at about one in the morning, I wake up and begin to worry: what if the house isn’t warm enough in the winter? What if I give birth at home? If my water breaks in bed, do we have to get a new mattress? What if the baby has five heads and two fingers? What if we never, ever, agree on a girl’s name and it’s a girl — will we just live in the hospital until one of us offs the other and signs the damn birth certificate? And then at about six, when I’ve exhausted all my worries, I fall asleep again. It’s ridiculous, and it makes me extra grouchy.
So when it’s 10:15 and I’ve just drifted off to sleep, only to be awakened by a sharp jab to the shoulder, I’m not all cheery.
“What?”
“Oh, were you sleeping?”
“YES.”
“Oh. Never mind.”
“WHAT.”
“Oh, well, look–” And he’s handing me his old iPhone. I can make out the UPS logo, but I have to put on my glasses to read anything on THAT GODDAMN TINY SCREEN. Then I see that he’s pleased, because his new phone has now been shipped from Anchorage, Alaska, to Trenton, New Jersey. Whoopdeefuckingdo.
The first night, I glared for only a second because the look of pure, boyish glee was — gag alert — heart-melting. It was so cute, I may have kissed him.
The second night, when the phone moved from New Jersey to Kuala Lampur or wherever, I rolled over without a word.
The third night, when the phone moved from Kuala Lampur to Jodhuppurstonfordinghamopolis, I sat up when he nudged me and said, “Oh, really? Wow, honey, that’s great” and then threw the damn thing across the room.
The fourth night, I slept like a baby.
Okay. So the phone finally arrives, and what does this dignified, white-collar worker do? He quits work early that day to go get it, and it’s like he’s found a new mistress: one with smaller pixel-pores who he can carry in his pocket and croon lullabies to at night when they fucking sleep together.
Yeah. Italics AND all caps.
So there you have it: we’re having a new baby, and my husband has found a new, sleek, shiny, non-bloated wife. My only consolation is that my order of Greek Nescafé Frappé mix has left Greece and arrived in Jacksonville, FL, with an estimated delivery date of July 6.
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