I'm so tired tonight and if there is still anyone out there that ever looks at these posts I apologize that I can't begin to put together anything remotely interesting. If most of my words are spelled correctly then kudos to me. I swear four months of sleep deprivation makes mommy a dull girl.
Kya-pooh has been such a big helper these days in taking care of Logan. She wants to do everything, feed him, help give him his baths, get him dressed, hold him. I admit that she really is a help to me and sometimes its a little harder when she's not at home. She read me a page out of her diary the other day where she wrote about the "best day ever" which was the other night when she and I got to play board games, order food and watch movies.
I just had to take a minute to cherish these moments because I know that the days where she wants nothing more than to spend time with mommy are numbered. At almost nine-and-half, I probably have another year and a half to two years max where she would even think of reading something out of her diary to me and where board games with mommy on a Friday night will be the last thing on her mind. I'm sure she doesn't realize how badly I just want to take the moments when she puts her arms around me and calls me her best friend in a bottle that I can open in four years when she is thinking about how much she hates me ( note "thinking", that screaming "I hate you" bull-ish won't be happening around these parts)
I just can't believe she's so big. I look at Logan and it seems like she was just his size. I remember always hearing old people say "where does the time go?" and now- really- where does the time go? Does the fact that I can ask that mean I'm old people too now?
Hmmm....
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Just thinking on it
My grandmother celebrated her 80th birthday last November. She was born in Baltimore in 1928. She remembers when Black people couldn't sit in the White section of the train. She has told me about not being able to try on hats in stores downtown. She was almost40 years old, a college educated teacher and mother of two when Martin Luther King was killed.
When she went to the polls last November to vote, she carried pictures of my great-grandmother, my great-uncle, and other relatives who have passed on, who never got to see the day that we would be voting for a black president. She called me, near hysterics as he won, witnessing a moment that she never dreamed that she would see in her lifetime.
In a couple weeks my son will be four months old. In a few years, when he learns the name of our President, it will be Barack Obama. I am celebrating today, not just for the sole purpose that the President is Black, but that I can share this moment with my grandmother, who was born into a world where this moment was impossible, and my son, who will never know a world where a Black President lies outside of the boundaries of possibility.
When she went to the polls last November to vote, she carried pictures of my great-grandmother, my great-uncle, and other relatives who have passed on, who never got to see the day that we would be voting for a black president. She called me, near hysterics as he won, witnessing a moment that she never dreamed that she would see in her lifetime.
In a couple weeks my son will be four months old. In a few years, when he learns the name of our President, it will be Barack Obama. I am celebrating today, not just for the sole purpose that the President is Black, but that I can share this moment with my grandmother, who was born into a world where this moment was impossible, and my son, who will never know a world where a Black President lies outside of the boundaries of possibility.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Priceless
Disclaimer: I'm holding the baby and typing one handed so please excuse any horrible errors or misspellings
Last night, Steve and I were able to hand Logan off to his parents for a few hours so that we could go out with some friends and watch our team, the Ravens, lose miserably to the Steelers. As it always does at co-ed functions, at some point the conversation turned to issues within male-female relationships. There were four women at the table other than myself, all of whom believed in the sentiment that if a husband were making enough money and taking care of all the bills, as long as he didn't bring home any babies or diseases, he was free to sleep with whomever he wanted. Maybe I am naive, or a little idealistic, but I was disturbed by this.
Its not that I didn't realize that many women felt this way. I guess that I just associated the type of thinking with a certain type of woman, i.e., the type of woman that is working hard to score an NBA player i.e. a goldigger. I think in some way I take comfort in being "regular folks", who have chosen regular lifestyles instead of compromising themselves in so many ways to ensure an endless supply of cars and handbags. I never quite realized that the real reason why we were regular folks was because at some point we missed out on the money train and ended up with our regular hard working husbands who, because of their relative lack of financial status, must be punished to a lifetime of fidelity.
During the conversation I mostly stayed quiet, mostly because I was a little too tipsy to provide an articulate debate for my unpopular opinion. However today, as I've sobered up, the conversation has been on my mind.
Why are we as women so willing to sell ourselves short of what we deserve? When my husband and I said our wedding vows, I don't remember a financial exemption clause. Nothing that said abide by these rules, unless you make over 1 million dollars a year and then they don't matter any more. If I as your wife am giving you 100 percent of myself, and I am your wife all day everyday, then its not ok for you to in return give me 75. Furthermore, if a man can't respect me enough not to sleep with hoards of groupies, how can I expect him to respect me enough not to bring me diseases or any of the other unpleasantries of that lifestyle.
I hate to go on a tirade or get on my soap box, but I often fell that women setting the bar so low makes it impossible for it ever to be raised any higher. When I got married, I didn't do it so that I could be his "main woman", I did it so that I could be his only woman. I am not so naive as to believe that infidelity doesn't exist anyway even if you don't "allow" it, but just because it could happen, is that enough to lower your expectation so that even the standard never exists?
I guess some of it also has to do with what you find important in life. My husband works hard, 12 hour days most of the time, doing manual labor, and he is far from being a millionaire. No he can't buy me a Porsche or whisk me off to Milan. But he provides all that we need for our family. I know that at night when he lies down its next to me and I feel like I am the only woman in the world, a feeling that no amount of money can compensate for.
But I guess thats just what is important to me. Should money be an excuse for bad behavior? I'm curious as to what others think. Your comments are appreciated...
Last night, Steve and I were able to hand Logan off to his parents for a few hours so that we could go out with some friends and watch our team, the Ravens, lose miserably to the Steelers. As it always does at co-ed functions, at some point the conversation turned to issues within male-female relationships. There were four women at the table other than myself, all of whom believed in the sentiment that if a husband were making enough money and taking care of all the bills, as long as he didn't bring home any babies or diseases, he was free to sleep with whomever he wanted. Maybe I am naive, or a little idealistic, but I was disturbed by this.
Its not that I didn't realize that many women felt this way. I guess that I just associated the type of thinking with a certain type of woman, i.e., the type of woman that is working hard to score an NBA player i.e. a goldigger. I think in some way I take comfort in being "regular folks", who have chosen regular lifestyles instead of compromising themselves in so many ways to ensure an endless supply of cars and handbags. I never quite realized that the real reason why we were regular folks was because at some point we missed out on the money train and ended up with our regular hard working husbands who, because of their relative lack of financial status, must be punished to a lifetime of fidelity.
During the conversation I mostly stayed quiet, mostly because I was a little too tipsy to provide an articulate debate for my unpopular opinion. However today, as I've sobered up, the conversation has been on my mind.
Why are we as women so willing to sell ourselves short of what we deserve? When my husband and I said our wedding vows, I don't remember a financial exemption clause. Nothing that said abide by these rules, unless you make over 1 million dollars a year and then they don't matter any more. If I as your wife am giving you 100 percent of myself, and I am your wife all day everyday, then its not ok for you to in return give me 75. Furthermore, if a man can't respect me enough not to sleep with hoards of groupies, how can I expect him to respect me enough not to bring me diseases or any of the other unpleasantries of that lifestyle.
I hate to go on a tirade or get on my soap box, but I often fell that women setting the bar so low makes it impossible for it ever to be raised any higher. When I got married, I didn't do it so that I could be his "main woman", I did it so that I could be his only woman. I am not so naive as to believe that infidelity doesn't exist anyway even if you don't "allow" it, but just because it could happen, is that enough to lower your expectation so that even the standard never exists?
I guess some of it also has to do with what you find important in life. My husband works hard, 12 hour days most of the time, doing manual labor, and he is far from being a millionaire. No he can't buy me a Porsche or whisk me off to Milan. But he provides all that we need for our family. I know that at night when he lies down its next to me and I feel like I am the only woman in the world, a feeling that no amount of money can compensate for.
But I guess thats just what is important to me. Should money be an excuse for bad behavior? I'm curious as to what others think. Your comments are appreciated...
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Man Plans, God Laughs
It has been what seems to be an eternity since I posted last. I know it is late to be posting a birth story almost 3 months later but I need to write it down before I completely forget. Its a long post, but it was a long story, so hopefully you can indulge me for a few....
Thursday, October 2nd, 11:00am: I head to my weekly doctor's appointment in a mood that is beyond dismal. I am 39 weeks and 6 days pregnant and although I was only dialated to a fingertip at my previous appointment I had committed to the fact that I would not make it to the next one. But after a week of inhaling spicy food, excercise, walking around the mall for hours (literally), and spending a horribly unfortunate evening with a bottle of castor oil (trust me you don't want to know) I am once again lying on the doctor's office table, once again staring up at the painting on the ceiling of women walking with parasols in the park, almost excited because I know that when she checks me this time that I have to be at least three centimeters dialated.
"You're maybe a fingertip." She says. I swear the women in the painting laugh at me.
Because I am almost 40 weeks they decide to schedule me for an induction on October 8th, a full five days after my due date the next day. In normal, non-pregnant time five days might not seem like a lifetime, but the idea of having to spend five more nights trying to sleep when even tossing and turning has become too uncomfortable has me in near hysterics by the time I get to my car. I decide that I will go home and hibernate for the next five days. I turn off my phone because I'm tired of the phone calls asking "if anything is happening" when it obviously is not.
11pm: I feel the first contraction and think nothing of it. I resign myself to the fact that I will likely be pregnant for the rest of my life. I imagine myself at age 80 in an old folks home, putting my teeth in so that I can go to the cafeteria for prune juice and applesauce, and having one of the nurses ask me"Girl, you haven't popped that baby out yet?"
1 am: I decide to lie down and try to sleep but the pains are getting worse and coming a little closer together. I start timing them- every ten minutes, nothing to rush to the hospital about. Still, I wake up my husband and let him know, but tell him that it is probably nothing.
3 am: Contractions are about seven minutes apart. I still think its nothing..but just in case I tell my husband that he should prepare not to go to work that day. Since Kya is asleep in her room I call my mother and let her know we may need to bring her over at some point, its probably nothing but just in case we have to go to the hospital to check.
6:00 am: I have managed to get some sleep between the contractions. Steve is returning home because he realized after arranging for someone to run his route for the day that he had his truck keys with him and had to take them to the office. Contractions are about five minutes apart and more intense. He holds my hands through each, and we breathe like we practiced in childbirth classes. I'm uncomfortable, but I feel like I have it under control. I tell him that we can drop Kya off at school, then head to the hospital. Steve's phone rings. The guy running his route tells him that his truck broke down after leaving the first stop.
7:30 am: We head across town to drop Kya off, stopping at the gas station first to buy sodas. Contractions are every 3 to 5 minutes apart and sitting in the car I become a little less comfortable. Steve is on the phone with the insurance company, or the truck rental place, or the guy running his route- somebody. When my contractions start he tells the person on the other end to hold on as we breathe, then goes back to his conversation. As we pull into the carpool line Kya is yelling from the back seat "Breathe Mommy!" The carpool line never seemed so long.
8:10 am: We arrive at the hospital. Judy, the volunteer doula that will help us with the birth meets us there. Once back in the triage room, a nurse hooks me up to a monitor that prints my contractions out in hills and valleys. When the doctor comes in to check me, I feel sad. This is when they tell me I'm not in labor and send me home, I think to myself.
"You're three centimeters and there's lots of fluid. Your membrane has ruptured (translation= water broke)
Its then that it hits me that the nothing I feel really is something. Steve steps out to call family members to let them know that I am in labor, but it will be a while before I deliver. The nurse asks me if I have a birth plan written out, which I do. I have a well researched, neatly typed birth plan that Judy suggested I write weeks earlier the first time we met, sitting at home on my desk.
"Its ok I have it in my head." Judy says.
Birth Plan: Other than the doctors, only Steve, Judy and I will be present in the room for labor and delivery.
Once I am admitted it seems like much of the day is a waiting game. We wait in the triage room for what seems like hours while they prepare my labor and delivery room. I specifically request the room with the jacuzzi tub which takes a little longer to prep. As we wait my discomfort turns into pain. My pain is manageable, and Steve and Judy are helping to make me as comfortable as possible, but by the afternoon I know I need my mommy.
Birth Plan: I will use the tub to help manage my pain.
During our initial visit, Judy let me know about the jacuzzi room and told me that I would need to request it because they wouldn't put you in there automatically. Around five centimeters my contractions start to feel like more than I can comfortably breathe through and I decide its time for the tub. The nurse comes in and starts to fill the tub, but because its so large it will take about 20 minutes. Just as I'm standing to head into the bathroom the nurses come in and quickly make me turn onto my side. The baby's heart is having some "decels" and they want me lying on my side to better monitor his heart rate. The tub right now is out of the question.
Birth Plan: I do not wish to receive any pain medication
By around 1pm I am dialated to 5 centimeters. Around 3pm I am checked and I am dialated to 5 centimeters. Around 5 pm after trying to breathe through the pain for what seems like hours on my side and having what remains of my water broken I am dialated to 5 cm. This is where the scene gets blurry. I am standing, holding on to Steve crying like a baby, angry that my room is full of people watching me holding on to Steve crying like a baby but knowing full well that I don't have the energy to do anything about it. The nurse comes in to fill up the jacuzzi tub once again but before I can make it into the tub I am howling with pain. I am screaming to Steve that I need the epidural and he is saying "no remember you don't want it". I don't know what happens next. Steve says I slapped him, my mother-in-law says I grabbed him by the collar and yelled at him. All I remember is lying back in the hospital bed while the epidural numbs everything below my belly button, wondering why I didn't get it 2 centimeters ago.
After a few minutes I tell them that I can still feel all of the contractions on my left side, so they stregnthen the epidural. By the time the doctor comes in to check and tells me to push I can't feel anything below my rib cage. The nurse is watching the hills and valleys on the contraction monitor, telling me to push with each hill. I am staring at Steve, doing what I think is pushing. At one point I remember yelling "I NEED A SODA!" and having someone fill my mouth with ice chips. After 45 minutes of pushing I feel like I'm never going to be able to push this baby out.
"Can't you just pull him out the rest of the way." I whisper.And then the doctor tells me to give one more good push and I feel my tummy deflate. At 9:49, on his due date, October 3rd and not a moment sooner, my little boy Logan enters the world. He is 7 pounds, 5 ounces and 21 inches long. He doesn't come when I want him, but he is right on time.
Birth Plan: Steven, Logan and I will spend time alone together after the birth before welcoming any visitors.
Once Logan is born and they place him, eyes staring and blurry on my chest, the whole hospital staff including the security guards, parking attendants, and cafeteria crew could have been present in the room and I wouldn't have felt like there was anyone on the planet other than him and me. As family members come to welcome our new addition, I hold him and look at his long skinny fingers and legs and think that he looks just like his daddy. Judy comes over to say goodbye, and I thank her for her help and support.
"It didn't go as planned," I say, "But he's here now."
"Well you know what they say: Man plans, God laughs." Judy says
"Man plans, God laughs, I'll have to remember that." says Steve.
"It rhymes a lot better in Yiddish," Judy says "But it means the same thing.
As I sit here on New Years Eve, typing a post that I planned to type three months ago, I think about the plans that I made for 2008, and where I thought that I would be right now. A year ago I planned to lose ten pounds, buy a house, and find a new job, and nowhere in those plans was I a mother of a three month old baby going into the New Year. This year as everyone I know makes their plans and resolutions for 2009, And along with so many others I am once again planning to lose that weight, buy that house, and get that new job, and I may just get around to doing all of those things, unless God has a lot more laughing to do.
Thursday, October 2nd, 11:00am: I head to my weekly doctor's appointment in a mood that is beyond dismal. I am 39 weeks and 6 days pregnant and although I was only dialated to a fingertip at my previous appointment I had committed to the fact that I would not make it to the next one. But after a week of inhaling spicy food, excercise, walking around the mall for hours (literally), and spending a horribly unfortunate evening with a bottle of castor oil (trust me you don't want to know) I am once again lying on the doctor's office table, once again staring up at the painting on the ceiling of women walking with parasols in the park, almost excited because I know that when she checks me this time that I have to be at least three centimeters dialated.
"You're maybe a fingertip." She says. I swear the women in the painting laugh at me.
Because I am almost 40 weeks they decide to schedule me for an induction on October 8th, a full five days after my due date the next day. In normal, non-pregnant time five days might not seem like a lifetime, but the idea of having to spend five more nights trying to sleep when even tossing and turning has become too uncomfortable has me in near hysterics by the time I get to my car. I decide that I will go home and hibernate for the next five days. I turn off my phone because I'm tired of the phone calls asking "if anything is happening" when it obviously is not.
11pm: I feel the first contraction and think nothing of it. I resign myself to the fact that I will likely be pregnant for the rest of my life. I imagine myself at age 80 in an old folks home, putting my teeth in so that I can go to the cafeteria for prune juice and applesauce, and having one of the nurses ask me"Girl, you haven't popped that baby out yet?"
1 am: I decide to lie down and try to sleep but the pains are getting worse and coming a little closer together. I start timing them- every ten minutes, nothing to rush to the hospital about. Still, I wake up my husband and let him know, but tell him that it is probably nothing.
3 am: Contractions are about seven minutes apart. I still think its nothing..but just in case I tell my husband that he should prepare not to go to work that day. Since Kya is asleep in her room I call my mother and let her know we may need to bring her over at some point, its probably nothing but just in case we have to go to the hospital to check.
6:00 am: I have managed to get some sleep between the contractions. Steve is returning home because he realized after arranging for someone to run his route for the day that he had his truck keys with him and had to take them to the office. Contractions are about five minutes apart and more intense. He holds my hands through each, and we breathe like we practiced in childbirth classes. I'm uncomfortable, but I feel like I have it under control. I tell him that we can drop Kya off at school, then head to the hospital. Steve's phone rings. The guy running his route tells him that his truck broke down after leaving the first stop.
7:30 am: We head across town to drop Kya off, stopping at the gas station first to buy sodas. Contractions are every 3 to 5 minutes apart and sitting in the car I become a little less comfortable. Steve is on the phone with the insurance company, or the truck rental place, or the guy running his route- somebody. When my contractions start he tells the person on the other end to hold on as we breathe, then goes back to his conversation. As we pull into the carpool line Kya is yelling from the back seat "Breathe Mommy!" The carpool line never seemed so long.
8:10 am: We arrive at the hospital. Judy, the volunteer doula that will help us with the birth meets us there. Once back in the triage room, a nurse hooks me up to a monitor that prints my contractions out in hills and valleys. When the doctor comes in to check me, I feel sad. This is when they tell me I'm not in labor and send me home, I think to myself.
"You're three centimeters and there's lots of fluid. Your membrane has ruptured (translation= water broke)
Its then that it hits me that the nothing I feel really is something. Steve steps out to call family members to let them know that I am in labor, but it will be a while before I deliver. The nurse asks me if I have a birth plan written out, which I do. I have a well researched, neatly typed birth plan that Judy suggested I write weeks earlier the first time we met, sitting at home on my desk.
"Its ok I have it in my head." Judy says.
Birth Plan: Other than the doctors, only Steve, Judy and I will be present in the room for labor and delivery.
Once I am admitted it seems like much of the day is a waiting game. We wait in the triage room for what seems like hours while they prepare my labor and delivery room. I specifically request the room with the jacuzzi tub which takes a little longer to prep. As we wait my discomfort turns into pain. My pain is manageable, and Steve and Judy are helping to make me as comfortable as possible, but by the afternoon I know I need my mommy.
Birth Plan: I will use the tub to help manage my pain.
During our initial visit, Judy let me know about the jacuzzi room and told me that I would need to request it because they wouldn't put you in there automatically. Around five centimeters my contractions start to feel like more than I can comfortably breathe through and I decide its time for the tub. The nurse comes in and starts to fill the tub, but because its so large it will take about 20 minutes. Just as I'm standing to head into the bathroom the nurses come in and quickly make me turn onto my side. The baby's heart is having some "decels" and they want me lying on my side to better monitor his heart rate. The tub right now is out of the question.
Birth Plan: I do not wish to receive any pain medication
By around 1pm I am dialated to 5 centimeters. Around 3pm I am checked and I am dialated to 5 centimeters. Around 5 pm after trying to breathe through the pain for what seems like hours on my side and having what remains of my water broken I am dialated to 5 cm. This is where the scene gets blurry. I am standing, holding on to Steve crying like a baby, angry that my room is full of people watching me holding on to Steve crying like a baby but knowing full well that I don't have the energy to do anything about it. The nurse comes in to fill up the jacuzzi tub once again but before I can make it into the tub I am howling with pain. I am screaming to Steve that I need the epidural and he is saying "no remember you don't want it". I don't know what happens next. Steve says I slapped him, my mother-in-law says I grabbed him by the collar and yelled at him. All I remember is lying back in the hospital bed while the epidural numbs everything below my belly button, wondering why I didn't get it 2 centimeters ago.
After a few minutes I tell them that I can still feel all of the contractions on my left side, so they stregnthen the epidural. By the time the doctor comes in to check and tells me to push I can't feel anything below my rib cage. The nurse is watching the hills and valleys on the contraction monitor, telling me to push with each hill. I am staring at Steve, doing what I think is pushing. At one point I remember yelling "I NEED A SODA!" and having someone fill my mouth with ice chips. After 45 minutes of pushing I feel like I'm never going to be able to push this baby out.
"Can't you just pull him out the rest of the way." I whisper.And then the doctor tells me to give one more good push and I feel my tummy deflate. At 9:49, on his due date, October 3rd and not a moment sooner, my little boy Logan enters the world. He is 7 pounds, 5 ounces and 21 inches long. He doesn't come when I want him, but he is right on time.
Birth Plan: Steven, Logan and I will spend time alone together after the birth before welcoming any visitors.
Once Logan is born and they place him, eyes staring and blurry on my chest, the whole hospital staff including the security guards, parking attendants, and cafeteria crew could have been present in the room and I wouldn't have felt like there was anyone on the planet other than him and me. As family members come to welcome our new addition, I hold him and look at his long skinny fingers and legs and think that he looks just like his daddy. Judy comes over to say goodbye, and I thank her for her help and support.
"It didn't go as planned," I say, "But he's here now."
"Well you know what they say: Man plans, God laughs." Judy says
"Man plans, God laughs, I'll have to remember that." says Steve.
"It rhymes a lot better in Yiddish," Judy says "But it means the same thing.
As I sit here on New Years Eve, typing a post that I planned to type three months ago, I think about the plans that I made for 2008, and where I thought that I would be right now. A year ago I planned to lose ten pounds, buy a house, and find a new job, and nowhere in those plans was I a mother of a three month old baby going into the New Year. This year as everyone I know makes their plans and resolutions for 2009, And along with so many others I am once again planning to lose that weight, buy that house, and get that new job, and I may just get around to doing all of those things, unless God has a lot more laughing to do.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
2 weeks notice (37 weeks and one day)
There have been I think six Rocky movies and I've never sat through an entire one but I've always loved the theme song. Something about it just seems so triumphant; watching him run up the steep and treacherous steps until he finally makes it to the top.
Now imagine that you are running up those steps but imagine that you are not Rocky Balboa/Sylvester Stallone, but that you are just you, in whatever shape you're in right now. With each step add a little weight until you've added 30 pounds to yourself. Swell up your feet so that they look like bread rolls. Somewhere around the middle of the steps throw in some constant heartburn and lower back pain. Slow Rocky's song down so that it takes nine months to play. Make sure its ninety degrees outside. Get three steps from the top and just stand there looking at the top, knowing its right there, but that you can't take get up there for at least another two weeks. This is called nine months pregnant, or what the doctor's like to call, full term.
What does full term/37 weeks mean exactly? It means that your baby would be absolutely fine if he came out right now but he won't. It means that every pain will make you hope that you are about to go into labor but you're not. It will mean that every time you leave work and say "see you tomorrow" you hope that in all actuality you will be recovering in the hospital but every tomorrow you are back at work again. Most babies are born between 37 and 42 weeks. So what this means is that my little boy could safely come tomorrow or I could be standing there looking at that top step for five more weeks, the thought of which is 100 percent unacceptable. So as of yesterday, I gave the boy his eviction notice. He is to be out within the next two weeks or else.
Starting yesterday I started the process of trying every safe method supposedly known to naturally induce labor. These inlude; capsules of evening primrose oil, red raspberry leaf tea, walking, spicy food, fresh pineapple, and lots of uh- happy time with my husband. I have no idea if any of these things actually work. Either I will be a mommy again sooner, or I will be one pill popping, tea-drinking, indigestion-having chick that gets good cardio work outs and has a smile on her face. If he doesn't move willingly within two weeks, I will be evicting him via that old time favorite- castor oil. Some people say that all castor oil does is give you the runs, but right now I'm willing to risk it. Right now that top step is calling me. I've spent nine long months holding this boy in my belly, now I'm ready to hold him in my arms.
Are you listening in there buddy? Time for you to pack up your placenta and leave....
Now imagine that you are running up those steps but imagine that you are not Rocky Balboa/Sylvester Stallone, but that you are just you, in whatever shape you're in right now. With each step add a little weight until you've added 30 pounds to yourself. Swell up your feet so that they look like bread rolls. Somewhere around the middle of the steps throw in some constant heartburn and lower back pain. Slow Rocky's song down so that it takes nine months to play. Make sure its ninety degrees outside. Get three steps from the top and just stand there looking at the top, knowing its right there, but that you can't take get up there for at least another two weeks. This is called nine months pregnant, or what the doctor's like to call, full term.
What does full term/37 weeks mean exactly? It means that your baby would be absolutely fine if he came out right now but he won't. It means that every pain will make you hope that you are about to go into labor but you're not. It will mean that every time you leave work and say "see you tomorrow" you hope that in all actuality you will be recovering in the hospital but every tomorrow you are back at work again. Most babies are born between 37 and 42 weeks. So what this means is that my little boy could safely come tomorrow or I could be standing there looking at that top step for five more weeks, the thought of which is 100 percent unacceptable. So as of yesterday, I gave the boy his eviction notice. He is to be out within the next two weeks or else.
Starting yesterday I started the process of trying every safe method supposedly known to naturally induce labor. These inlude; capsules of evening primrose oil, red raspberry leaf tea, walking, spicy food, fresh pineapple, and lots of uh- happy time with my husband. I have no idea if any of these things actually work. Either I will be a mommy again sooner, or I will be one pill popping, tea-drinking, indigestion-having chick that gets good cardio work outs and has a smile on her face. If he doesn't move willingly within two weeks, I will be evicting him via that old time favorite- castor oil. Some people say that all castor oil does is give you the runs, but right now I'm willing to risk it. Right now that top step is calling me. I've spent nine long months holding this boy in my belly, now I'm ready to hold him in my arms.
Are you listening in there buddy? Time for you to pack up your placenta and leave....
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Caution! Beware the Pregosaur! (34 weeks, 5 days)
Breaking News! A Pregosaurus Rex has been spotted on the loose in the Woodlawn area. Early reports say this Pregosaur, or P-Rex as they are also called, went on a rampage when an unknown male presented her with a double chocolate cake when she clearly requested a yellow cake with white frosting. Authorities believe that she may be scouring the land in search of food.
The P-Rex is characterized by its close resemblance to an elephant and disproportionately large belly. She may waddle while walking, have swollen fingers, and will likely be breathing like a 500 pound man even though she is walking slowly. The pregosaur is often delusional and may be wearing too small clothes that she has convinced herself are shrinking.
If you spot the Pregosaur, proceed with caution! The P-Rex is volatile and can appear calm but will attack at any given moment. If you encounter her, please refrain from rubbing her belly or using words like "huge" or "twins" as these things are known to incite violence. Try throwing a Krispy Kreme donut in the opposite direction to distract her and then make your get away. If all else fails, lie flat on the ground as the P-Rex cannot reach her toes. The best thing to do is contact authorities on sight. Do not underestimate the power of the P-Rex, as she has the ability to multiply!
The P-Rex is characterized by its close resemblance to an elephant and disproportionately large belly. She may waddle while walking, have swollen fingers, and will likely be breathing like a 500 pound man even though she is walking slowly. The pregosaur is often delusional and may be wearing too small clothes that she has convinced herself are shrinking.
If you spot the Pregosaur, proceed with caution! The P-Rex is volatile and can appear calm but will attack at any given moment. If you encounter her, please refrain from rubbing her belly or using words like "huge" or "twins" as these things are known to incite violence. Try throwing a Krispy Kreme donut in the opposite direction to distract her and then make your get away. If all else fails, lie flat on the ground as the P-Rex cannot reach her toes. The best thing to do is contact authorities on sight. Do not underestimate the power of the P-Rex, as she has the ability to multiply!
Friday, August 8, 2008
The Darndest Things (32 weeks)
There is something about being pregnant that seems to prompt everyone around you to say the most ignorant things that come to their mind. It is amazing that with each passing week my belly seems to be a magic wand that turns a normal, intelligent person into an OB GYN with a degree in Dumb Assedry. Although I have come to realize that most people are well meaning, it doesn’t make the comments any less annoying. I would like to do a brief public service announcement and let everyone know that just because a woman is pregnant does not mean that it is time to turn off your sensitivity switch. If it was rude before, its still rude now- i.e. referring to a woman as huge. Below are some real comments that I’ve received that could get you stabbed, shot, killt (yes with a t), or hurt if you say them to a pregnant woman ( or at least get you a smart response from me)
“Wow are you sure you’re not having twins?”
You know I might need to check on that. I am only eight months pregnant. Maybe during the 20 doctor visits that I’ve had over the last 3o something weeks and in the five ultrasounds, the doctor somehow missed that second baby in there. I have gained some weight in my boobs though. Maybe he’s hiding in one of those.
“Wow are you sure you’re going to make it to October?”
You know although I have an October due date I am soooo over the whole October thing. Something about it is just so 1999. I think a Leo might go a little better with my nursery color scheme so I’m actually thinking of popping this little guy out sometime next week.
“Get your rest now because once that baby comes you won’t be able to get any sleep”
Thanks I’ll remind myself of that as I’m trying to sleep right now with a head in my ribcage. Nothing says sweet dreams like a pelvis full of feet.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
Hmm,- now that you mention it-not so much. But I am only 8 months pregnant. I’ve got lots of time to rethink my decision.
“You can’t possibly be that hungry”
I don’t even have a smart comment for this one. The worst thing about this was that a man said it. As a man, “you can’t possibly” should never begin any sentence that is going to end with something related to pregnancy. I will also extend this to pms, menopause, and any other womanly situation that you will never, ever, ever be able to relate to. As a matter of fact, as a man, your only response to a pregnant woman should be “you look beautiful”. The next time you feel like you want to say something regarding your pregnant woman’s weight, food intake, swollen ankles etc., just turn to her and say “you look beautiful”. It will get you good things in life.
And the number one crazy comment….
“After you have the baby you should be strong and in shape from all that weight you’ve been carrying around.”
Huh? Whaaa? Did you just?...I don't even have anything to say. The only thing I can do is keep the identity of the person who said it safe to protect the guilty :)
“Wow are you sure you’re not having twins?”
You know I might need to check on that. I am only eight months pregnant. Maybe during the 20 doctor visits that I’ve had over the last 3o something weeks and in the five ultrasounds, the doctor somehow missed that second baby in there. I have gained some weight in my boobs though. Maybe he’s hiding in one of those.
“Wow are you sure you’re going to make it to October?”
You know although I have an October due date I am soooo over the whole October thing. Something about it is just so 1999. I think a Leo might go a little better with my nursery color scheme so I’m actually thinking of popping this little guy out sometime next week.
“Get your rest now because once that baby comes you won’t be able to get any sleep”
Thanks I’ll remind myself of that as I’m trying to sleep right now with a head in my ribcage. Nothing says sweet dreams like a pelvis full of feet.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
Hmm,- now that you mention it-not so much. But I am only 8 months pregnant. I’ve got lots of time to rethink my decision.
“You can’t possibly be that hungry”
I don’t even have a smart comment for this one. The worst thing about this was that a man said it. As a man, “you can’t possibly” should never begin any sentence that is going to end with something related to pregnancy. I will also extend this to pms, menopause, and any other womanly situation that you will never, ever, ever be able to relate to. As a matter of fact, as a man, your only response to a pregnant woman should be “you look beautiful”. The next time you feel like you want to say something regarding your pregnant woman’s weight, food intake, swollen ankles etc., just turn to her and say “you look beautiful”. It will get you good things in life.
And the number one crazy comment….
“After you have the baby you should be strong and in shape from all that weight you’ve been carrying around.”
Huh? Whaaa? Did you just?...I don't even have anything to say. The only thing I can do is keep the identity of the person who said it safe to protect the guilty :)
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