Needles and cups and Activators, oh my!

Baby D isn’t gonna just roll over and do what they are told evidently.  This morning I have been poked, prodded, adjusted and meddled with inside and out.

In a rare moment of good taste I didn’t snap a lot of pictures,  but allow me to take you back to the morning.  For the first time in a few days I had somewhere to be at a certain time. And that time was not anywhere close to lunch.  So, it seemed to wise to awaken somewhere between 3:30 and 4 am.  By the time I hopped in the shower at six am my email was cleaned out, online banking reconciled and RSS feeds fully reviewed.  Thank you, iPhone for giving the insomniac something to do instead of count sheep and stare at the ceiling.

The mini-me  got off to school safe and sound and MQD and I headed out to the first of our appointments.  I have always been an outspoken believer in alternative Eastern medicine.  But I have also been a largely healthy and largely cash poor person.  Neither of these states of being lends you to trying out new Wellness techniques.  However, add a healthy dose of desperation to an over funded Flexible Spending Health Account and you have a recipe for Sign Me Up For Anything.

This morning’s agenda?  Acupuncture and cupping.  Both are ancient techniques designed to stimulate the body and achieve desired results.  I invite you to overlook the obligatory tramp stamp and instead focus on the needles and the cups.  Needless to say if the chi and blood in my lower sacral area were lazy before, it is wide awake and moving now.  Fingers crossed it gets some labor started.

I cropped out a teeny bit of butt crack. Because I found I DO actually have boundaries.

Once the cups had cooled and those pressure points were no longer active I had a little break.  A break just long enough to pop next door and see my chiropractor.  I have long since drank the chiropractic kool-aid and I was not shocked when my midwives suggested I resume chiropractic treatment late in pregnancy.  Makes a fair amount of sense.  If baby is to descend more easily, why not have those hips in a straight line?  And if Mom is to get out of bed without colorful language every morning, why not have that back lined up, too?  Pregnant trips to the chiropractor have introduced me to the Activator.  It is a nifty little tool that allows for adjustment more gently.  And it has a neat name.  The Activator.

Popped out of the chiro’s office and back in to the open arms of the acupuncturist.  Needles to the hands, shoulders, feet and elbows.  MQD had his own acupuncture treatment started while I was with my chiropractor so he was blissed out in the back room while I got to have girl talk in the front.

Could our morning get better?  Yes.  It really could.  Because I started this morning with my membranes intact.

Membranes in order, totally capable of sitting, driving, not peeing my pants for fifteen minutes at a stretch

The membrane that  connects the amniotic sac to the wall of the uterus, of course.   Now my membranes and I are bros, but it was time for them to go, sweep those bad boys outta here.  So to the midwives we went to have them “swept,” a term that really doesn’t do justice to a gloved hand elbow deep in your vagina for the sole purpose of scraping part of your innards out of the way.  But it is known to occasionally kick-start labor.  And at this point, I’m game for anything.

And lo and behold what did I find at the midwives’ office?  I am still only three centimeters dilated.  Which means the hours I have spent squatting and sitting on my ball in the last few days have done nothing but amuse those with whom I watch television.  And Baby D?  S/he continues to rage against the dying of the light… the little bugger has flipped back over face up.  Perhaps only temporarily in order to see what the hell was going on back there this morning… but what is the solution to that?  Binding, ladies and gents (though at this point I suspect I have lost the gents.)  If you guessed abdominal binding you are correct!!  Lift Baby D upwards and backwards, so they can rotate and descend again.  Music to my pelvic bones ears, but the bladder is not so thrilled.

Sans membranes, the ability to drive, hold urine for greater than fifteen minutes or not resemble a sumo wrestler from the back

So, off I go…. to roam around my neighborhood some more.

Dear New Neighbors,

If I knock on your door and seem out of breath and crazy eyed it is only because I need to use your facilities.  Please, take pity on my hunch-backed self.

Love, Kelly, 40 weeks and 3 days pregnant

Back to the Future

1982 called…. They want their leg warmers and their six year old Kelly back.

I have been so focused on my future the last few weeks… and this morning my past came down the stairs, all ready for school….

My mini-me

Emily June, someday you might look back on the time when I was pregnant with Baby D and think it was your hand holding, your patience, your back rubs with your tiny fingers and your pointy elbows that kept me sane…. but it isn’t any of these things.  It is times like this morning when I look right in to your face and I see me.  Those are the moments that ground me.  That remind me that this time will go by so fast.

I was six years old not so long ago.

You are as anxious as the rest of us to meet your baby sister or brother.  But this morning, you came down the stairs and you had a peanut butter and banana sandwich on toast. And  you waited for the bus.  And you gave me a kiss and said “Maybe we will have a baby today.  Maybe.”

No expectations.  No disappointment or weighty anticipation.  Just … maybe.

Maybe.

Tough to be too upset with these goofs in the house.  So, I wait. However impatiently… I wait.

Fortune

 

It is.  My dream is so much bigger than my fear.  I promise.  I finally got to that space in my head where I am ready.  Where there is nothing left to do but walk and walk and walk and eat spicy foods.

And now even my Chinese food fortune cookies are taunting me.

I’d imagined that today I would sleep in and rest.  Watch a movie, maybe.  Work on quilting another baby blanket.  But screw it.  When the fortune cookies are even mocking you… you might as well go to work and file some shit.

Now, to find something to wear that showcases my new cankles and my foul disposition.

The Big Day That Wasn’t

I feel like a little girl that woke up Christmas morning to a bare tree. No presents. No ornaments. Just a tree. Taunting me.

Intellectually I understand that a “due date” is an estimate, a guess. But I was not prepared to see this day arrive without a baby in my arms. Em was three days early. “Get ready! Second babies come early,” said so many well meaning people. And here I am. Without my baby.

Intellectually I know that “Babies come when they are ready” and yet there is a little girl inside me that feels like maybe I missed my window. Maybe s/he isn’t coming. And here come the tears that I have held inside for the most part all day.

This whole pregnancy has been different. Not finding out the gender of the baby has meant that I have lived in this moment, in this pregnancy, instead of wishing it away for the baby girl that would be in my arms, as I did with Emily. It hasn’t been until the last few days that I have even really imagined it…. The baby. Our baby. And as the days passed I felt more and more ready.

And then ready turned in to an almost feverish desire.

Last night I dreamt that the doorbell rang and I opened the door and there s/he was. In a little outfit. With a little hat and a little suit case and a little smile. And I opened the door and Baby D walked in on tiny bowed newborn legs. And they were home.

And then I woke the rest of the way up and my baby was gone. Our baby was gone.

In the last few years things have changed for me. I have remarked more than a few times that it feels like someone else’s life or that my luck has turned around. I found the boy that became the man that gave me a fairy tale wedding and a home… And a baby. And that baby was going to come on time. Because that is just how this new life works. I act stunned and revel in my good fortune… But somehow in the last few years it has happened.

I guess I expect things to go my way.

But what if this is the end of that road? I have said to every midwife, every practitioner I have seen this pregnancy that this is my Labor & Delivery Do-Over. It is supposed to be my all empowering natural birth, the one that heals me. And now I have this ridiculous seed of doubt. Because of the date. January 15th. Every time it pops up on another device, my phone, my iPad, my computer “Due Date” I think … Right. Sure. If this baby even wants me anymore.

And I go back in my room and I bounce on my birth ball and I watch more Sex and the City reruns and I cry like a teenage girl. And I look at my swollen feet and my hand without an engagement ring because just this week it has gotten too small. And I whisper between the sobs “Come out, baby… C’mon out baby, please…”

And I pull it back together. And tomorrow I suspect I will go to work and make jokes about how I might be pregnant forever. But today…. Today I am not weepy because I fear I will be pregnant forever. But because I am afraid that Baby D will never come back. I saw him/her this morning. I saw my baby and I didn’t put my arms around them fast enough, or smell his/her head. Or let their fingers curl around mine….

And as absurd as it is… Now it feels like I will never get the chance. Because today is January 15th.

20120115-151615.jpg

Vaginal Rhymes

Something about being with MQD at the midwives’ office makes us both giggle like teenagers.  We sit down and try to have have this sort of “Look at us, we’re grown ups” kind of conversation while we wait but it never lasts.  Within minutes we are examining the pictures on the walls and giggling.  In the exam room the other day there was a quilt on the wall.  It showed a woman’s reproductive system at various times through a pregnancy.

I pointed out to him my favorite square on the quilt.  “I’ve always thought that square looks kind of like a monster…  oooohhh….. don’t be frightened by my falllllooooopiaaaannnn tuuuubes….”

If you are lucky in love there are moments when everything else fades away just like the movies and you have tunnel vision on your beloved…  All you see is this person whom you adore and there is nowhere you’d rather be.

That’s what happened moments after MQD said. “No.  Not a monster.  It looks like a rapper…. counting down the centimeters you are dilated.  ONE centimeter… TWO centimeters… ” and he slid his hand back and forth, making the “wikkee-wikkee” international sign for record scratching.

Sigh… that, friends, is how you know someone is “the one.”

 

Sharing is Caring…

Every time I go to bed or walk out of the house I wonder if the next time I walk back in it will be with a baby in my arms.  It is not out of the ordinary for me, especially since we have moved, to make sure things are picked up before I go to bed.  To run the vacuum in the morning after everyone has left or to wipe the kitchen counters down and start the dishwasher.   But I have been hyper vigilant (read: neurotic)  in the last few days.

I guess it is the get ready to have a baby equivalent of wearing clean underwear in case you get in a car accident.

As I sat down at the kitchen table this morning for a very un-Saturday like breakfast of Cheerios I was startled by two things.  The first, I had left the recycling on the counter last night, including the box from the pie I was eating while sitting on the exercise ball.  The second, my big girl… she looked  like a tiny little thing.  In her oversized Tinkerbell bathrobe, she looked so young.  It’s easy to forget that Em is still a tiny kid. Sometimes her “wise beyond her years” self almost tricks me in to thinking she really isn’t six years old.

I grabbed my phone and started taking pictures, hoping to capture this moment.  And then this lovely moment of my little girl eating breakfast with the sun light on her face turned in to this…

"Can I ask you a question?"

She made this sneaky face and started to grill me.  “Did you eat the whole pie last night, Mom?”

“No, I did not eat the whole pie….”

"Really? The box is on the counter."

She thought she had me backed in to a corner, that she had busted me.  And I told her “No, actually I saved you a piece.”

Satisfaction....

She seemed satisfied with that answer and returned to her bowl of cereal.  She ate in silence for a bit before she had a proposition.

"We can split it. You and me."

 She’s a keeper, that kid. I like the way she thinks.  Almost as much as I like pie.

The Overshare of Overshares

This morning in the shower I wrote a blog post in my mind.  I’d say roughly half the time I sit down to write I have a roughed out thought process.  I have always had these little monologues in my brain.  And now if by the time I get to what seems like the end of my train of thought  it amuses me enough to write it down, I do.  If it was meaningful enough for me to not want to forget, I write it down.

The other half of the time I have no game plan and just ramble on until I feel empty.  I daresay you can tell one kind of post from the other.

And then there are the inner monologues that never see the light of day.  I wrote one of those this morning in the shower.  As I was getting out I told MQD that I had just had a blog post roll around in my head that by the time I got to the end I thought “whoa, you can’t go around saying shit like that.”

He doesn’t often encourage me to keep talking.  Especially first thing in the morning.  But he took the bait.  He asked.  And I told him.

The sensible half of this partnership, you may blame him….  Because he said “THAT is exactly the kind of thing you should write… with a picture of Ralphie  and his walking stick. All blind and shit…” and he began to act it out.

So without further ado… I give you a Public Service Announcement, brought to you by Ralphie.
An Open Letter to Blind Women and the Men and Women that errmm… Get Down with Them…

If you regularly get it on with a blind gal or if you are one and her/your bush is 80s style wild and unkempt… please,  don’t feel like that is the way things have to be.  Or that the only option is waxing by a professional.

I’m here to blow the lid off the whole “Oh, I am blind I can’t possibly be expected to  shave my bikini line and certainly not the deep downstairs, the undercarriage… (call it what you want, but I am gonna call it  a wild jungle of pubic hair) because I can’t even see down there….”  because that is some bulllllshit.

I haven’t been able to see what is going on downstairs for the last six weeks.  At least.  And I can guarandamntee it does not resemble its formers self (thanks so much excessive blood flow and hormones and all the other gross things that happen inside and out to your nether regions during pregnancy) but you know what?  Without the benefit of seeing I can still put one foot up on the side of the tub and keep things tidy.  You just gotta visualize, people.  And use a new razor.

So, if you’re a blind gal  and you think you can coast on through life thinking that it is outside the realm of possibility for you to have a nice and tidy undercarriage… you are just lazy.  And timid. Because I am here to tell you that it can be done.

I am ready for my close up.  Come out, come out wherever you are, Baby D.  Mama is camera ready.  This is as good as it gets.  A brand new Mach 3 blade was brought out just for you. Nothin’s holding you back but you, kid.

End of PSA

Editor’s Note:  It is official.  I have lost my damn mind.  39 weeks and five days pregnant.  And I am off my rocker.  But so is MQD, because Ralphie was his idea, and that really might be the creepiest thing about this PSA, the choice of spokesperson.

Just in case you’re playing along at home on some kind of weird board game like Life with the stages and phases of pregnancy and labor on it… Chiropractor to get hips aligned.  Check.  Acupuncture to get labor started.  Check.  40 week exam (and the first internal exam I have had since my initial  appointment at the birthing center, thank you very much, midwives) reveals me to be 3 cm dilated and 50% effaced.

And you thought it was oversharing when I posted a picture of my IUD.  Pfffttt.  Puhleazze.

This is what you look like if you start reading "Truly Tasteless Joke Books" when you are 10 years old. You might have the good sense to hide your face. But you're still gonna say it. Whatever comes to mind...


January 13th

January 13th is a Friday this year, as I am sure you are well aware.  For some this is a day filled with superstition.  Friday or not, I can’t help but grin from ear to ear on January 13th each year.

In January of 2005 babies were the furthest thing from my mind.  In fact I spent the better part of at least three or four nights a week with two older gentleman.  One had been around at least a couple hundred years the other was in his early 80s.  Jim Beam.  And Ralph.  I was tending bar in the evenings and working at The Outer Banks Hospital in the dietary office during the day.  Ralph was my favorite customer both places.  Jim Beam was his drink of choice.  My days were fulfilling and my nights were long and hazy but I had youth on my side and managed to pull it off.

I hadn’t been trying to get pregnant… but I wasn’t doing anything to prevent it.  I’d been married for several  years and I was 29 years old.  It would happen when it was time.

On January 13th I woke up a little before five am, as was my norm.  And I peed on a stick.  Not a usual occurrence.  Positive.  I woke up Jeremy, he said not to tell anyone.  That we needed to be sure.  We’d wait a little while, we’d test again.

And I went to to work.

It was shortly after 9 am when I caved.  I burst in to my boss’ office, closed the door and told my secret.  Even though it wasn’t totally necessary to do so I had the luxury of a blood test at my disposal and by 10:30 that morning I had called my husband and my parents and spilled the beans.  I was pregnant.

January 13th.  I don’t think I will have a baby with a birthday on January 13th.  But that’s okay. Because I became a mother on January 13th, 2005.  And I never looked back.

Curfew

They say that babies respond best to high contrasting colors.  Hence the influx of black and white graphic images on baby toys these days.

So, I am sending out a postcard to Baby D. 

Listen up, Baby D.  If you think you are gonna stroll in this house one minute past January 15th and have everyone say “Ohh, so cute, look at the babyyy!!” you have another thing coming.  January.  15th.  Not the 16th.  Not the 17th.  Not “on my way, but running late…”  January.  15th.  We had a deal. 

Actually, call if you’re gonna be early.  I might be taking a walk.  Or trying to have sex.  Or stimulating my nipples or some other labor-inducing nonsense and that would just be weird for everyone. 

Now.  Do what you need to do. Have fun.  Be home on Sunday.  Got it?

Love, Mom

When M&Ms won’t cut it….

If you read pregnancy blogs or books (or even an Iphone app I have been using) you know that everyone suggests that the expecting mom and her partner make sure to take time for themselves before the birth of their baby.  They suggest a “second trimester get-away.”  After the sleepiness of the first trimester and before the third trimester uncomfortable-ness sets in, I guess,  the happy couple is supposed to head off to a bed and breakfast and bask in the joy of their impending bundle.  I can’t really wrap my mind around that.

 To me, that translates in to an overpriced weekend away in a time when Baby Budgeting is all consuming.  A weekend away where I can’t have a glass of wine, I may or may not get what I want to eat and I might fall asleep before I even remember to get laid.  No, thanks.

MQD and I have mini-dates all of the time instead.  They tend to last about an hour and take place while Em is either in bed for the night or having dinner across the street.  And tonight we had a sneak attack date.  My favorite kind.  Em had an invite for dinner so MQD and I did what any two red blooded newlyweds would do.

We went to the grocery store.  First we smooched in the kitchen and made some inappropriate jokes at our pets, and then I invited him to tag along with me while I ran out for a frozen pizza.    Can you have a better time?

Yeah.  You can.  At 39 weeks pregnant M&Ms will do the trick.  But at 39.5 weeks… you need Pizza. And Turtle Pie.  And Nachos.  And Oreos.

Last Hurrah

As we walked towards the check out we were giggling like a couple of freewheeling twentysomethings without a care in the world.  MQD looks around, evidently failing to take note of my pregnancy waddle and says “Do we look high?”

I burst in to giggles.  We unloaded our “groceries” and examined our bounty, as if one item would jump off the conveyor belt and answer the question he had posed.

“It’s not the food, Mike… it’s your slippers.”

Best Date Ever

 I couldn’t have asked for a better time.  Pizza, nachos, oreos, pie and giggles.  It’s not lost on me that at 39.5 weeks pregnant the Best Date Ever has all the ingredients of a 12 year old’s slumber party.