Forty weeks, two days, due yesterday
I’m trying to smile, honest I am.
Made a little progress over the week; lost half a pound but dilated to just about a two. I let Owen play hooky from school the last two days to hang with me and my parents. We’ve been having a fairly good time just chillin’ around the house.
I don’t reckon Flipper is coming anytime soon, but I’m trying very hard to not to be a crank about it. Instead I’m going to enjoy all this extra ice-cream eating time and Owen-cuddling time. And the many, many dishcloths I’ve been crocheting.
40 weeks
Still nada. I am pointing and laughing at the girl I was two weeks ago, who thought she’d have a newborn by this time.
Ha. Oh, ha ha ha.
It’s like 157 degrees outside and I am as big as a house and resigned to the fact that this child just doesn’t want to come out. He’s not even going to mess with me watching the season finale of HOUSE tonight. I thought for SURE that a child of mine would go all Murphy’s Law on me and have me like in transition or something right when Hugh Laurie is solving the case.
But no. He’s so stubborn that he’s going to let me see the show. I think it’s because he knows that I’d much rather have a baby than even watch House. Damn smart kid.
Anyway. My parents are in from out of town and seem to be doing pretty well. My dad let me drive the Prius, even. Just a couple yards, but still. Owen is LOVING having his Nana and Grandpa around to spoil him and I am enjoying a little spoiling myself.
Might as well enjoy something if I have to be this pregnant, eh? (I mean I could always enjoy the bitching I seem to do incessantly but then who would benefit?)
Spoken like a true Marylander
Owen, with head cocked and hands clasped, to me at the dinner table:
“You done your dinner, sweetpea?”
Well, I died right there, I tell ya. Bless his heart.
“Done your.” Geez. If he had only replaced “sweetpea” with “Hon” I’d have known we had a true bilinguist in our midst: American English AND Bawlmerese.
Was this how my New York parents felt the first time they heard their children ask for a “pop” with our flat Midwestern twang?
Minutes from Flipperers Local 530 meeting re: negotiations
39w3d
Contract negotiations stalled. Both parties agreed to lay back and chillax for the time being, coming back to the table next Thursday unless some sort of strike is called beforehand.
In other words: No change! That day of fairly regular (albeit widely-spaced) Braxton Hicks contractions was just a tease. The doctor says the baby is “mid-position” (haven’t googled that yet) and not coming before Memorial Day.
Yesterday morning, when I got this news, I was pissed. I was fully expecting to head into labor by Saturday. I directed all of my anger at the doc, who had the gall to note in my chart “STILL NO NAME”, as if my inability to name my child before meeting him needed to go on my permanent record.
But my Dad met with a cardiologist yesterday afternoon and is having his ticker looked at today and I’d really like him to be all the way better and recovered before I toss another grandchild at him.
And my poor mom — her mother, her husband, and her daughter all in and out of the hospital in the last month. I’d like to give her a wee bit of a respite before the baby’s born as well.
So listen, Flipper. I know I said I wanted to get a move on but you know what? It can wait. Today is my last day of work before my maternity leave begins and I won’t mind enjoying a couple days with my feet up before you arrive for the party.
Owen: A welcome distraction
39w1d.
My BHs are organizing like surly steelworkers. They’ve been about every hour all day. Progress or wishful thinking? Will there be contract negotiations tomorrow? Only time will tell.
***
To keep our minds off my gigantic uncomfortableness, let me tell you how awesome my firstborn is.
For the last two weeks, he’s been bursting into my room about 6:15 a.m., with a wave and a smile. He clambers up into bed next to me, with his new favorite green blanket, and curls up and pretends to sleep. And pats my head, and squirms around, and pulls some books off the shelf-headboard, and watches the clock until he sees a 7.
“Sebin clock, Mom! Time to get up! Time for coffee and Pop-Tarts!”
So we go to the kitchen and I plop him on the counter and he pulls out Pop-Tarts for the two of us and dumps the scoop of ground coffee into the maker and pushes the button. Then he tells me it’s time to watch Wallace and Grommit — the part with the rabbits flying. “So funny,” he laughs, and shakes his head.
So I have my coffee and we eat and watch Wallace (“AND Grommit, Mom”) and Owen makes a mess of crumbs and goes to get the broom and the dust pan and tries to sweep them up. And then gives up.
“Help me, Mom? I sit here. YOU sweep dem up. Use dustpan. Here.”
Ha.
And then I get ready for work and then I get him ready for school and he stops me — “all done your coffee, Mom?” — and then we go to our respective daily employment and then I come home after work to his big smiling mug. And sometimes, when I’m really lucky, I plop myself down in the recliner and he runs up to me and says, “How’s work, Mom? How’s day?” And I plotz a little, because my kid is asking me about my day. And one day he’ll stand still long enough for me to answer, I just know it.
And then we hang out doing some activity or another for an hour — this week, it’s dumping wooden beads from one bin to another — while Iain cooks dinner and then Owen informs me that “DINNER’S READY! Come on, Mom.” And we eat. And after dinner he tries to clear his plate but he’s a short little thing so just as he’s about to tip it into the sink it spills all over him and the floor and we do the broom/dustpan routine again.
And then it’s time for a bath, and then afterward I wrap him up like a mummy and he toddles out to find his dad in the easy chair, waiting with his PJ’s and a diaper because we have the same routine (down to the script) every time. And then we all pile onto our bed to read bedtime stories and Owen feeds me my medicine.
“You need your medicine, Mom?” And he takes the berry-flavored Tums down off the shelf, opens them up, and shakes out two. “Just two, Mom. No more. Only two. … Not for me. MOMMY’s medicine. … You need some, Dad?” And depending on the day shakes out two more.
And we read our stories and we have our family cuddles and I put him to bed, again following our script, which only this week changed slightly. I always ask him, before I leave his room, if he’d like to count to 20 with me. And he always nods yes but lets me do the counting, cheering “Yay!” at the end. But this week he let me get as far as 3 before he cheered like we were done, even though he knew we were no where close. We both cracked up. The irony! Thinking 3 was the same as 20! So funny. And he cheered again after 5. GOD it’s hilarious! As if 5 was anything CLOSE to 20? And then at 7 8 9 and all the way to the end. Maybe you just had to be there but his sense of humor cracks me up. So now we cheer on each number and I rub his back and leave the room.
And you know what? He is absolutely the reason we decided to have another one. His terrible twos are quite tolerable (meaning the terror will come with the threes) and overall, I just … really enjoy having him around. It’s giving me hope that I can get through the first two years of Flipper’s life to find a light at the end of the tunnel for that one, too. (Me and babyhood, we don’t get along so well.)
My buddy. He really has helped me not want to kill myself this last trimester.
Wishes do come true
When you look like this
and you feel like this
it’s awful nice to come home to this:
Address change: I’ve moved to Slothtown
39 weeks.
So tired. All the time. So irritable. No energy to do anything but bitch that there’s nothing good on TV. I need a celebrity trash magazine and a few pints of ice cream. I need to put my feet up and call in sick to work. I need to cuddle up with my son and try to forget about my impending doom.
Can’t control the rage and the tears today.
One of these days I’ll be going into labor. Will post something from the mobile. Watch the Flickr photos or the Twitter updates in the sidebar for news.
Unless, of course, God hates me and has me deliver this kid two weeks late. Or God hates me and has me deliver this kid in the fucking truck on the way to the hospital. Or has me deliver this kid with an emergency section or with who knows what kind of pain and trauma and terror.
So. Some ice cream and a nap sure would be nice. Wish I was a cat and could just hide out under the porch to give birth.
supa the supine hypotensive
Doctor visit today. 38 weeks.
I got more information on the reason for my stressful non-stress test of two weeks ago: “supine hypotension.” (I would like to advise the me of 10 minutes ago not to google “pregnancy and hypotension,” though, because the mere occurrence of the phrase “fetal outcome” is rather panic-inducing.)
So. Supine hypotension. I like having the medical names for things. Don’t you? I don’t know why doctors don’t do that more often. I don’t want a dumbed-down anecdote about someone fainting, I want official terms and numbers and things I can look up on the internet later. Stuff with Latin roots I can figure out on the drive home.
Anyway, despite Dr Google’s dire warnings, my own doctor wasn’t concerned. It’s not an ideal thing to happen, but from my understanding, it’s … common? during pregnancy. Uterus size and some sort of vein being compressed if you lie on your back. I’m not a special case or anything.
He made a note in my chart about it, and said that, should I require an epidural (yes, please), I’ll likely have to have … something. Possibly something important. Couldn’t tell you.
Actually, I’m not sure what he said after ‘epidural,’ as I couldn’t pay attention any more.
Which, as it turns out, is a common side effect of low blood pressure:
* Dizziness or lightheadedness
* Fainting
* Low concentration
* Blurred vision
* Nausea
* Cold, clammy, pale skin
* Rapid or shallow breathing
* Fatigue
* Depression
* Thirst
Every one of which I’ve been experiencing, with the exception (to my knowledge) of the cold and clammy skin, which leads me to believe that my hypotension is of the all the time variety, not just supine.* The shallow breathing I was attributing to anxiety, but I think I’m going to attribute the anxiety to the shallow breathing.
I don’t know why I’m writing this all down. This is probably more boring detail about my health than anyone should give a shit about. But I like the word “supine” and I feel like I should have some sort of tangible record about this stuff the next time I get pregnant and forget what I’m in for.
And as long as I’m going on record:
- 142.5 lbs, up 1 lb from last week
- BP 90/50
- 1 cm dilated and 50% effaced.
What ho, Flipper! I’d like to meet you. Shall we get this show on the road?
*Ever had postural hypotension? When you stand up too fast and you get dizzy? Once, when I was working at the country club in Perrysburg, I fainted in the lobby. The old biddies called the ambulance and I spent the morning of 9/11 in the emergency room of St. Luke’s. Diagnosis: postural hypotension. Good times. $500 for an ambulance trip and a banana milkshake.)
Guess the body part!
It’s not quite as good as this (which is a definite hoax) but it’s still freaking weird. I wholeheartedly believe my belly is not supposed to have corners.
Last nesting: sewing the baby caddy, dyeing onesies
Did I mention how awesome Mother’s Day was? I got to sleep in til 10 o’clock. And then I was awakened by a smiling Owen and some doughnuts. Later that afternoon, as the boys were napping, I started sewing the Gardening Tote from my new sewing book, Lotta Jansdotter’s Simple Sewing.
It went together in a breeze; Lotta’s patterns and instructions really are simple (except for the part where I sewed the handles inside the bag, rendering them useless). The tote looks good, for a home project, and it’s roomy but not too big.
It should hold a ton of diapers and wipes and diaper-rash cream (less politely: butt cream) and receiving blankets and snacks and water bottles for me. I plan to load it up and then keep it by the couch or the recliner during the day, so I don’t have to get up and waddle to the kids’ room every time I need to change the baby. I got the idea from this.
Plus, Owen will be able to help me (since our current diaper-stocking shelf is out of his reach).
And, I can put these hand-dyed onesies in as spares.
The onesies I’ve been doing one color at a time over the last couple weeks, adding a bit of tan dye to tone down the brightness some. I’ve also been throwing in kimono-style newborn shirts and some burp cloths from the Owen Administration which were in desperate need of rejuvenation. And I dyed a maternity shirt and sweater from an unflattering baby-blue/chambray color to a plum and a Prep School Green, respectively, giving them new life and giving me two more outfits for these last swollen days.
I got the idea from this post; it really was easy. A box of RIT dye in the washing machine (following instructions to the letter, of course, for best results), dye, rinse, wash, and then rinse the machine. I have yellow and orange yet to do, once I find another free evening. And the RIT is cheap — $1.50 a box at Wal-Mart, $2.50 at the grocery store. Gives a nice color. Is easy. And makes the newborn clothes seem less like hand-me-downs and more like new stuff for the new kid.
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