A Birth Day

Warning: This is a birth story. If that ooks you out, I'd suggest you skip this one and check back soon for cute newborn pictures instead.

I woke up at 5 am on Saturday, thinking, "I'm in labor." There was no reason for this thought, really, but there it was, firmly entrenched in my mind. 37 minutes later, I had my first labor contraction.

My first labor had lasted 19 hours, so I expected this one to take a while, too. My midwives had warned me that second labors are usually half as long as the first, but still, that gave me a good 10 hours, so I decided I'd straighten my hair. (I know. That's an odd thing to do in labor. The first time, I shaved my legs. I don't know why, but these things feel phenomenally important to me while I'm in labor.)

The contractions had started off about 8 minutes apart, but an hour later, they were already coming every 5 minutes. This process had taken all night with Luke, but still, I figured I had plenty of time. Luke and McMoose woke up at 7:15 and when Luke came out to the living room, the first thing he said to me was, "Baby Hopper is going to come live in our house soon."

By this time, I'd figured out that humming was a great way to get through my contractions, so I hummed and danced through them and we soon called the birth center to tell them that it might be time to come in. Luke was going to be staying with Other Baby during the birth, so we called Other Baby's mom. Since my timing is phenomenal, it was Other Baby's birthday, so his mom had to pause her party preparations to come get Luke. I briefly considered taking Luke to their house and dropping him off, but soon realized that would probably be unpleasant--and thank goodness I came to that conclusion!

Other Baby's mom came at about 9 am and took Luke and after a brief detour to take the Dog to the kennel, we headed off to the birth center. The ride to the birth center was, to put it mildly, hellish. Luckily, the contractions slowed down a little bit. Before we left home, they were coming every 2 minutes or even more frequently, but in the car, they came about every 6 minutes. Since it was hard to get through them while strapped in a seated position, I was very grateful for the break.

We got to the birth center at 9:50 and I was very excited to get out of the car. As soon as we got into our room, the midwife offered to check me, and I was curious how far along I was, so I agreed, fully expecting her to say I was 4-5 centimeters dilated. Imagine my surprise when she said I was already at 9 cm!

I walked around and hummed through a couple more contractions, then they tried to put in an IV so I could get some antibiotics I needed. Attempt 1 while I was mid-contraction: fail. Attempt 2 while I was mid-contraction: fail. At this point, I pretty much asked the midwife what exactly the point was, since the antibiotics come in two doses 4 hours apart and we were all pretty certain the baby would be born much sooner than that. She replied that at least we could get the first dose in, but suggested that I get into the tub, so at least the contractions would be more manageable. I agreed and OH MY GRACIOUS, that was the best decision ever. I can't even describe how good it felt to be in that warm water, but I would have done some serious harm to anyone who suggested I get out.

They finally managed to put in an IV and at some point, I yelled about feeling a lot of pressure and my water broke at 10:17. The contractions got slightly easier after that for a little bit, but soon, I started pushing. One of the things I'd asked my midwives was to not coach me through pushing because I think intense coaching last time led to some problems and the midwife was great about not coaching me. It made me a little bit nervous at the time because I felt like I didn't know what I was doing, but apparently, my body had it under control.

I was still on my hands and knees in the tub, so the midwife said that as soon as the baby was born, she'd pass him under my belly and up to my arms, but that plan didn't quite work out. By this point, I really just wanted someone to GET HIM OUT, a desire which I made known loudly, so the nurse got down beside me and told me that his head was out and I needed to push NOW to get the rest of his body out. I did, although in my head, I still felt like it was an awful lot to ask, and I remember actually feeling the rest of him be born. Can I just say what a weird feeling that was? I don't remember this part of my labor with Luke and I'm amazed that I still remember it this time.

At 11:13 am, Weston Vishal came into the world in a bathtub of warm water. He looked like a baby Buddha, which is why his current nickname is Buddha-Bu. I moved to the bed for some stitches (which took about 20 minutes this time, as opposed to 90 last time), during which time we all guessed how much he'd weigh. Turns out he weighed 9 lbs, 6 oz and was 22 inches long, with a 14 inch head. I'm still amazed at how much easier the labor and delivery were with my 9+ lb baby than with my 7+ lb baby...how is that even possible?

We've all spent the past week dealing with the ups and downs of life with a newborn and the postpartum recovery period, but McMoose, Luke, and I are completely captivated by this new addition to our family and are so happy to finally get to know him.

Will He Or Won't He?

When I went into labor with Luke, there was a moment, fairly early on, when I *knew* that it was different from the months and MONTHS of Braxton-Hicks contractions and that things were really getting started. There have been a couple of days recently when I thought I sensed that same difference. Obviously, my super-sensing powers must be off this time around because Hopper is still firmly entrenched on the inside, but I'm getting a little bit concerned that I might not actually know when I'm in labor for real this time. I mean, obviously, I'll know it EVENTUALLY, what with the baby coming out and all, but really, it would be nice to have a little bit more of a heads-up than that.

So at my midwife's appointment yesterday, I brought up the whole why-am-i-having-weird-pre-labor-that-seems-real issue, expecting that I'd get some reassurance and maybe some advice on favorable positions to encourage Hopper along or something. (Because the other thing that happens during these odd little bouts of pre-labor is that he moves NON-STOP for the entire 5-6 hours that it's going on. Big movements, movements that feel like he's trying to figure out how to position himself and just can't quite manage it.) Instead, I got this little nugget of wisdom: "Well, there's really not much we can do...either he'll find a way out or he won't."

Um. He won't? In what crazy, alternate universe is "he won't" even an option? I'm sure that what she actually meant was that in any given bout of pre-labor, he'll either find his way out (and be born) or he won't (and the pregnancy will continue for a few more days/weeks until he does.) But I have to admit that when she said it, I had a sudden and terrifying image of a paunchy, balding, full-grown man living in my belly 45 years from now.

37.5 weeks

I'm about 2-and-a-half weeks away from my due date and between the 100 degree days and the sleepless nights, I'm starting to hope that perhaps Hopper will be inclined to join us sooner rather than later. I know. I know. I've said time and again that I need time to get through the 80 million things on my To-Do-Before-Hopper-Arrives list. And I DO need time. Except that in addition to time, I also need energy and the combination of no sleep, ridiculous heat, and active toddler are robbing me of all energy and motivation. Which is to say that no matter how much longer Hopper stays in, I'm probably not going to get a whole lot done, so he might as well mosey on out.

I've been pretty lax with my baby preparations this time, but I have managed to get a bag packed...well...not PACKED exactly...but I did make a pile of things on a chair in the office that will EVENTUALLY be put into a bag. And by "eventually," I mean, "probably when I realize I'm in labor." And although we haven't installed the infant car seat in the car, we did pull it out of storage and put it in the TRUNK of the car, so at least we'll have it with us. And although I haven't been staining furniture and organizing and re-organizing baby clothes and researching baby gear and decorating a cute little space for the baby, we have put together a cradle and gotten all the newborn clothes and diapers washed and ready. So, you know. We're ready...in a laid back, this-is-our-second-kid kind of way. Which is not to say that we're not excited. We totally ARE. It's just that with Luke, we had so much STUFF ready and in the end, he spent all day (and night) in our arms, while the stuff sat and collected dust and the cats slept in the crib.

But even with the low-key preparation that's going on around here, we've been talking a lot about the impending new arrival, especially with Luke, who now has some very interesting ideas about this whole baby brother thing.

• He knows that Hopper is coming to live in our house, but believes that after Hopper is born, he (Luke) will get to go live in my belly.
• He believes that Hopper is bringing him a truck.
• He believes that Hopper will share all of his (Hopper's) toys with Luke because, in Luke's words, "My baby Hopper is nice!"
• Yesterday, after he played with a friend who has a baby sister, he asked me where his baby sister was and I said he doesn't have a baby sister, but will soon have a baby brother. His reply: "My baby brother is Baby Hopper. He will live in my house soon. When Baby Hopper lives in my house, my baby sister will live in Mama's belly." Um....you know what, kid? Let's give it a few years.
• Today, he kept asking to "see Baby Hopper." I explained that Baby Hopper is still in my belly, and therefore, not really visible. He responded that he'd like to go "in there with Hopper." I explained that no, there's not enough room in there with Hopper. He then poked at my belly and said wistfully, "Hopper...there's enough room out here..." and pointed at the living room. Looks like I'm not the only one who's anxious to meet our little Hopper.
  

Stay IN

Things I have heard today:

-"I can't believe how BIG you are!"
-"There's no way you're going to go another 5 weeks."
-"You still have a month left? But how could you possibly get any bigger?"
-"Honey, you look like you're about to tip over. Do you feel like you're about to tip over?"
-"Do you think this will be a huge baby, since you're so big?"
-"I bet the doctors are wrong about when you're due. You're probably overdue already!"
-"You look like how I looked when I was a week overdue with my first!"
-"If I were you, I'd be preparing for a baby any day now."


Ay-yi-yi. Of course, it does surprise people when they ask if I'm hoping Hopper comes early and I reply with a resounding no. Personally, I don't understand the surprise. Yes, I might be big and look like I'm about to tip over (Who SAYS that?!), but dude, surely anyone who has ever had a baby remembers that the baby-on-the-inside is, oh, about two million times easier than the baby-on-the-outside. Plus, I have five weeks left. FIVE. And I need every. single. one. of those five weeks to get ready. So Hopper? Cover your ears. Pay no attention to all the crazy individuals telling you to come out early. You just stay in your cozy spot for as long as you need to. (Although...if you do go overdue, I might start to feel differently about this.)

Rationale

In a recent conversation with my dad, he said, "You have a rash, you can't sleep...why do women do this?" This being pregnancy, of course. And you know, I don't have an answer to that question. Or the larger one of why does ANYONE do this? This being parenting, of course. What on earth are we getting out of this?

First, there's the pregnancy, with all the nausea, mood swings, losing your center of balance, widening feet, foolish comments from strangers, possible blood pressure issues, possible blood sugar issues, dizziness, possible pre-term labor, worry about the health of your baby, and on and on and ON. And then, there's the labor.

And then, THEN, just when you think you've come out on the other side, there's the WHOLE REST OF YOUR LIFE, when you get to be responsible for someone else, worry about their safety, and generally live in fear that something might happen to this person you decided to bring into the world. There's the study that says that parents are, on the whole, less happy than non-parents. So why? Why would you do this?

The best answer I can come up with is this: it's fun. That's it. There's no deeper, philosophical reason. I'm not doing this for the immortality, for the passing down of my genes, for the deep and abiding sense of fulfillment. I mean, maybe I am, but mainly, I'm doing this because it's just really fun. And funny. And I like it when my kid hugs me, even though it's usually followed by him licking my face. I think it's hilarious to watch him "jump" off the couch, except he's so cautious that it's really more that he steps gingerly off the couch while saying, "Ready? Set? Go!" It warms my heart when he's eating and notices that I'm not and offers to share his crackers with me, even though they're his favorite. And when he wakes up at 3 am and comes to our bed, even though I know he's probably an evil genius who's trying to kill me through sleep deprivation, I also get kind of excited because he's just so soft and warm and cuddly. And somehow, that makes up for the rash and the insomnia and all the rest of the weirdness.

Early Morning Rambling

It's 3:45 in the morning and I've been awake for an hour.

The fan clicks. Not always, not every night, but when it's in a bad mood, it clicks. Tomorrow, I told myself, I'll fix it tomorrow. Just ignore it for now. So I tried. Then, it began clicking to the beat of the song, Hey, Mickey. Have you ever tried to sleep with that song in your head?

The birds are awake and chirping. I know, I know. The early bird gets the worm. But dude. It's 3:45. The sun isn't going to be up for another 2 hours. There's no way these birds can even see a worm right now. Furthermore? Worms are gross and the early bird might get the worm, but the sensible, late bird gets to sleep in. I know which one I'd pick.

Every morning, at 3:30 am, McMoose's phone buzzes and speaks in a demonic voice. Apparently, some automated service sends him email updates at this ludicrous time of day and the phone feels the need to inform us of that fact.

Hopper is awake and rolling around, probably because he hears Hey, Mickey playing and he wants to join the party.

My rash is back. Of course it is. From what I remember, it started at 35 weeks last time and when I realized it probably wouldn't go away until the baby was born, I spent about an hour crying. Because the thought of living with it for the next 5-7 weeks was that horrifying. This time? 33 weeks and 4 days. That means that potentially, I could have to put up with up to eight-and-a-half more weeks of this torture.

Since this is the third night I've woken up at this ungodly hour, it would seem that I've entered that ridiculous phase of pregnancy during which one is constantly tired, but can't sleep for longer than three hours at a time. And I've entered this phase a good 3 weeks earlier than I did last time. Because...this time, I have a toddler running around, so not only do I need more energy, but I'm also less able to take naps whenever I'm tired. So of course, of course I would enter the insomniac phase earlier. Because that's the kind of thing that makes sense to my body.

Glass Half Full

Other pregnant woman: How's the pregnancy going? Are you having any problems?
Me: Nope, it's going really well so far! How about yours?
Other Pregnant woman: Well...my back hurts...I can't sleep...I have no patience with my toddler...I'm always tired...and hungry...and hot...I'm just ready to be done!

I'm not an optimistic person, not really. But the above conversation gave me pause this morning because my response? Sounds totally positive. I mean, of COURSE my back hurts too and I can't sleep either and my patience levels are sadly low and I'm tired and hungry and hot and have random dizzy spells. That's pretty much a given with the last couple of months of pregnancy, isn't it? But when I said everything was great, what I meant was that considering I'm 32 weeks pregnant, everything is great. Everything is normal. There are no complications, no added risk factors, nothing unusual.

The conversation continued as we talked about our toddlers. Again, when she asked about how Luke was sleeping, I said he sleeps fine. She responded by saying that her daughter still wakes up about once a week and again, I thought, oh. Well, of course. Luke still wakes up at night too, most of the time. But again, isn't that par for the course of having a toddler? They wake up. They refuse to eat green things. They play with the toilet water sometimes. They touch dead bugs. It's just what they do. Right?

I'm trying to figure out when I went from being a grouchy pessimist to being a somewhat positive person. (And I'm thinking it has something to do with the fact that McMoose gets to bear the brunt of my pessimism. He gets to see the freaking-out-about-random-stuff, the complaining-about-the-size-of-my-feet, the grouchiness-about-the-never-ending-pregnancy. He gets to talk me down from this stuff on the daily. And because he does, I get to spend most of my days being positive and feeling like I have a decent handle on this stuff. Thank you, McMoose.)

The Hopper Special

I know that when I was pregnant with Luke, there were a million things I wanted to say about the pregnancy and about Luke and this time, I haven't dedicated nearly as much time to talking about pregnancy. Or at least, not on this blog. Because goodness knows I talk about it constantly in real life.

Part of the reason is that this pregnancy has been so easy. Very little morning sickness, no horrible, constant contractions like I had last time, no gigantic swollen ankles (yet!) It has been--dare I say it?--pleasant. Enjoyable, even. I mean, other than the part where I've gained a million pounds and can't roll over in bed, but I was pretty much expecting that.

But you know what has taken me by surprise? The fact that, while Hopper moves around a lot, he doesn't act like a crazy jumping bean 24-7. Which is to say, he sleeps from time to time. And he doesn't care for it when he's woken up. At my last two midwife appointments, they wiggled his head to make sure that it was, in fact, his head and not his bottom, and boy howdy, was he displeased with that. Have you ever housed an annoyed fetus who holds a grudge? Yeah. It's fun. I'm hoping that some of the calmness will translate to life outside the womb and that he might sleep on the outside, too. Of course, given the fact that his big brother already pokes at him and says, "All done night-night, Hopper," I'm guessing he's not going to get too much opportunity for uninterrupted rest.

So far, I know that Hopper sucks his thumb, likes to sleep (sometimes), gets angry easily, and might be...large. Here's looking forward to getting to know a lot more in a couple of months.

31 Weeks

Conversation with odious cashier today:

Him: You're ready to pop anytime, huh?
Me: Not for another two months.
Him, leaning over, staring at my belly, and bugging out his eyes: Two more MONTHS?!
Me: Yeah...
Him: Do you have twins in there?!
Me: ...No...
Him: Damn! Well, that'll be a...healthy...baby!

Because a "Thank you, have a nice day," wouldn't have sufficed?

More Tact, Please

Dear Birth Professionals,

In case you were not already aware, it is inadvisable to enter a room with a pregnant woman and utter the phrase, "Wow, you must be getting pretty close, huh?" Because at least some of the time, you will get something along the lines of, "Um...no...I have eleven weeks left." And when you do get that response? It is even more inadvisable to say, "Well, I wish I could tell you that it would go by fast, but I'd be lying."

See the thing you're holding in your hand? The folder looking thing that has lots of papers in it? Yeah, that would be my chart. And on the very first page of my chart, on the very top line, is listed my DUE DATE. Which is in July. The very last day in July, even. So maybe, just maybe, you could've taken a quick glance at that piece of paper before coming in and making me feel like I'm carrying The Biggest Baby Ever.

(Because surely, someone who sees pregnant women all day, every day, should have a pretty good gauge of how far along you are, right? And if a person like this thinks you look like you're "getting pretty close," and you actually have two-and-a-half months left, that's not good news, is it?)

((It also does not help when you're told later in that same appointment that perhaps you should cut down on your carb intake. And that your 29-week belly is measuring like a 32-week belly should. And that your baby feels freakishly long. Really, none of this is reassuring to someone who's looking at a very long 11 weeks of carrying what is potentially The Biggest Baby Ever.))

In Need Of Assistance

My ridiculous body has failed me yet again. Well, not so much failed ME as failed the glucose screening. Which means I get to do the 3-hour glucose test. Again. Last time, that didn't go so well and I'm hoping for a lot less drama this time. However, the scheduling process? Not going so well.

I don't think I fully appreciated just how easy it was to schedule tests and doctor's appointments during my last pregnancy, when all I had to worry about was my (very flexible) and McMoose's (slightly less flexible) work schedules. Now, not only do I have to continue to work with McMoose's work schedule, but I also have to work around meals, naps, and Other Baby's grandmother's schedule since she very kindly takes care of him while I'm at my appointments. (My mind boggles to imagine taking TWO toddlers to my midwife appointments. BOGGLES.)

So I called to schedule my appointment and the conversation went something like this:

Me: Hi, I'm calling to schedule the 3-hour GD test.
Receptionist: Oh, we do a 1-hour one first.
Me: Yes. I know. I already took that one.
Receptionist: And did you pass?
Me, wondering WHY ON EARTH I'd want to take the 3-hour one if I'd passed the 1-hour one: Um...no...
Receptionist: Ok, you'll need to schedule the 3-hour test then.
Me: Yes...I know...That's...why I'm...calling...Can I come in tomorrow?
Receptionist: Sure! What time of day would you like to come in?
Me: As early as possible.
Receptionist: Oh. That might be a problem. Could you come in the afternoon?
Me: Well...I'm supposed to stop eating at midnight the night before, right?
Receptionist: Yes.
Me: So then, no, I don't think I'll make it until the AFTERNOON.

Really? REALLY? Could this process possibly be more complicated?

26 Weeks

There's always a certain "sizing up" that happens when moms run into other parents with kids who look to be the same age as their own. Most of the time, the icebreaker that I use (and hear) most often on the playground is, "How old is your child?" And I've noticed that it happens during pregnancy too--when I see another pregnant woman, we both take a look at each others' belly and try to figure out how far along the other one is in comparison to ourselves.

I had one of those moments today when I took Luke and Other Baby to the park. There was another mom there with her daughter and she looked about as pregnant as I am. Or so I thought...

OtherMom: When are you due?
Me: The end of July.
OtherMom: ...Oh...I thought you looked closer to me...
Me: When are you due?
OtherMom: Yesterday.

I'm choosing to believe that she just looked really fabulous for being a day past her expected due date (which she totally did), because the alternative? The one that has me looking like I'm nine months pregnant instead of six? That alternative scares me kind of a lot because WHAT WILL I LOOK LIKE IN THREE MONTHS???

Socializing for Dummies

Situation One
If you ask a visibly pregnant woman when she's due and she tells you her due date, appropriate responses include:

• Congratulations!

That's it. That. Is. All. Not-so-appropriate responses include:

• Oh, wow, you've still got a while to go. (Yes. I have four months. Thank you for pointing that out.)
  
• Really? You look farther along than that. (Again, thank you for what I am sure is your very expert opinion.)
  
• Your baby must be pretty big! (No. My baby is 23 weeks along. Therefore, by definition, my baby is pretty darn SMALL at the moment, unless you consider a pound, give or take a few ounces, to be huge.)
  
• Oh, it's miserable being pregnant in the middle of summer. (Thank you for that highly positive word of encouragement.)
  
• Hope your AC works because that'll be rough! (My AC works fine. Which is more than I can say for your BRAIN.)
  

Situation Two
If you ask a visibly pregnant mother of a son whether she's having a boy or a girl and she tells you WITH A SMILE that it's a boy, appropriate responses include:

• Congratulations!

Again, that's it. Inappropriate responses include:

• Two boys! That'll be a lot to handle! (Um...I'm handling two boys for large portions of the day already, thank-you-very-much.)
  
• Well, you'll just have to try again for a princess. (Because (a) if this baby had been a girl, I wouldn't have been allowed to "try again?" And (b) how about if I "try again" for a computer nerd or a math genius or a gamer or a musician or a philosopher or a dancer or an animal lover or any number of things that my child could choose to be, regardless of gender?)
  
• Aww, were you disappointed? (Uh...I *just* met you five minutes ago. Do you really think that you're the person I'd confide my innermost thoughts to?)
  
• My sister's boss's best friend's cousin's daughter had two-hundred-and-forty-three boys and they finally had to do IVF to get a girl. (Really? They had to? Someone was holding a gun to their head? Huh.)
  

Addicted

When I was pregnant with Luke, I was excited about a lot of things, but I was especially excited about the birth. Not just the getting to meet the baby part, but the actual labor part. I just kind of wanted to know what all the fuss was about.

So now, I know. And since I do know, one would think that this time, I'd be utterly unexcited about the labor, right? Yeah. Not so much. If possible, I'm even more excited this time around because of what I know from the last time.

I mean, granted it was painful and there were moments when I thought that I was stuck in a time loop and that the universe was going to implode and I'd still be stuck in the stupid time loop. I'm not even joking, there were multiple times when I had THAT EXACT THOUGHT run through my head. But? It was also kind of amazing.

In the midst of all the ridiculous, never-ending pain, there were moments when I felt like--and this is going to sound kind of...absurd...but just go with me for a second--a spiritual being. I know. I can't believe I just typed that. But there were moments when my mind was bigger than my body, when I felt like I had transcended time and space, when I was in my body, but also looking at myself from outside my body. People were in the room, and then, they weren't. I was in the chair, and then, I was in the tub. Time stopped flowing continuously and instead jumped around, stopped, went backwards, sped up, and I was just along for the ride. I imagine that's what an acid trip might feel like, except that I didn't have to break any laws or use any drugs to get there.

I have 18-ish weeks until I get to go there again and honestly, I can't wait. I'm an addict and my drug of choice is birth.

Conversations Not To Be Had In The Produce Aisle

Since I've started showing, I've gotten some odd comments while out with the boys. Mostly along the lines of, "Wow, you've got your hands full!" and, "Don't you know what CAUSES that?" followed by some laughter (on the commenter's part) because ha-ha-ha, they're just the funniest people on the planet. Mostly, I brush these comments off because clearly, those making the comments must have entirely too much free time, as well as a rather boring life if they need to insert their noses into the lives of complete strangers.

Yesterday morning, we were rushing through the produce section of the grocery store, picking up bananas on our way to a meeting that we were already running late for because bananas are the essential component to surviving outings with toddlers. And as I was trying to find a cluster of two bananas instead of eight, a woman approached me.

Woman: Oh, wow, you've got your hands full!
Me: *Non-committal noise*
Woman: You know, if you're one of those people who doesn't believe in birth control, you should just breastfeed your baby. My daughter says that it helps space them out naturally!
Me: *Jaw drops because WHOA, this conversation just went from Personal to Is-This-Really-Happening Nutty.* Uh...actually...*Point to Luke* This one weaned about a month ago. *Point to Other Baby* And this one is still nursing. Oh, and we're on our way to a La Leche League meeting. Thanks, but I think I have the breastfeeding thing covered.

And then, I walked away feeling like for once, I had known what to say in one of these situations, instead of staring like a mute fool. And then, THEN, I realized that I FORGOT TO MENTION THAT OTHER BABY WASN'T MINE. So instead of saying that I nursed my first child halfway through my second pregnancy, what I actually implied is that I nursed my first child fully through my second pregnancy AND tandem nursed my first two children halfway through a third pregnancy AND am continuing to nurse my second child through the third pregnancy.

Holy Cow, that woman thinks I'm CRAZY. (Then again, I think she's pretty crazy too, so I guess we're even?)

In Which I Show Off A Hopper

Apparently, the difference between a first baby and a second is that with the first, you rush home right after the ultrasound, scan the pictures, and put them up on your blog immediately. With the second, it takes a couple of weeks. Sorry, Hopper. (Which reminds me: for the remainder of this pregnancy, the small person sharing my body shall be called Hopper, short for Grasshopper. I named this person Grasshopper right after seeing the positive pregnancy test and it turns out to be a very apt name because I'm pretty sure he spends ALL of his awake time doing exactly that. Hopping, that is. No gentle flutters and rolling around for this one...he's all about making his presence FELT.)

From the above paragraph, you might have surmised that yes, he is in fact a HE. I'm so excited at the idea of having two little boys close in age and Luke regularly talks about his "baby brother." In fact, at the bookstore this evening, he picked out a snowman board book to read to his baby brother.

Here's Hopper in profile:

And here he is in 3-d, hiding his face behind his hand:

And here he is, smiling as much as an 18-week-old fetus can smile:

We never had the 3-d ultrasound with Luke, so it was pretty cool to watch Hopper make faces and suck his thumb. Plus, I think maybe he has my nose.

Miscommunication

Now that Luke's talking more, I have so much more that I want to write here, if only to preserve it for myself and McMoose. Today, I was changing Luke's diaper and for the first time, he noticed my belly.

Luke, pointing: Mama biiiiiig belly!
Me: Mama does have a big belly right now. Did you know there's a baby in there?
Luke: Baby!
Me: Yes! *Pointing to my own belly* There's a baby in here.
Luke, pointing to Other Baby: That Baby OtherBaby. *Pointing to himself* I'm Baby Guk. *Pointing to my belly* That Mama biiiiig belly.

Thanks for clearing that up, Luke.

17 Weeks

When I was pregnant with Luke, I worked 20 hours a week and napped on the couch the rest of the time. I was always worried that the baby would suddenly die and for 39 weeks and 2 days, I lived in the fear that I would never get to meet the child I so longed for. Every day felt like it lasted for decades and I could. not. wait. until it was over and I could finally hold that baby in my arms.

Now that I'm pregnant again, I don't work at all. Except that in reality, I work about 120 hours a week and sleep for the other 48. When I sneak in a nap, I'm sandwiched between two dozing toddlers who snore and squirm and roll closer to me in their sleep, cuddling in as close as they can and drooling on my arms in the process. My common sense tells me that it's still a good idea to expect the worst and hope for the best, but I no longer have the time to dwell on doom-and-gloom scenarios and I no longer live in fear.

And this time, as eager as I am to meet this new person and hold him or her close, I'm aware that these next few months are precious. These are (hopefully) the last months during which McMoose and I get to have an only child, the last months during which Luke gets to be an only child. The last months when our plans revolve around one child's nap schedule instead of two. So while I count the weeks with excitement, I also hold my toddler-baby a little bit closer in anticipation of the time when I'll have to ask him to wait his turn for a hug or a story while I finish changing a diaper or rocking a newborn to sleep.

Green

My pain has a color and it is green.

I thought I knew what pregnancy would bring, but this one brings with it headaches, which the last one did not. Headaches almost every afternoon, which last until I go to bed at night. Headaches that, most of the time, are just annoying, but which sometimes, like today, alter my world just a little bit.

I watched the sky turn from a calm blue to a frothy, restless green as I drove the boys to the playground. The sand in the sandbox felt like lime jello, soft and squishy instead of crunchy. I ask McMoose if he could be done with work closer to 5 than 6 and when he walks out of the office at 5:15, I think that this is the best present I've ever gotten.

I close my eyes and see waves of pain in shades of green colliding and bleeding into each other. I open my eyes and look into Other Baby's eyes, eyes that I know are blue but that look olive green. The effect is unsettling. I listen to the toddlers banging on the wall with their play hammers and the sound is sharp and neon green.

If my pain has to have a color, I wish it were blue.

Looking Back

This time last year, I was falling asleep on the couch. This time last year, I was hot and itchy and grumpy that the baby was STILL not here. This time last year, I was convinced that I would be pregnant FOREVER and that I’d spend the REST OF MY LIFE with Braxton-Hicks contractions that mocked me with their frequency. This time last year, I had no idea that I’d wake up two hours later in labor.

I never posted my birth story here because for a long time, I wasn’t ready to write coherently about it. It was too long and involved too many words like “cervix” and knowing my audience, I didn’t think that would be at all pleasant for anyone. But for the past couple of months, this post has written and re-written itself in my mind as I’m falling asleep, as I’m taking a shower, as I’m sitting at a red light, so here it is. If birth stories ook you out as they did me a couple of years ago, I suggest you close this browser and go on about your day. (And I’ll try to limit the number of ooky things I say.)

I woke up at 11 pm with contractions that felt real from the get go. Unwilling to share my experience (and risk looking like a fool), I did my level best to convince McMoose that nothing out of the ordinary was going on. And by “level best,” I mean that when he went to bed an hour later, I went to bed with him and then lay there in the dark, counting contractions and giggling internally at my sneakiness. (By the way? This is how you know that you’re not in hard labor yet. If you can still be (a) sneaky and (b) proud of your sneakiness, you know you’ve got a ways to go.)

After McMoose fell asleep, I snuck out of the bedroom and spent the next five hours laboring (sneakily) in the living room, until finally I thought that maybe the very next contraction might cause a tear in the time-space continuum and I might fall through it (yes, I ACTUALLY REMEMBER having that exact thought), so I woke McMoose, who sat straight up in bed and then launched himself into a flurry of activity.

I think I ate some jello. Maybe some honey. I know I drank a lot of water. I know I knitted. I know I called my mom, who told me that she had woken up in the middle of the night and had been unable to go back to sleep because she had been thinking about me. I know I showered. McMoose left to take the Dog to the kennel. When he got back, he convinced me that my plan of going to my regularly scheduled doctor’s appointment that morning was probably not the best idea, so we called the midwife, who seconded his recommendation that we go to the hospital. Turns out that was a good thing too, because had we waited the extra hour, McMoose would have had to CARRY me down the two flights of stairs from our apartment to the car. (The third floor apartment seemed like a good idea right up until I got pregnant.)

My time at the hospital is blurry. I know I ate another jello cup. I know I spent a lot of time in the bathtub. I knitted some more. Someone came and took my blood. Nurses came, nurses went. I was 5 centimeters dilated when I got there…7 while I was in the bathtub…7 while I was in the bed…7 while I was in the chair. I became convinced that the world would end and I would still be at a 7. I asked for drugs. McMoose reminded me that I didn’t want them. I tried to impress upon him that maybe the world was ending and that the drugs might stop that from happening. He continued to remind me that I didn’t want them. We scared off my first nurse. A second (much more helpful) one came along. I asked for an IV with fluids so that I could delay the decision about whether or not I wanted drugs. I went back to the rocking chair. I focused every fiber of my being on the IZOD symbol on McMoose’s shirt. (Luke still looks intently at that symbol every time McMoose wears that shirt, as if it looks somehow familiar and he’s trying to place it.)

My contractions started doubling up, then tripling, then quadrupling, until I lost track of how many came in a row with no break. But between sets, I’d have long breaks—sometimes 3 minutes, sometimes 10. (The birth books lie when they say that you ALWAYS get breaks between contractions. You don’t. They also lie when they say that labor isn’t “real” until your contractions are coming at regular intervals. Mine never did.) So I spent the breaks napping. (It’s weird what a tired, sleep-deprived body will do.) By the time the IV was finished, I was riding high on whatever hormones were coursing through my system and was confident in my refusal of the drugs.

At some point, I started pushing, even though the nurse told me not to and even though I told her that I wasn’t. By that point, my body was TOTALLY not listening to my head and my head was TOTALLY not listening to the nurse. So I pushed. Slightly. Covertly. Sneakily. Until finally, she decided that I was “allowed” to push. Then, I had to stop again while the midwife came. Then, I was allowed to again. I mean, do they really expect people to listen to all these ridiculous instructions?

I think I pushed for about an hour? Best. Hour. Ever. Don’t get me wrong, it hurt. Kind of a lot. But finally, I was DOING something and people kept saying they could see the head and then somebody said he had blond hair and then I got to (ick, ick, ick, ick, ick) TOUCH the head and then the midwife was telling me that the people from the special nursery would be there because the baby might have aspirated meconium and might therefore not be able to breathe (wait, what?) and then the head was out and the body was still in and the midwife said something about not going crazy with pushing but did you hear what I just said the head was OUT and the body was IN and that’s some crazy stuff right there so OF COURSE I went crazy with the pushing.

And then, there was Luke. Breathing. Crying. Showing that he did not need any help from any people from any special nursery. 7 pounds, 11 oz. 20.5 inches. Looking like an exact replica of McMoose. And then, there was Luke.