We did it!

It's a boy!

Announcing Robert Nicholas, born Wednesday, May 27th, at 8:10pm.

• 10 pounds even
• 21.5" long
• Head circumference: 14"
• Chest circumference: 14.5" *
• Tons of blond hair
• Covered in chubby, delicious fat rolls
• Cutest baby in the nursery... by far

Photos and birth story to follow soon, but here's the quickie version: it was an all-natural, drug-free vaginal delivery. Nobody was expecting Robert to be so big, least of all me... He surprised all of us! His shoulders got stuck briefly, but were freed up fast and it didn't cause him any damage. (I, on the other hand, am simply shredded, but that's for the long version. ) Robert's still at the hospital due to some breathing issues that are apparently common in big babies, but is doing great and is due to be released tomorrow morning. Breastfeeding going OK so far, although it's hard to tell at 48 hours; we're on the way back to the hospital now for another feeding.

*You know how they say that the head is the biggest part? Apparently, not always the case... Let me describe that bit sometime.

Pregnancy, Work, Chicken Feet

Yesterday morning, Don woke up thinking that I was in labor. I was merely sitting on the end of the bed, trying to get my socks on, but I guess the excessive grunting and sighing sounded alarming. It's hard to remember a time when getting dressed in the morning wasn't the most difficult thing I do all day.

If you'd been in the right grocery store at the right time yesterday afternoon, you could have found me standing in front of the Ben & Jerry's display, stroking my belly and murmuring, "So what do we want, baby? What sounds good? Chunky Monkey? Cherry Garcia? Whirled Peace?" The guy stocking the case didn't seem phased at all, though. I think being this pregnant qualifies one for a certain amount of eccentricity.

Yesterday was my last day of work. Next week and most of the week after, I am on vacation; after that, maternity leave. If there's any time in between, (i.e. if I get through the next two weeks sans delivering baby) I'll get a doctor's note and take short-term disability, because I'm not lumbering back into work that much past my due date. Actually, they probably wouldn't even want me, more than a week overdue* and ready to pop any minute. It feels strange to be done with work. I've always worked. The bank offers a 12-week maternity leave, so combined with my vacation time and etc, the earliest I would be returning would be September, if I go back at all. That is still up in the air, because it's very hard to know what I want to do, in a situation I've never been in before.

Our annual, surprise bank audit happened Wednesday, months before we were expecting it. (They actually nailed the "surprise!" part of it this year.) I was at the doctor's office when my coworker texted me, letting me know that the audit team was there... I'm glad the nurse had already checked my blood pressure by that point, because I'm sure it shot right up... I know my heart rate did. It's a nerve-wracking experience, a bank audit, no matter how prepared you think you are. We got the highest score possible, which is really unusual and puts us (me) in a very small winners' circle... The bank is buying dinner for me, my manager, her manager (like he had anything to do with it, really!) and two tellers; hopefully the dinner will be early next week or else there will be a tiny, uninvited guest coming along. I had originally been hoping that the auditors wouldn't come until I was gone, just so that I wouldn't have to go through it, (did I mention that it makes for a rough day?) but now I'm glad it happened this week. I figure that if they had come later in the summer, one of three things would have happened: we get a lower score based on something that was done wrong after I left (i.e. new people coming in and messing up my banking center, grrr); we would get a lower score based on something that I had unknowingly screwed up before I left, so that everybody is cursing me after I'm gone; or, we get the perfect score that we got Wednesday, but because I've been gone for a month, I get no credit for the results, even though I'd been diligently keeping the center in order for the whole year since the last audit... people's memories are short. This is really the best-possible outcome all around.

Things are starting to change in a way that makes me think that I'm not going to go past my due date. I think the baby has 'dropped' somewhat, based on the new, interesting pain in my pelvic bones; the sudden, otherwise unexplained, constipation, balanced out by *less* need to pee... baby's head seems to be resting in new places. I'm carrying so low that strangers feel the need to comment on it: "If that baby falls any more, he'll drop right out!" Well, that is kind of the plan, really. I've been very even-keeled, calm and steady, for most of this pregnancy, but in the last week or so I've been... less so. Hormonal whirlwind would be more accurate. 'Evil pregnant monster' might be Don's honest assessment, should you be able to drag such a thing out of him. I've actually cried twice in the last week, and I am not a crier in general. So, either all of these little changes mean that the baby is coming soon, or it means that the next two or three weeks are going to be... interesting**.

Last night, Don and I had to perform chicken surgery. Nobody mentions these things in the books glorifying backyard chicken-keeping; nobody discusses having to sneak into the hen house late at night, grab the bird you need, and spend a nerve-wracking ten minutes plucking feathers out of her feet. Now my first batch of birds were purebred, which means that you pretty much know exactly what you're getting. This batch is mixed, the result of somebody not separating their chickens by breed for the winter. Since I can't have a breeding flock anyway, it doesn't matter much, and it's actually been more fun so far; the first chickens were not only purebred, they were sisters, and completely identical to my eyes. These girls are all different. One's black-and-white, one's all white, one's almost all golden, and one is gold-and-black. She's the smallest, the prettiest, and Don's favorite. And for some reason, she has feathers growing down her legs and out of her feet. Now some breeds of chickens do have feathered legs and feet, but they tend to be fancy show birds, not the sturdy, barnyard layer types that are supposedly the parent stock of my chickens. We noticed several days ago that she was sort of limping and hobbling around. My first thought was that she'd hurt or broken her leg somehow, but a close inspection showed her legs to be fine, albeit with big feathers growing between her toes. At first I thought that maybe the feathers were just slowing her down, affecting her balance, (since the feathers were as big as her toes) but another few days showed her seemingly in pain, and pecking at the feathers to the point of drawing blood. We decided that if they were bothering her that much, the feathers had to go. So we waited until dark, kidnapped her, and I de-feathered her feet using pliers while Don held her on his lap. She was not happy with this procedure; I could tell it hurt. I think generally you don't pluck chickens until they're dead, but then again she was trying to get them out herself, and I think I did a better job. This morning she seems to be getting around easier; another day and we'll know for sure whether it was the right thing to do. At least the experience didn't traumatize her too badly, as this morning she's eating, drinking, and hanging out with the rest of the flock... This is a good thing since tonight, we'll be doing the same thing, except just to do another inspection, and a hydrogen-peroxide foot-bath. I love the chickens but they do walk in their own poop a lot, and she's essentially got open wounds on her feet-- I don't want her freed from the feathers only to be taken down by an infection instead. The joys of livestock, they never end. One funny thing, though; all of the advice books claim that you need to provide your chickens with at least 9" of roosting space per bird, and ideally 12". We have a four-foot-long roost in the coop for four birds. I thought, given the recommendations, that they would sort of evenly space themselves out along the roost at night, but it turns out that they all huddle close together, squashing themselves into the first 18" or so. I had wondered if they were doing something like that just based on where the droppings seemed to accumulate, but it wasn't confirmed until last night, when we actually saw them sleeping. I guess we could have used either half the length of roost, or had twice as many birds in there at night... Silly books.

*Don't worry, I'm fully aware that I would have to get past 42 weeks, not 40, to actually qualify as "overdue", and that the average first-time gestation is a little more than 41 weeks. But my work doesn't know that, and I have no intention of enlightening them.

** By which I mean HELL.

Bits of Things

The Target in my city sells basic cloth diapers, which is nice. They do not, however, sell diaper pins. They use stylized images of diaper pins in their baby-section decor, but they don't actually offer said pins for sale. This confuses me, because without the pins to hold them together, the diapers are nothing more than burp-rags. I tried both the masculine and feminine methods for Finding Something in a Store, (because I am in touch with all of my aspects); first I wandered around by myself for ten minutes, looking and looking. Then I asked a salesperson for help. Neither method produced satisfactory results, but the womanly way was faster and more efficient, and came with a tip: try Babies'R'Us.

I've finally been making some progress around the house, little by little. Nothing like an impending deadline to get that fire burning, you know? There's still a ton to do, big messes everywhere, but I at least have a game-plan now. Don has discovered one of the Many Things to NOT Say to One's Pregnant Wife, which is that the fabric that she picked out for curtains* looks to him like it's covered in big marijuana plants**. This is the fabric that I spent three days choosing, on which I had already asked his opinion, and had spent most of the weekend sewing. It's a leafy, green batik print that mostly resembles BAMBOO. Believe me when I say that he has spent most of this week admiring the curtains...

I'd love to paint this room as well, but can't because it has water damage on the ceiling and (now) on one wall. The plan is: fix the leaky roof, THEN redo the walls/ceiling. It just makes more sense that way, really. But it will probably be a few weeks at least before Don can get to the roof, so no pretty green walls yet.

Had yet another doctor's appointment this morning, everything is still fantastic. Nothing to report. Turned down the option for a vaginal exam/ cervical check, because really, there's no point to them. When people ask me whether I'm dilated at all yet*** I basically just fib and say 'no'. I mean, I might be, and I might not be. It's easier than going into a diatribe of why internal exams aren't necessary during the last weeks of pregnancy.


*not for a nursery, since we don't have one, but for the room that is becoming the guest bedroom.

** Since he does not partake of said leafy herb, it wasn't a compliment, like, ah... my favorite plant... that it would be coming from some.

*** HONESTLY, the things people ask a pregnant woman. I'm sorry, but my cervix became your business WHEN exactly?!

Assurance

I promise you all, Cathy is in good health! She is not obese, or even close. Her coat is nice and the dandruff is hardly noticable, unless you're brushing her. She hasn't stopped eating. She's had a recent physical (or whatever their called for pets-- a well-cat visit?) and was declared a fine specimen of an 8.5 year-old cat. Please don't worry!

Maternity Ward Tour

I have finally taken the tour my hospital offers of its maternity ward. This is apparently something that one should sign up for many moons in advance, but I didn't get that memo. Honestly, there is so much involved in getting ready for a baby, which all has to be squished around the work day as it is, AND accommodate for having a pregnant body and mind*, that it's pretty amazing that any memos get through at all . So I called last week, and asked to reserve a place in this week's tour, only to be told that it had been booked solid for ages. But the nice lady asked when I was due, and when I told her, said that she'd keep my name and number handy in case there were any cancellations, and booked me for the next week instead. Who knew that the maternity tour was something you could be wait-listed for? Somebody actually cancelled, and the receptionist actually called me back to see if I wanted in. I did.

This actually gave me pause, because whoever couldn't show up, took the time to call and let the hospital know. Keep in mind that this is a free tour, so it's not like there's a deposit involved or something; it was just such a considerate thing to do, since the hospital takes so few people on each tour, and procrastinators like me are on a waiting list. If I had signed up early and then couldn't make it, would I have called? I hope so. More likely is that I would probably have meant to call and then forgot.


The tour was great. Don couldn't go given the short notice, so I was the mama-to-be that appeared to be all on my own, without even a girlfriend or mother for support. Ah well. The only aspect that Don was really concerned with was the "where to park, what door to go through" bit, and I took notes on that part. (We were wondering whether it would work better for Don to drop me at the front door and park the car, or if we should park together and walk up together-- I maintained that it really depended on how I was feeling at that moment. It turns out that there's free valet parking, solving that little dilemma right there.) On a similar note, I timed my trip from our front door to the hospital's parking lot, and it took 6.5 minutes. This was during the worst part of rush hour traffic, going the speed limit, and obeying all laws; it would be even faster later in the evening. Sometimes I love living downtown.


If this hospital had a theme song, it would appear to be Roy Orbison's "Anything You Want". We have jacuzzi tubs! Birth balls! Squatting bars! Epidurals! NO epidurals! A snack room just for you! The baby at your side! Or, the baby in the nursery! The nurse's refrain was, "but it's totally up to you! It's your choice!"-- she must have said it a dozen times at least. They do have a few rules. You can wander around the halls, but should stay on the fourth floor; apparently this was instituted after a doctor (temporarily) lost her patient and happened to catch sight of her through the window, walking down the street, two blocks away. I'm assuming that patient chose to labor in her own clothes and not a hospital gown. (It's totally your choice!) I was pretty impressed, both with the ward itself** and with this cater-to-the-patient attitude. Of course, we'll have to see how it actually plays out during the real event. It could all be window-dressing, I suppose.

I had a prenatal appointment the next morning with my least-favorite-of-the-three-OBs and mentioned the tour, said it seemed pretty awesome. The doctor's reply (and you must imagine this in a heavy, Eastern European or Russian accent): "It is a small hospital, quite small maternity ward, which is good for personal care, I guess. The equipment is fairly up-to-date. Most of the time, they know what they are doing." High praise, indeed. "most of the time"?! Other than that, the appointment went very well; the only embarrassing incident was when the nurse found me using the hand-sink in the nurses' station after delivering my urine sample, and I had to explain that instead of peeing IN the cup, I accidentally peed ALL OVER the cup***, and then had to carry it. Ick. Blood pressure, fetal heart rate, fundal measurements, all good. Weight is shocking, but not a concern. I guess we're getting there!




*Honestly, I can deal more easily with the pregnant body than the infamous "pregnancy brain". Hips and back hurt, everything heavy and slow? You adapt, adjust, take a little extra time or effort, take a nap. How do you adapt to leaving your keys random places, or forgetting to put the groceries in the fridge?


** Not that I have anything to compare it with, it just seems really nice, with the big bathtubs and bouncy balls and all.

*** Because things Down There are Not the Same: peeing in a cup, at which I used to be a pro (you would too if you spent so many months using ovulation-prediction kits for half the month, then pregnancy tests the other half-- you only have to have one faulty, no-answer pregnancy test before you start using a cup just in case. "ARRGGH the test didn't work and now the first-morning-urine has been flushed! I can't test again until TOMORROW!") is now more like using a water hose with your thumb over the end, and still trying to aim.

Definition of Infinity

If you groom an 11-pound, short-haired cat with a wire brush, the brush fills up with hair, which then has to be removed and thrown away. (I call the clump that comes off the brush a hair-biscuit; the process of removing it is oddly satisfying, kind of like getting the dryer lint off the screen in one piece.)

If the cat enjoys being brushed, as mine does, you'd think that eventually, the hair-biscuits would become smaller or less frequent as you continue to groom; or even that the brush would eventually stop accumulating fur entirely. All of those thoughts are wrong. What happens is that the brush collects hair at the same rate for as long as you are willing to brush said cat. Therefore, the amount of cat hair on this one cat, is INFINITE. This discovery goes a long way in explaining the condition of our house and furniture.

Incidentally, it turns out that the solution to cat dandruff has nothing to do with grooming, but rather involves adding fish oil to her diet*. Thank goodness, because if there's one thing a pregnant lady has on hand, it's fish oil... it's too bad she seems to heartily dislike it, so far. They say that it can take up to 15 presentations of an unfamiliar or disliked food, before a child will finally accept it. Nobody seems to know anything about how many presentations it takes for a cat. Will it take two solid weeks of dribbling (expensive, people-quality) fish oil on her kibble before she starts enjoying it? Or will the fact that she has nothing else to eat except fish-tainted Purina One speed up the process? Does anybody sell cheap, pet-quality fish oil, and does wondering about that make me a bad person? Stay tuned for the exciting conclusions, next!

*Thank you Google. My debt to you is also bordering on infinite-- so much information, some of it valid, and all for free... Where else would the phrase "cat dandruff" return 360,000 hits?

Trudging Uphill

Don returned home Thursday evening. Since then, he has fixed the toilet and the air conditioner, mowed the front yard, and used the string trimmer on all the edges. (The string trimmer is beyond my capabilities at the moment... apparently they don't come with front-wheel drive like the lawnmower.) It's good to have him back.

I'm finally making a little bit of progress in terms of getting everything together for the baby's arrival. My goal of having everything "done" by the end of April turned out to be a huge joke, except not the funny kind. Still, I've bought the car seat, started the diaper stash, washed a bunch of the clothes and blankets, and started looking for a dresser/changing table on Craig's List. Don and I started looking for our new couch yesterday, too. This may not seem baby-related, but it is, in its own way. We have two bedrooms, and contrary to popular expectations, we aren't turning the second into a nursery, but into a guest bedroom/ study. In the beginning, at least, the baby and his/her accessories will stay in our bedroom. To accomplish this, we're going to move our futon, which has faithfully served as our one-and-only sofa for many years, into the spare room to be the guest bed as needed (it actually makes a comfortable bed, honest!), and buying a Real, Grownup Sofa for the living room. Exciting stuff, seriously. That way, when people come to stay with us, we have a place to put them that isn't the living room. Since my mom is planning to come as soon as the baby arrives (or sooner, depending how long Baby takes to get here), and my sister and her boyfriend are coming in late June, it's pretty critical to our overall baby-readiness. The biggest setback is that I currently have NO energy. None. It seems to be all I can do to go to work each day.

Speaking of work, I no longer have access to The Internet from there: a new company-wide policy is preventing us from checking our personal email accounts, and is monitoring and tracking who is still doing so. It doesn't take a huge leap to think that this also may apply to Google, Amazon, EBay, and other non-work related sites. Since I did almost all of my blog-updating on my lunch breaks, posting might be even scarcer than usual for the next three weeks. (Three weeks, because that's when my vacation starts-- the vacation with no end date! Sad, I know, but I'm almost as excited about NOT WORKING for awhile as I am about the baby coming. Three more weeks!)

Who Needs a Man?

Me, apparently. I do. Who would have thunk?

Don has been out of town, again, these last two weeks. His father took a sudden turn for the worse and was rehospitalized, so Don drove back to Illinois on the doctor's strong suggestion. We were both hoping that it was a false alarm, not as bad as it seemed, maybe the doc and his mom were over-reacting, etc, but apparently the doctor knew of what he spoke, as Don's dad passed away last week. It was decided for me that I should remain here and not travel for the funeral, so while Don has been there, tending to his mom, funeral arrangements, financial stuff, and cleaning his parents' garage; I've been here, holding down the fort. So to speak.

It is interesting, in a way, to discover exactly what one can and can't (or won't) do, when one is used to having a handy spouse around. Can I mow the lawn, having never done it before, and being eight months pregnant? Apparently, yes. (Four times in two weeks, since I can't do the back yard and front yard at the same time. The chickens aren't as scared of the mower as I think they should be.) Can I fix the air-conditioning unit when it breaks during an almost-unprecedented 90-degree April weekend? No. Can I still move the chicken coop, in my delicate condition? Yes. Operate the string trimmer? No. Fix the toilet, which also broke? No, but I know how to turn the water off at the base. Buy 120 pounds of compost and manure from Lowe's, haul it to the backyard, spread it on my garden, rake it in, and plant all the plants? Yes. Without crying from the pain and stiffness the next day? No. And I can take the dog on every one of her walks, morning, afternoon, and night, and keep everybody fed, watered, pooped and happy.

Really, it's as though the house knew Don was leaving, and felt vengeful towards me for some reason*. The high on Saturday was 93, and the air just never kicked on. It got to 89 degrees inside the house, even with all of the windows open and ceiling fans running. At 4:30 in the morning, it was still 79 inside. Sunday and Monday were the same. I did essentially nothing all weekend but take cool showers and lay naked on the bed under the fan-- so much for my to-do list. Who could vacuum or do laundry in that heat, I ask you**? Meanwhile, the toilet started running nonstop, water trickling endlessly from the tank to the bowl, and fast. I think the house doesn't like me.

When Don gets back, it will be to a neat yard, semi-clean house, planted garden, and healthy chicken-coop. But can I say that while I'm glad to have earned my I-can-do-it, who-needs-a-man! badge, I'd rather not have to? I hope yesterday was the last time I'll have to mow the lawn this season. On the bright side, I found at my doctor's appointment this morning that my weight has actually dropped a bit. Whether from all of the physical exertion of late, or from doing nothing but drinking water and sweating copiously all weekend, I don't know, but I'm guessing the latter. To think, some people pay a lot of money to experience such things. Come to my home, and sweat for free!

*Does this count as paranoia?

** Except for all of the generations of women who did it before a/c was even invented, and didn't get a break for being pregnant, either.

Try, try again

I have new chickens, replacements for my girls that were killed in the Pre-Thanksgiving Massacre. We have a new back gate, and new reinforcements on the back doors of the coop. It takes me some time now to undo all the latches in order to change the feed, water, or bedding, but that's OK. These doors can't be opened by anything but human hands and a decent amount of strength. I also accidentally trapped myself in the backyard, as the gate opens out (so that it can't be pushed in) and the latch is the type that drops into the ground. It seems that it is possible to drop the latch by reaching over the gate, but once it's lowered, it's too low to reach from the other side. Thank goodness Don was mowing the front yard and saw me jumping up and down trying to get his attention.

We are also experimenting, trying to determine exactly how "teachable" chickens are. Obviously they can learn some things; for example it only took them a few days to realize that Mara = food and they like me a lot, now. What we want, is for the girls to learn to run for the coop should they see a dog in the yard. We're using Alice, who is a hunter by blood and would kill the birds if she had the chance. We walked her down to the backyard and when she saw the birds, she froze and pointed. She raced around and around the run, and the birds ran in circles inside. Then three of them jumped up into the coop, while the fourth (re-named Stupid) continued to flap in circles. Eventually she figured it out, too. It's too soon to tell if they're learning (we'll do another trial next weekend but I don't want to put undue stress on them), although I noticed last night that when a bunch of neighborhood dogs started barking, the chickens all ran to the side of the run (haha, that sounds funny) and stared out, alert-like.

I hope it's safe to say that, whatever may happen with THESE chickens, it won't be a dog attack. I say all this because whenever I announce the arrival of New Chickens, the first thing people tend to ask about is our new defensive system, as in, "You're not going to let dogs get these ones too, are you?" Still, when I called Don yesterday evening, they were the first thing he asked about-- "Is it the chickens? Are they OK?"-- still traumatized, I guess, by my phone call last November along the lines of, "All my chickens are dead and I need you to come home and deal with the bodies."

I'll have pictures soon. Meant to take some Sunday when we were free-ranging, since the photos come out so much better without the wire mesh of the run in the way, but I forgot to bring the camera downstairs with me.

Let Me S'plain.

No, there is too much; let me sum up.

Sorry for the extra-long, worrisome silence. Everything is OK.

My father-in-law was hospitalized shortly after my trip to Texas, with a cascade of issues; the most serious being a stroke and the most immediate, a kidney infection. I didn't want to write about it until I knew more about what was happening, which took a long time. He has since been moved from the hospital to a nursing home for 'recovery'; whether he graduates from there back to his home remains to be seen, but the estimates right now are at about 3 months. Whether that estimate is based on his actual progress or on insurance, I can't tell.

Don drove out to be with his parents and was there for a little more than a week. I didn't want to post about that, not wanting to advertise my being all alone, not ever really knowing who's reading the blog, etc. There's something about being this much pregnant that makes me feel more vulnerable than usual. I don't know if it's because I'm all big, slow, and wobbly, not my usual nimble self, or because I'm feeling defensive for the little one within. Either way, I find myself suspicious of passers-by, fast-moving vehicles, thunder and lightning, everything.

I am finding out why nobody seems to rave about the last trimester of pregnancy; it's really starting to kick my ass. All of the energy and drive that I had in January and February left me sometime in mid-March. All of the great things I was getting done, have been un-done by sheer entropy and nap-attacks. The baby is coming and NOTHING IS READY.

We did get more chickens. Many posts to follow, surely, about the new chickens.

More of the same

Two weird things.


First, bookending my vacation to Dallas last week, were two days of perfect flights. Four planes took off on time, landed on time, let me off the plane and into the airport, on time. Twice, I got through security with hardly any lines and no hassle. Nothing was cancelled, or rerouted, or delayed; I did not find myself in cities that I'd had no intention of visiting. I did not have to avail myself of the Little White Bags. For anybody not familiar with my general experiences with flying, to say that this is not usual for me is rather an understatement. All I can think is that the universe is still paying back a little karma for the Dallas/Austin/New Mexico saga last December. I wonder how many good flights I can have before my usual luck kicks back in?


Second, I had a doctor's appointment this morning (every two weeks now, sheesh) and I didn't have to wait. AT ALL. I arrived twenty minutes early, and was called back before I could even open a magazine. Then, instead of leaving me alone in the examining room for half an hour (you, know, like last time) the doctor came right in and did his thing. My appointment was scheduled for 9:45am, and I was back in my car by 9:51. Amazing.


Today's visit was with Doctor # 3, so I've finally met everybody who may deliver my baby. (Although I had ANOTHER fast-birth-accidentally-at-home-Don-delivered dream a few days ago. I don't generally put much stock in dreams, but why does this one keep coming up? I'm only a few repetitions shy of signing him up for an emergency-childbirth class.) Doctor # 3 seemed pretty cool, definitely laid-back, and rather patient-as-consumer, which isn't a bad thing. (I.e., birth = whatever the heck I want.) He did seem a little surprised that I was only now really thinking about labor and birth, that I hadn't signed up yet for the classes I hoped to take, etc. It's hard to explain, but after so many losses, one takes pregnancy day-by-day... you don't think ahead, don't plan ahead, don't assume that you'll still be pregnant tomorrow just because you happen to be that day. It's only now, in my third trimester, that I can start thinking about giving birth, breastfeeding, things we'll need for a baby, stuff like that. Everybody seems to be asking, "What do you have so far for the baby?" "Bought a crib yet?" "Done the nursery?" and it seems so foreign. Like, you do those things THIS EARLY? Don't you know what could happen? No, bless you, of course you don't. May it stay that way. But you would think that a doctor might make the emotional connection between the four miscarriages on the chart, and the delay of interest in the later stages of pregnancy, labor, birth. Either way, apparently I need to call the hospital ASAP if I want to learn how to breathe, or, you know, where the L&D department is.


I have gained an amazing amount of weight. (29 pounds if you must know, and I'm 29 weeks along. Hey!) I now weigh about one pound shy of my husband. Pretty soon if he annoys me, I will be able to just sit on him. But, the doc says it's no problem, nothing to worry about, except for if I want to lose it again later.

Most Recent Appointment

I aced my glucose test, and basically failed on iron. Based on my rudimentary knowledge of diet, I would have predicted the opposite: I get a decent amount of iron but eat my weight in sugars every few days. Since getting those results I've done some research, and now realize that the copious amounts of dairy I consume have probably prevented most of that iron from getting through. (Yeah, the whole fortified cereal thing? It doesn't really do much good if you eat your cereal with milk. Go figure. And chopping up my prenatal vitamins and mixing them into yogurt probably wasn't the BEST idea. Too bad the best spinach is creamed spinach...)

Nurse: "Actually, with iron levels in this range, I'm a bit surprised that you're not experiencing any symptoms from it."

Me: "What kind of symptoms?"

Nurse: "Primarily fatigue. Being very tired, not having enough energy, is the first and strongest sign of iron deficiency."

Me: "Well of COURSE I'm exhausted, but I kind of figured it was from being six months pregnant. Or from the chronic insomnia of the past several months..."

Honestly, how am I supposed to tell one kind of fatigue from another? She seemed surprised that I am still standing up and walking around under my own power. Now, I take most of the doctor's-office tests with a grain of salt or two; half of them are half-useless and some can do more harm than good. But iron, not so much. I know that at about 28 weeks the baby starts storing iron (from MY blood supply) in its own little liver, and that store is supposed to help him or her get through the first six months or so of life. So not having good iron stores means that either the baby saps me dry and I become really anaemic, or the baby doesn't get enough and is either born with low iron or is deficient within a few months, or both. Iron deficiency can also contribute to early labor and premature birth. I'm kicking myself right now for not foreseeing that this could be a problem; I've been turned away from blood drives a few times over the years for not having enough iron to donate, and I know that the last miscarriage took a lot out of me. Now I'm 27 weeks and trying to make up lost ground, and it can take months to reestablish healthy stores. I wish I'd requested an extra test early in the pregnancy, but then I was too concerned with the more life-or-death stuff like progesterone, hCG betas, all that jazz.

So, I am on a separate iron supplement, and (more importantly) a strategy to keep it far away from any stray calcium. (It's not a complicated strategy: don't eat any dairy or other calcium foods after 2:00pm or so, then take the iron a little before dinner around 7:30pm or so, with some orange juice.) I ordered the fancy, plant-based Floradix that so many people swear by, it will arrive next week while I'm in Texas. In the meantime I'm taking prescription samples. I'm also drinking more of my medicinal tea, which itself is high in iron.

Meanwhile, the doctors are quite pleased with my blood sugar and blood pressure, and if they have any concerns about my weight gain, they haven't voiced them. I saw Dr. Zoidberg again, even though I'm supposed to see each doctor in turn. (My fault, because I had to reschedule. No wait, WORK's fault, for making me reschedule.) He is a little odd in that his answer to everything seems to be, "More water, prunes, vitamins." Which makes sense when you're discussing constipation, but this is the answer to maybe four different issues? I mentioned that ordinary activities like walking, or going up a flight of stairs, was making my leg muscles burn as though I'd been working out, and his answer was still more-water-and-vitamins. Meanwhile, his solution to the insomnia was to NOT drink so much water before bed (even though it's not my bladder waking me up), and his answer to the heartburn was Tums, even after telling me that calcium is the enemy of iron. Help. It was quite funny, though, when he was explaining that I would need to take extra iron, and that the iron WILL make me constipated if we don't have a plan of attack. "You will need to plan ahead! Water! Lots of water! Buy some prune juice! Fruits are good but NOT bananas!" (Oh, that banana I've eaten every day for two months? Not helping, apparently. But, it is the only thing that helps with the leg cramps, so oh well. I'll trade brain-freezing leg cramps for being a little stopped up.) I guess it's only funny if you can imagine it in the heavy Eastern European accent, and with the going-to-war-against-poo gesturing. He did explain WHY I have heartburn, which really interested me. Apparently, my body is being ruled by progesterone right now... the same progesterone I couldn't make enough of, so many times. Now I have lots. Progesterone relaxes soft muscle tissue, because part of its job is to keep the uterus relaxed and happy (i.e., not forcibly ejecting the baby.) The little sphincter (hehehe) at the base of the esophagus is ALSO soft muscle tissue, and equally affected by the hormone. So it, too, is relaxed and happy, and not doing its job of keeping the stomach's acid where it should be. Live and learn! (I wonder, although I didn't ask, whether any of the muscles of the bladder or urinary tract are this kind of muscle, too, and whether that would explain the random incontinence of pregnancy; if the uterus is relaxed so that it won't contract before its time, and the esophagus is all relaxed and not guarding itself against acid, maybe the bladder is relaxed and not holding in what it should. Just a theory from this maxipad-packin', pregnant woman...)

Well, I must go now and drink some water, take my vitamins, and eat a few prunes, in preparation for my flights to Texas tomorrow...

Because you asked...

A coworker took these pictures for me. I think they illustrate a lot more than just my baby-belly, unfortunately; especially the fact that my ass has grown substantially to counter-balance said belly. And that, apparently, I'm growing another chin, too.

And you all wonder why I never post pictures...

6 months, more or less

I don't know what it is, but people don't like to see a cheerful, pregnant woman. It is, apparently, irksome. I get asked, "How are you feeling?" and when I reply, "Great!", everybody says the same thing: "Just wait!" Wait until next month, the next trimester, labor, birth, parenthood. Nobody ever seems to say, "That's wonderful!" or "How nice." Why try to bring me down? Does my feeling good somehow, in their eyes, make me so deluded as to think that I will always feel good, and so they must warn me otherwise? It's too hard (and private) to explain that "great" is short-hand for, "After everything that I've been through to get to this point, after four miscarriages and six months of specialists, after thinking that I would never get to have a healthy pregnancy, how could this be anything BUT great? Sure, I'm not sleeping at night, my hips and back have been killing me for months, and I've peed on myself twice, at work, with no idea how it happened. But I DON'T CARE because there is a BABY INSIDE OF ME and s/he is ALIVE. That, people, is GREAT. Period."


Similarly, someone that comes to where I work has been commenting on the fact that I'm "getting big!" Well, yeah, that's kind of supposed to happen, you know? I'm six months pregnant, and pretty much right on-track for weight gain, fetus size, and overall "look"-- that is, I look about six months along, not much more or much less. Am I supposed to be upset over getting bigger? There is a baby growing in there, after all. I guess I don't get it... I just say, "I sure am! Can't wait to see what I look like in May!" which so far has shut her up.


Two wonderful things happened yesterday. The first is that I discovered this movement that relieves almost all of the pain in my hips. You stand with legs a bit apart and knees bent, and then move your hips around in a huge circle several times, and then the other way. Then the first way again. Etc. I figured this out by accident in the shower, trying to get the hot water to land on my back the right way. It's awesome. I wouldn't recommend doing it in public, though, because it looks like something half-way between hula-hooping and what a cat does right before it hacks up a hairball. I did this so much last night that I have that post-work-out burn in my thighs today-- but my hips don't hurt. The other thing was that, somehow, I slept almost all night long. I woke up this morning and remembered, this is what it feels like to be rested. I'd forgotten.

Tips for Better Banking

First: If your bank requires deposit slips to make a deposit, then you generally have two options: use your own, pre-printed deposit tickets, or fill out the generic form offered at the bank. USE YOUR OWN SLIPS. Seriously.

Pros:
Much faster. They already have your name, address, and account number printed on them, so all you have to do is fill in the date and the money. You get to smugly slide by all the poor saps standing around the counter, laboriously printing out their address for the millionth time.

More accurate: Mistakes happen. Deposit slips have to be read by multiple sets of eyes, and messy handwriting or transposed digits on a hand-written slip can derail a deposit. Hand-filled deposit tickets have to be typed by hand into the computer system, first by the teller and later by a proof-work operator. Your pre-printed slips are read through a machine: more accurate, and again, faster for you.

Cons: None. They're free to order, so why on earth not, right? There are a few at the back of every book of checks, and you can order deposit slips separately... at no cost. This is because the bank WANTS you to use them.

Second: Take some of that time you're saving by using pre-printed tickets, and write your account number on the back of every check. Some banks require this. Some don't. It doesn't matter-- this is for YOU, not the bank. This comes back to the "mistakes happen" concept. Sometimes a check gets separated from the herd... ah, from the deposit. Bank paperwork equals big stacks of deposits, rubber-banded together and sent elsewhere. 99.999% of the time, every check in every deposit gets where it needs to be-- the system works. But for that one check that doesn't, it ends up in a "homeless items" bin somewhere, waiting to be matched back to the account it belongs with. If that account number is written on the back, then the check can get back where it needs to be so fast, you may never notice that anything went awry. If there's no account number, though, it can take a long time: long enough to cause major problems for you. By labeling the checks in your deposit, you are only protecting yourself!

Third: Writing your account number on every check does something else for you: it helps you learn or memorize your account number. No, you don't need to know the whole thing, but memorizing at least the last four digits of each account is very useful. For one thing, when you look at your receipt and the last four numbers on it, you may notice if the teller screwed up your deposit.

Fourth: If you have multiple accounts, have some mental system for knowing which is which. The best, as stated above, is to know at least the last four digits of each. Otherwise, know (for example) whether one is in your name only but the other is jointly held, or the approximate balances in each if the balances are relatively stable. That way, if you walk up to the teller window and ask to withdraw from an account, or transfer from a checking account to a credit card to make a payment, or close an account, and the teller asks, "OK, which account?"... you have a good answer. This will keep you from getting your stuff in trouble by using the wrong account for the wrong thing. Again, account numbers are best because they are concrete.

Fifth: Speaking of credit cards, if you have any, set your PINs. While every debit card holder has a PIN to use at the ATM or at stores as "debit", most credit card holders have no idea what their PIN is. Working with the theory that credit cards are for emergencies, it is imperative that you be able to use one for cash if need be. To get a cash advance off of a credit card at an ATM, you need that PIN. Hopefully, this will be something you never, ever have to do, since the interest rates and fees for cash advances are awful. But you never know*, so be prepared! To set a new PIN, call the customer service number on the back of the card. It's usually one of the first options offered in the automated menu.

Fifth-A: PIN advice: I set the PIN for all of my credit cards and my debit card to the same number. Now it doesn't matter how seldom I use it, it's that number for everything. Also, do not use any part of your date of birth or your social security number. Hello, obvious?

Sixth: Research what your bank offers, so that you can take advantage of everything. Chances are, you're already paying for it one way or another. Free online banking? Free savings if you have a checking? Free checking if you direct-deposit your paycheck? Free text-message alerts if your balance drops below (x) dollars? Savings services that make matching contributions? Debit cards linked to charitable organizations? For brand-new customers, all of this is spelled out in the account set-up, but if you've had your account for years, you may be missing out. When you're in the bank, look around at the promotional materials; if your friend banks where you do and his debit card has the Habitat for Humanity logo on it, ask how he got it and why; or just sit down with someone at the bank, and ask if your accounts are still the best thing going. Banks are constantly rolling out new programs, trying to attract new customers, but old customers can really get the shaft if they aren't paying attention.



*Last summer, the day I found out I was going to miscarry our fourth pregnancy, was such a time. Don was out of town, my car was in the shop, I was driving his truck, his truck got towed, and I was stranded. I was without cash and without my debit card (it was in a pants pocket at home), I was at the doctor's office and fairly nuts from grief from what I'd just seen on the ultrasound (i.e. another failed pregnancy). All I had was my Discover card and my cellphone. Luckily I was able to use the phone to get a ride from a friend (back to the impound lot where the truck was), and borrow cash from her, too. But that day I called Discover and re-set my PIN so that should I ever need to, I can withdraw from it, and started carrying cash in my wallet at all times.

Paper Hoarder

There is one part of this whole cleaning/de-cluttering that I'd been putting off for as long as possible, until every other major task had been completed... the PAPER. Piles of paper. Mounds of paper. Drawers, boxes, files full of paper. Important papers mixed with junk mail mixed with sentimental stuff. Like most pack rats, Don and I hold onto stuff like paperwork "in case we need it someday", while still managing to lose or misplace the bits we really do need. We had years' worth of bank statements, electric bills, and pay stubs, since I had no clear idea what needed to be kept for how long, and what could be tossed.

Last weekend, I jumped in head first and just tackled it. This was my system: grab a mountain of papers from somewhere (I ended up working in roughly reverse-chronological order, since the most recent paper-junk was the easiest to reach, rather like an archaeological dig) and sort into three categories: keep (actual, important documents), toss (non-personal items without identifying information), and shred (stuff with our names, addresses, socials, whatever). Needless to say, the "keep" pile ended up being the smallest. Once I was done with that arm-load of paper, I sorted the "keep" into actual, labeled files: tax returns, W2 forms, 10-99s, mortgage documents, everything. I had a separate "keep" stack for things that were sentimental: snapshots, letters, cards. Once the first armload was done, I'd grab another pile, do the same. Repeat. Stop periodically to shred. Here's what my work-table looked like at one, random point in the process:

I ended up filling more than 5 paper grocery bags with shredded paper. Unfortunately, I didn't think to document this amazing feat until the first batch or two had already gone on the compost heap, so this is only the last of it:

I don't know if every bit of paper is sorted, I can't find any more, but with our housekeeping skills that is no guarantee. I read in a book about organization, that the only kind of filing system that works for paper is vertical storage. Anything horizontal is just a stack. I really didn't get that before, strange as it probably sounds. Several years ago, I built myself a desk with a cabinet. The bottom drawer was supposed to be a file-drawer, but I didn't size it quite right, and it was too shallow to hold files vertically. I still ended up throwing all the paperwork in there, but horizontally. Stacked. That drawer was one of the last areas to be attacked, and it was a bitch to clean out. Now, I have this:

And that's all that's left of the paper. It took me an entire weekend and several evenings. My room is still a mess from the aftermath. The compost heap will be out-of-whack for awhile, trying to absorb all that paper. But it is finished. It's such a relief, for several reasons. For one, I have a system now. As of now, our entire life-on-paper fits neatly into 25 hanging folders. If something new comes up, I can make a new folder, but currently there is a place for everything. I know now what we can just get rid of immediately; going through this process has really helped with my sense of what to keep and what not to. This really synchronizes with my new policy of dealing with the mail right away, every day. No new piles! Second, I know where everything important is now. All those things I knew "were in a pile around here someplace" like our homeowners insurance policy, or the title to Don's truck, are piled no more. We are planning to get a safety deposit box at the bank soon for the really important, hard to replace documents, but for now, at least they're all in one place and I know where that is. Third, I know that there will be back-sliding. Twenty-eight years of messy doesn't go all organized in three months flat and stay that way. I will most likely fall off the wagon at some point. But it will never be as bad as it was before, because all that stuff is gone. We're starting with a clean slate right now. If I let all the paper go again for a month, or even for a year, at least I will never be shredding bank statements from 2004 again.

Although it is a dietary staple

Don: So I was thinking about names today.

Me: And...?

Don: How about Benjamin for a boy, or Geraldine for a girl?

Me:...

Don: If only it were twins and we could do both...

Me: ... We are NOT naming our baby after the ice cream!

Viable

We have passed the 24-week mark, a big milestone, the earliest age of viability. It means that if this little Passenger was for some reason (God forbid) born now, s/he would have a chance of surviving. It also means, more practically, that should something threaten the pregnancy at this point, doctors will do everything in their power to fix it and save the baby. (There seems to be a sliding scale here, from the early days when they tell you, "Yep, you're going to have a miscarriage, might as well go home and be comfortable" to performing life-saving heroics-- in-utero surgeries, major drugs to stop contractions, things like that-- based on the baby's viability. We're on the good side of that scale now.) I am now pregnant enough to have total strangers ask me when I'm due, if I know what I'm having. I am also now wider front-to-back than I am from side-to-side, for the first time ever. I found this out in a narrow corridor in a restaurant; I was exiting the bathroom as a waitress was coming by with an armload of dishes... I did that instinctive thing where you turn sideways to let someone pass by, only to find that it made the situation worse, not better. Whoops. I discovered this weekend that the problem with a normally very active fetus is that, occasionally, it will try to freak you out by taking a few really long naps. I'm so used to this constant, reassuring tumble-kick-slam, that when my little rugby player wouldn't move for what felt like hours at a time on Sunday, I panicked. Then Sunday night s/he started right back up again. Stop messing with mommy's mind, little one. All I want is for you to be alive, is that so much to ask? Speaking of my mind, I'm losing it. I didn't believe in "pregnancy brain" until today... maybe I still don't, since I can also blame the never-ending insomnia. But I accidentally left my purse at work, the work that is a 1/4-mile walk from the bank where we park. I had to walk back and forth, again, to get it.

Things I thought wouldn't happen to me that I was wrong about:

pregnancy brain
urinary incontinence AKA sneeze-pee-damn!
waddling (not yet but I can feel it coming, my walk is changing)
constantly touching belly

I'm wondering what else is going to make that list...

Little steps

Part of my cleaning/organizing marathon includes trying to get rid of anything we don't use anymore. Sounds totally obvious, I know, but it's like doing the dishes after dinner every night: what seems perfectly obvious and normal to normal people just doesn't occur to us, and when it does it's an inspiration.

WHY do I still have a bridesmaid dress (with matching shoes) from a wedding I was in three years ago? Storage in our home is very limited; we have two bedrooms, each with one reach-in closet. The closet in our "master bedroom" (in quoties because HA! hahahaha) is really small, maybe five feet long, so Don uses that one. The closet in the spare bedroom is a lot longer, so I've been using that one for my clothes, and one million other things. Now we have a baby coming, and I've been told you have to dress THEM in clothes, too, at least most of the time. More stuff is coming in, and yet no new closets have magically made themselves available. I don't understand this at all. To make the most of our closet, I have obtained* one of these closet organizer thingies. I hope it's as efficient as it looks, because we really can't bring in much more furniture. And have I mentioned that we're going with the cloth diapers? Oy. Hence, me getting rid of everything I don't wear, like bridesmaid dresses. A lot of it was easy, since I can't fit into any of my existing wardrobe, all I had to do is ask myself, "When I'm this size again, which will be at least a year from now, will I still want this?" "NO." Right now the organizer is still in the box. Getting Don to install it will be my reward for getting that room clean, I think, although finishing up downstairs comes first.


Speaking of downstairs, did I mention that we drove to IKEA last weekend-- about 2 1/2 hours away-- and cleaned out the rest of our renovation account for cabinets, counters, et al? I don't think the folks there are used to people buying an entire kitchen, from drawer pulls to faucets, at once. I can't wait until the apartment is totally finished, I'm just sick of dealing with it already. Honestly, we had no idea when we bought this place last summer, that we'd end up having to completely gut the kitchen and rebuild it from the wall studs on... New lumber, insulation, drywall, electric and plumbing, everything. it's really the kind of thing you want to plan on ahead of time, you know? Don has the next week off of work, and hopefully that is all it will take.





*I didn't buy it, I redeemed my "points" at work. We get them for random things like winning contests; I've been here for four years and had racked up quite a few and never used up any. Part of the changes for 2009 include no more points system: any we have we have to cash out by the end of the month. So I bought a closet system with them.

Doctor's visit

I had my prenatal appointment this morning, the one I'm supposed to have every four weeks but haven't had since October. You know you dislike your job when a doctor's appointment is actually exciting and fun: when the idea of peeing in a cup and having your blood pressure taken is a distinct improvement over a conference call.

There are three or four different obstetricians in the practice that I'm seeing, and their policy is to rotate each patient through each doctor several times for office visits; that way when it comes time to deliver, there's no "Hi, I'm your OB today!" conversation between contractions. I think it makes sense, although it means you're never seeing the same dude twice in a row. Today's doctor is the practice's New Guy, and his accent is surprisingly similar to Dr. Zoidberg's of Futurama, making me wonder if Dr. Zoidberg's accent (which I'd always assumed was made up) is based on some authentic dialect. It it going to be very difficult to NOT think of this doctor as Dr. Zoidberg in my mind, sadly. I like him so far, though, because he seems very diet-and-lifestyle oriented. When I mentioned my insomnia, he talked about what to do and not do before bed; when the prenatal-vitamin-constipation issue came up, he listed prunes, yogurt, fruits and vegetables, instead of medications. I'm more used to doctors throwing prescriptions or samples at me, so it's rather refreshing. He asked me maybe six times if I had any questions, but I don't. Except for the insomnia, I feel fantastic. (Actually, considering the amount of sleep I'm averaging, I feel amazing, like if I got seven hours of sleep sometime, I'd probably be able to fly.) He asked me if I'd had any bleeding or discharge (nope) and then asked, "Is there any reason I should do a cervical check?" Well if I'm not having any bleeding or discharge, why would we need to do that, right? Are there some women that just don't feel like it's a successful doctor's visit if they don't have a gloved hand up their privates?

Getting weighed was really funny. I've gained a good bit of weight (enough where I think I need to start paying more attention or else hit 50 pounds by June, I'm afraid), but that increase is since my 8-week appointment three months ago, the last they have on record for me. The nurse weighs me and starts to record the number, and I watch as her eyes get huge (clearly thinking that I've somehow gained 20 pounds in four weeks-- is that even possible?) then furrowed, as she compares the dates, then relaxed again as she realizes that my chart is just really screwed up. "Haven't been here in awhile, huh?" "Nope."

The problem with watching my weight or my diet, is that food has become amazingly wonderful. ALL food. My appetite is amazing, I think about food and eating fairly constantly. Everything tastes so good, even mundane things like apples or hard-boiled eggs. I have almost said out loud, "Be QUIET, I am concentrating on this apple! MMMmmm... apple." but luckily did not, as I was at work at the time. But it's like that with everything. I distinctly remember having a conversation with a friend who told me about this second-trimester eat-a-thon (she compared it to being stoned, I do believe) and now I'm experiencing it for myself. Well, how hard can it be to lose fifty pounds, anyway? I must go, we're having eggs and sausages for dinner, and they aren't going to cook themselves.... Mmmmm sausages.