If you've ever been pregnant, you know who "they" are. "They" are those people with two eyes that work, a mouth that works, and a brain that doesn't.
Or, at least, their brains never quite seem to work when they're around a pregnant woman.
I'm talking about the ones who find out you're pregnant "again" and can't help questioning whether you really know how that happens.
The ones who take one look at you and ask you if you're sure it's not twins, even though you're well past the point where someone would have noticed if it were.
The ones who feel the need to point out that it's two days past your due date and you're still pregnant.
The ones who have to let you know how glad they are they're not you when they find out you're due somewhere between July and September, because you're going to be so miserable being pregnant in the hottest part of the summer.
(These same people, incidentally, also always seem to feel the need to say, "Well, at least you won't be really big during the hottest part of the summer," if you're due at any other time of the year.)
With the first, I just smile and nod. Yes, we will have three children 3.5 and younger. Yes, we know how that happens. In fact, we meant for it to happen that way. Yes, we might very well be insane. But we're happy, too, so it works out in the end. And if it doesn't, well, that's going to be my problem, isn't it?
I haven't had to deal with #2 and #3. (In fact, I've gotten the opposite of #2, which just makes me feel a little like I might not be eating enough for my baby to grow properly. Thanks. Like I wasn't already neurotic.) For item #3, I was induced before my due date with both of my (sweet) little toddler terrors, so I never had to deal with going past. (For reasons mentioned in this post, I might be dealing with it this time, though.)
With #4, I, again, smile and nod, although I tend to roll my eyes a bit. I mean, come on. Hot is hot. If it's hot out, I'm going to be miserable, regardless of whether or not I'm pregnant. Being pregnant isn't going to make it worse.
Right? Of course.
But...then again.
It has been hot lately. We're talking 90+ degree weather and 70+ percent humidity. Miserable no matter how you look at it...but. I've noticed a few things.
For one, if I spend about five minutes out in the sun, I become useless. My temper frays, I sweat all over, my brain starts to overheat, and somewhere, a "check engine" light comes on.
For another, by the end of the day, my feet resemble the Sta-Puft Marshmallow Man as they try to ooze out of the tops of my shoes. It is neither pretty nor pleasant. For anyone.
And finally, I've actually found myself wanting to wear dresses and sandals. Dresses and sandals. Me. (Sometimes I look in the mirror and wonder where I went. And then I realize The Belly was just in my way, and I was right there behind it all along.)
So I've been wondering...were they right? Is it really harder to deal with the heat and humidity when you're massively pregnant? Or is it just that I can't handle much of anything right now that doesn't involve air conditioning, a cushy couch, and an ottoman?
I've been firmly convinced for so long that it doesn't matter whether you're pregnant or not, hot is hot and miserable is miserable, that it's difficult for me to even entertain the idea that it actually might make a difference. But...I'm really starting to think that it does.
Does this mean I have to eat crow? (*)
If so, I'd better wait until after the Bumblebee is born, since it's probably on the list of Foods To Avoid During Pregnancy. Or if it's not, it should be.
* Please excuse the wikipedia link, but I wanted to put that there since it's a fairly obscure saying now, and I didn't want anyone to think I was actually considering eating a crow. That's just gross.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Pool Fool
I had planned on posting tonight about my daughter's t-ball experience. Her last game was this evening, and I took a few pictures and had a few ideas started up. But it was hot, it stormed in the middle of it, and basically, it was a fairly miserable experience for me (fortunately, not for anyone else, but I'm going to be self-absorbed and call it NO FUN AT ALL, at least right now). I'm sure I'll feel better about it tomorrow and I can write about it then, but tonight I'm still feeling a little bitter at the elements, so I'm going to save my sanity and pretend it didn't happen.
So, instead, I'll post about my husband. At his request.
Remember, as you read this, he suggested I write about it.
And I'm all too happy to comply.
Yesterday evening after I got home from work and collapsed on the couch, he made a little suggestion: that we inflate the blow-up-pool my parents got the kids last summer, put water in it, and let them splash around a little bit. Since it's been in the 90's for the past several days, this sounded like a pretty good idea.
Note to self: at 35+ weeks of pregnancy, in 90+ degree weather with 70-ish percent humidity, nothing involving toddlers and playing and outside is a good idea. They are 100% guaranteed to drive me crazy for something, even if they're technically not doing anything wrong. But I digress.
I agreed that we should take them out, so he got the electric air pump and went out to blow up the pool while I rounded up the kids and got them ready. After I stuffed the Birdie into a swimsuit two sizes too small for her (but it's Princess! Ooh, Princess! Must wear the PRINCESS swimsuit! Even if it hasn't fit for OVER A YEAR!) and suited the Imp up in a swim diaper from a package that was handed down from my cousin's daughter who turned FIVE a few months ago (thanks, Tabitha!), we headed back into the living room.
A glance out on the deck told me some not-so-good news, the very news, in fact, that I had been dreading: although Craig had been trying to inflate the pool for a good five or ten minutes, it appeared that no progress had been made. And I don't mean "very little" progress. I mean NO progress. The pool mostly resembled a blue tarp that had been left outside for months, gathering rainwater and leaves and creating a habitat for mosquitos.
And the only thing I could think was Oh no oh no oh nononononono. Because I had two toddlers in swimsuits, convinced they were going to get to swim. Please please PLEASE Lord, do not let there be a hole in the pool. Please please please!
I told the kids "Don't get into anything, Mommy is going outside with Daddy for a minute but I'll be right back," which is, of course, a carte blanche for them to start tearing up everything in sight, but I didn't care - if that pool wouldn't inflate, I'd have much worse trouble on my hands than toys and mess all over the place.
I'd have a disappointed three-year-old. And there is no greater force on this earth than a 3-year-old who has been told she gets to do something fun and exciting, only to be told a few minutes later that she isn't going to get to, after all.
"So, it's not inflating," I remarked to my husband, much more casually than I felt.
He tugged at it in a few places and looked puzzled. "It doesn't look like it, but I can't figure out why."
I thought, "I KNOW WHY! IT'S BECAUSE THERE'S A HOLE IN IT! A HOLE A HOLE A HOLE AND NOW THE BIRDIE IS GOING TO THROW A FIT AND THE WORLD IS GOING TO END AND MY HEAD IS GOING TO EXPLODE!"
But I didn't say that. Because the weird thing was, it didn't look like any air was going into the pool at all. Usually when you try to inflate something with a hole, it will at least work a little bit before starting to seep back out. But this wasn't even pretending to inflate.
So I grabbed the side of the pool, and started looking for the little air hole - you know, the kind you actually blow into - because Craig was trying to inflate it through a big one, made for the electric pump, and I thought, I don't know, maybe something was wrong with it, even though I couldn't imagine what. And as I was turning the side of the pool over, looking for the other plug, I commented, "It's really weird. It's like you're putting air in and it coming right back out..."
...the other side.
Blink.
Because, you see, it was coming back out the other side.
Blink. Blink.
Oh yes. The nozzle of the pump was actually sticking out the bottom of the pool. And somehow...my (sometimes) annoyingly intelligent husband never noticed he was trying to inflate it through the drain.
Snicker.
Snicker snicker.
Umm...I think we found our problem.
I was just relieved there wasn't a hole in the pool.
At least, not any unauthorized holes.
Bitty tantrum avoided. At least for a little while.
So, instead, I'll post about my husband. At his request.
Remember, as you read this, he suggested I write about it.
And I'm all too happy to comply.
Yesterday evening after I got home from work and collapsed on the couch, he made a little suggestion: that we inflate the blow-up-pool my parents got the kids last summer, put water in it, and let them splash around a little bit. Since it's been in the 90's for the past several days, this sounded like a pretty good idea.
Note to self: at 35+ weeks of pregnancy, in 90+ degree weather with 70-ish percent humidity, nothing involving toddlers and playing and outside is a good idea. They are 100% guaranteed to drive me crazy for something, even if they're technically not doing anything wrong. But I digress.
I agreed that we should take them out, so he got the electric air pump and went out to blow up the pool while I rounded up the kids and got them ready. After I stuffed the Birdie into a swimsuit two sizes too small for her (but it's Princess! Ooh, Princess! Must wear the PRINCESS swimsuit! Even if it hasn't fit for OVER A YEAR!) and suited the Imp up in a swim diaper from a package that was handed down from my cousin's daughter who turned FIVE a few months ago (thanks, Tabitha!), we headed back into the living room.
A glance out on the deck told me some not-so-good news, the very news, in fact, that I had been dreading: although Craig had been trying to inflate the pool for a good five or ten minutes, it appeared that no progress had been made. And I don't mean "very little" progress. I mean NO progress. The pool mostly resembled a blue tarp that had been left outside for months, gathering rainwater and leaves and creating a habitat for mosquitos.
And the only thing I could think was Oh no oh no oh nononononono. Because I had two toddlers in swimsuits, convinced they were going to get to swim. Please please PLEASE Lord, do not let there be a hole in the pool. Please please please!
I told the kids "Don't get into anything, Mommy is going outside with Daddy for a minute but I'll be right back," which is, of course, a carte blanche for them to start tearing up everything in sight, but I didn't care - if that pool wouldn't inflate, I'd have much worse trouble on my hands than toys and mess all over the place.
I'd have a disappointed three-year-old. And there is no greater force on this earth than a 3-year-old who has been told she gets to do something fun and exciting, only to be told a few minutes later that she isn't going to get to, after all.
"So, it's not inflating," I remarked to my husband, much more casually than I felt.
He tugged at it in a few places and looked puzzled. "It doesn't look like it, but I can't figure out why."
I thought, "I KNOW WHY! IT'S BECAUSE THERE'S A HOLE IN IT! A HOLE A HOLE A HOLE AND NOW THE BIRDIE IS GOING TO THROW A FIT AND THE WORLD IS GOING TO END AND MY HEAD IS GOING TO EXPLODE!"
But I didn't say that. Because the weird thing was, it didn't look like any air was going into the pool at all. Usually when you try to inflate something with a hole, it will at least work a little bit before starting to seep back out. But this wasn't even pretending to inflate.
So I grabbed the side of the pool, and started looking for the little air hole - you know, the kind you actually blow into - because Craig was trying to inflate it through a big one, made for the electric pump, and I thought, I don't know, maybe something was wrong with it, even though I couldn't imagine what. And as I was turning the side of the pool over, looking for the other plug, I commented, "It's really weird. It's like you're putting air in and it coming right back out..."
...the other side.
Blink.
Because, you see, it was coming back out the other side.
Blink. Blink.
Oh yes. The nozzle of the pump was actually sticking out the bottom of the pool. And somehow...my (sometimes) annoyingly intelligent husband never noticed he was trying to inflate it through the drain.
Snicker.
Snicker snicker.
Umm...I think we found our problem.
I was just relieved there wasn't a hole in the pool.
At least, not any unauthorized holes.
Bitty tantrum avoided. At least for a little while.
Monday, June 14, 2010
A Lesson in Privacy With Toddlers Around
Since last night's post was fairly serious, tonight I'll give you something that requires a little less thought.
(Well, on your part, at least. Obviously, what I wrote last night didn't use a whole lot of my own effort beyond spewing out what I've been thinking about for the past 5+ weeks without much cohesion or attempt to be entertaining. I guess that is what happens when you blog while you're supposed to be sleeping. Which is what I'm doing right now, too, come to think of it. I really need to get my priorities in order.)
(And in another aside, why the heck didn't they put a "Delete" key on the Macbook? I mean, there is a "Delete" key, but it's not a real "Delete" key, it's the backspace. I want a forward delete. WHERE IS IT?? Can anyone tell me?)
Let's move on to my story.
Any of us who are parents are aware of how privacy works when you have kids: as soon as they are mobile enough to get into the bathroom/bedroom/hall closet, your privacy becomes one of those things you sit and dream about during those brief moments when you can manage to tune out the yelling and running and general wildness going on around you.
That is to say, it no longer exists.
I will confess, though, that I am one of the lucky ones, at least in this respect. I have a job, which means I am usually up, showered, and out of the house before my kids are awake. I get to shower without little hands pulling back the shower curtain, little eyes peeking in, little mouths grinning at me, little voices laughing at how funny Mommy looks. It's bliss, and I am well aware of how good I have it.
On Saturday, Daddy took the Birdie out of the house before I'd had a chance to shower, and I was left alone with the Imp. Normally I would just sit around until Daddy got home and shower then, but I decided to be proactive and get it out of the way early. I turned on the TV, left the bathroom door open, and got started.
Almost right away, I heard the distinctive thut-thut-thut-thut-thut of footsteps that accompanies the Imp wherever he goes. The curtain pulled back at the corner, and he stopped, looked, and giggled. Then he turned and ran off - thut-thut-thut-thut-thut.
Less than a minute later, thut-thut-thut-thut-thut. Rustle, rustle. Curtain opens. Giggle. Curtain closes. thut-thut-thut-thut-thut.
This went on for the entire shower. He was very cute with his grins and giggles, but really, after a few times, I kept hoping he'd find a toy or the TV and stop looking in at me. I know well enough I look funny right now without the why-do-you-look-so-weird-Mommy? stares coming at me every thirty seconds.
Thut-thut-thut-thut-thut. Rustle, rustle. Curtain opens.
And then I smelled something. Actually, it wasn't quite that sudden - I'd noticed it at the beginning of the shower, and I'd thought, "Ew, gross, what did Craig leave in his shower?" After a few giggle trips, though, I realized the smell was coming and going with the Imp.
Aha. "Well, the shower's going anyway. May as well clean the kiddo while I'm at it." So I reached down for him and grabbed his little shoulders. To my surprise and chagrin, he cried out and started to whine and shake pathetically.
Me: Don't you want to take a shower?
Him: (wailing and shaking his head emphatically) Noooooooooo.
Well, okay. It scared him. But...too bad. It was going to be much easier on Mommy's aching back to not have to bend over the tub, so I decided the shower was the way to go. He'd get used to the idea once he got in the water.
He wriggled a little, and I put him back on his feet so I could get a better grip and start undressing him. Before I could stop him, he slipped away and took off. Thut-thut-thut-thut-thut-thut-thut.
Me: Come back here!
Him: ...
Me: You little Imp! Come here!
Him: ...!!!
I called for him several times, but he knew what I had planned, and he wanted no part of it. As much as he loves taking a bath, for some reason, when the water is coming out of the sky, it terrifies him.
And even though I did have to lean over the tub to get him clean, I may have learned something far more valuable: the secret to privacy in the shower when the kids are around.
It's definitely a lesson worth knowing.
(Well, on your part, at least. Obviously, what I wrote last night didn't use a whole lot of my own effort beyond spewing out what I've been thinking about for the past 5+ weeks without much cohesion or attempt to be entertaining. I guess that is what happens when you blog while you're supposed to be sleeping. Which is what I'm doing right now, too, come to think of it. I really need to get my priorities in order.)
(And in another aside, why the heck didn't they put a "Delete" key on the Macbook? I mean, there is a "Delete" key, but it's not a real "Delete" key, it's the backspace. I want a forward delete. WHERE IS IT?? Can anyone tell me?)
Let's move on to my story.
Any of us who are parents are aware of how privacy works when you have kids: as soon as they are mobile enough to get into the bathroom/bedroom/hall closet, your privacy becomes one of those things you sit and dream about during those brief moments when you can manage to tune out the yelling and running and general wildness going on around you.
That is to say, it no longer exists.
I will confess, though, that I am one of the lucky ones, at least in this respect. I have a job, which means I am usually up, showered, and out of the house before my kids are awake. I get to shower without little hands pulling back the shower curtain, little eyes peeking in, little mouths grinning at me, little voices laughing at how funny Mommy looks. It's bliss, and I am well aware of how good I have it.
On Saturday, Daddy took the Birdie out of the house before I'd had a chance to shower, and I was left alone with the Imp. Normally I would just sit around until Daddy got home and shower then, but I decided to be proactive and get it out of the way early. I turned on the TV, left the bathroom door open, and got started.
Almost right away, I heard the distinctive thut-thut-thut-thut-thut of footsteps that accompanies the Imp wherever he goes. The curtain pulled back at the corner, and he stopped, looked, and giggled. Then he turned and ran off - thut-thut-thut-thut-thut.
Less than a minute later, thut-thut-thut-thut-thut. Rustle, rustle. Curtain opens. Giggle. Curtain closes. thut-thut-thut-thut-thut.
This went on for the entire shower. He was very cute with his grins and giggles, but really, after a few times, I kept hoping he'd find a toy or the TV and stop looking in at me. I know well enough I look funny right now without the why-do-you-look-so-weird-Mommy? stares coming at me every thirty seconds.
Thut-thut-thut-thut-thut. Rustle, rustle. Curtain opens.
And then I smelled something. Actually, it wasn't quite that sudden - I'd noticed it at the beginning of the shower, and I'd thought, "Ew, gross, what did Craig leave in his shower?" After a few giggle trips, though, I realized the smell was coming and going with the Imp.
Aha. "Well, the shower's going anyway. May as well clean the kiddo while I'm at it." So I reached down for him and grabbed his little shoulders. To my surprise and chagrin, he cried out and started to whine and shake pathetically.
Me: Don't you want to take a shower?
Him: (wailing and shaking his head emphatically) Noooooooooo.
Well, okay. It scared him. But...too bad. It was going to be much easier on Mommy's aching back to not have to bend over the tub, so I decided the shower was the way to go. He'd get used to the idea once he got in the water.
He wriggled a little, and I put him back on his feet so I could get a better grip and start undressing him. Before I could stop him, he slipped away and took off. Thut-thut-thut-thut-thut-thut-thut.
Me: Come back here!
Him: ...
Me: You little Imp! Come here!
Him: ...!!!
I called for him several times, but he knew what I had planned, and he wanted no part of it. As much as he loves taking a bath, for some reason, when the water is coming out of the sky, it terrifies him.
And even though I did have to lean over the tub to get him clean, I may have learned something far more valuable: the secret to privacy in the shower when the kids are around.
It's definitely a lesson worth knowing.
The Imp and I played with the Photo Booth application tonight.
Fun times.
Au Naturel
I haven't posted about the Baby Bee in a while (or about anything, for that matter, but that's beside the point), so while I sit here waiting and dreading a couple of approaching thunderstorms, I'll see if I can organize my thoughts enough to say a few things.
First, about the baby. Not much to say there...everything is normal, as far as anyone can tell. I am just past 35 weeks, so only a little bit longer to go. (For those who aren't used to counting pregnancies in weeks, I'm expecting her to be born between 39 and 41 weeks, so I have another 4-6 weeks to go.)
An aside. Does anyone else still think of six weeks as a "grading period?" A throwback to elementary school days. We got our report cards every six weeks, and to this day, when I think of six weeks, I think of it as a "grading period."
But really, it's about a month-and-a-half, so that's what I've been telling people who ask me how much longer I have.
After doing quite a bit of research, I've decided I would like to have an unmedicated delivery.
What? Really? Me?
Yup.
Anyone who knows me will know that this is a surprise. I've never been much of one for pain, and I've always been of the "if there's a good way to avoid it, then why the heck not?" mindset.
So how did I come to this startling decision?
It started out with a single motive: to reduce my risk of a c-section. No, I have never had one, and odds are, I'm a pretty good candidate for not having one in a future delivery. But, every labor is different, and realistically speaking, it could still happen. Since we are planning to have another little bundle within the next two years or so, God willing, a c-section with this one most likely would mean a repeat c-section with my fourth.
And scheduled c-sections don't make good stories.
At least, you hope they don't. If they do, then it's probably not a good story, or at least not a pleasant one.
But if all goes well, and Mommy and Baby are healthy at the end, then it's likely not a good story. And, oh yes, I thought of that. In fact, that was my first reaction when the idea crossed my mind. No, not a good reason, but there's a good reason that trumps it, even in my mind. Three words for you: Major Abdominal Surgery.
Don't get me wrong. If it were a question of a c-section or my baby's health and safety, I'd take the c-section in a heartbeat. But just because...? (Just because my labor isn't progressing fast enough? Just because I had one the last time?) No, thank you.
My first decision was, in order to avoid the increased risk of a c-section, I'd skip the induction this time. Inductions worked well with both of my others, but why take the chance? As much as I love the doctor who delivered both of my babies (I scheduled so I could ensure she delivered them), I figured I could stand to wait it out this time.
And I was okay with that. But I still planned the epidural. After all, epidurals don't increase your risk of c-section, right? Right?
But then I started stumbling across comments...birth stories...anecdotal evidence that maybe an epidural does increase your risk of c-section. Stories of epidurals slowing down labor so much that the doctor orders on the pitocin, which leads to more interventions (some necessary, others possibly not), which eventually would lead to a c-section.
Really? So I asked around a little, and found some literature, and did some research (admittedly secondhand - I just don't have the time to read the studies for myself at this point). And there is actually quite a bit of evidence that an epidural can lead to an increased risk of c-section...and that it might not be best for Mommy and Baby in a vaginal delivery, either.
(Yes, I just used the word "vaginal." Sorry, Dad, and any other men who might read this. That's just how babies come out, at least 67% of the time. Yes, you read that right, 67%.)
There are other reasons. I know that the odds of the epidural slowing down labor enough to lead to a c/s in a third-time mom are fairly slim, but that was just where the research started, the tip of the iceberg, to use an overused cliche. I'll get into some of the other reasons in a future post...but as I'm not trying to start a debate, I don't want to go into too much detail. Just know that I have researched this, and I've found enough additional reasons to labor unmedicated that I feel very comfortable with my decision.
I'll admit, however, that I wasn't too happy about this at first. I didn't want to skip the epidural. I mean, hello? Pain? We are not friends. We have never even been what you might call semi-close acquaintances. But the more I looked into it, the more I felt convicted that that was the best route for me and for my baby. It's not the best choice for everyone, but I feel clearly that it will be best for us.
So if I was going to do it, the next step was to figure out how to do it. Which meant even more research. And I learned that it's not always excruciatingly painful. That it doesn't have to be scary...it really is a natural process! Natural contracting and releasing of muscles, pulling up and out, to open up the...opening...(I'm trying, Dad) -- That doesn't sound nearly as frightening as I always imagined it.
I do realize it is usually painful, and I am not expecting it to be painless. I know childbirth isn't easy, and it's not going to feel good. I don't think I have any unrealistic expectations (but then again, who ever thinks they do?) But I am trying to not have any specific expectations about how it is going to feel. I'll plan on taking it as it comes. I'm researching, and exercising, and preparing myself for what my body will go through, but trying not to have expectations beyond the knowledge that it is going to be a lot of hard work.
(Aaaaaaaand....the first storm is here. It seems to have broken up a little bit as it hit the "Ohio River Triangle," where many storms seem to get lost, never to be seen again, but for the most part, this one made it through, and I'm going to try to remain calm until it passes.)
To my surprise, though (going back to the original discussion), I am finding that I am looking forward to the experience. It didn't start out that way, and that was never and will never be my primary motivation. I'm not wanting to be one of those people who is "doing it just so I can say I can." I think it's the best choice for me and my little Bumblebee, and I will continue to think that as long as no new, substantiated information comes along that tells me otherwise (specifically, from my caregiver; otherwise, I'm not going to change my mind).
There is a lot more to this story, but I realize this has gotten long and rambling. I wasn't joking when I questioned my ability, at first, to organize my thoughts into something cohesive and coherent. I think I've gotten my point across, but I think I could have said it much better, too. So I apologize for that, and will try to put my thoughts in better order before I write the next installment.
(Incidentally, the storms are over now, unless something else pops up tonight. The second storm that was headed our way pretty much did die on the Ohio River. And I have no problem at all with that!)
First, about the baby. Not much to say there...everything is normal, as far as anyone can tell. I am just past 35 weeks, so only a little bit longer to go. (For those who aren't used to counting pregnancies in weeks, I'm expecting her to be born between 39 and 41 weeks, so I have another 4-6 weeks to go.)
An aside. Does anyone else still think of six weeks as a "grading period?" A throwback to elementary school days. We got our report cards every six weeks, and to this day, when I think of six weeks, I think of it as a "grading period."
But really, it's about a month-and-a-half, so that's what I've been telling people who ask me how much longer I have.
After doing quite a bit of research, I've decided I would like to have an unmedicated delivery.
What? Really? Me?
Yup.
Anyone who knows me will know that this is a surprise. I've never been much of one for pain, and I've always been of the "if there's a good way to avoid it, then why the heck not?" mindset.
So how did I come to this startling decision?
It started out with a single motive: to reduce my risk of a c-section. No, I have never had one, and odds are, I'm a pretty good candidate for not having one in a future delivery. But, every labor is different, and realistically speaking, it could still happen. Since we are planning to have another little bundle within the next two years or so, God willing, a c-section with this one most likely would mean a repeat c-section with my fourth.
And scheduled c-sections don't make good stories.
At least, you hope they don't. If they do, then it's probably not a good story, or at least not a pleasant one.
But if all goes well, and Mommy and Baby are healthy at the end, then it's likely not a good story. And, oh yes, I thought of that. In fact, that was my first reaction when the idea crossed my mind. No, not a good reason, but there's a good reason that trumps it, even in my mind. Three words for you: Major Abdominal Surgery.
Don't get me wrong. If it were a question of a c-section or my baby's health and safety, I'd take the c-section in a heartbeat. But just because...? (Just because my labor isn't progressing fast enough? Just because I had one the last time?) No, thank you.
My first decision was, in order to avoid the increased risk of a c-section, I'd skip the induction this time. Inductions worked well with both of my others, but why take the chance? As much as I love the doctor who delivered both of my babies (I scheduled so I could ensure she delivered them), I figured I could stand to wait it out this time.
And I was okay with that. But I still planned the epidural. After all, epidurals don't increase your risk of c-section, right? Right?
But then I started stumbling across comments...birth stories...anecdotal evidence that maybe an epidural does increase your risk of c-section. Stories of epidurals slowing down labor so much that the doctor orders on the pitocin, which leads to more interventions (some necessary, others possibly not), which eventually would lead to a c-section.
Really? So I asked around a little, and found some literature, and did some research (admittedly secondhand - I just don't have the time to read the studies for myself at this point). And there is actually quite a bit of evidence that an epidural can lead to an increased risk of c-section...and that it might not be best for Mommy and Baby in a vaginal delivery, either.
(Yes, I just used the word "vaginal." Sorry, Dad, and any other men who might read this. That's just how babies come out, at least 67% of the time. Yes, you read that right, 67%.)
There are other reasons. I know that the odds of the epidural slowing down labor enough to lead to a c/s in a third-time mom are fairly slim, but that was just where the research started, the tip of the iceberg, to use an overused cliche. I'll get into some of the other reasons in a future post...but as I'm not trying to start a debate, I don't want to go into too much detail. Just know that I have researched this, and I've found enough additional reasons to labor unmedicated that I feel very comfortable with my decision.
I'll admit, however, that I wasn't too happy about this at first. I didn't want to skip the epidural. I mean, hello? Pain? We are not friends. We have never even been what you might call semi-close acquaintances. But the more I looked into it, the more I felt convicted that that was the best route for me and for my baby. It's not the best choice for everyone, but I feel clearly that it will be best for us.
So if I was going to do it, the next step was to figure out how to do it. Which meant even more research. And I learned that it's not always excruciatingly painful. That it doesn't have to be scary...it really is a natural process! Natural contracting and releasing of muscles, pulling up and out, to open up the...opening...(I'm trying, Dad) -- That doesn't sound nearly as frightening as I always imagined it.
I do realize it is usually painful, and I am not expecting it to be painless. I know childbirth isn't easy, and it's not going to feel good. I don't think I have any unrealistic expectations (but then again, who ever thinks they do?) But I am trying to not have any specific expectations about how it is going to feel. I'll plan on taking it as it comes. I'm researching, and exercising, and preparing myself for what my body will go through, but trying not to have expectations beyond the knowledge that it is going to be a lot of hard work.
(Aaaaaaaand....the first storm is here. It seems to have broken up a little bit as it hit the "Ohio River Triangle," where many storms seem to get lost, never to be seen again, but for the most part, this one made it through, and I'm going to try to remain calm until it passes.)
To my surprise, though (going back to the original discussion), I am finding that I am looking forward to the experience. It didn't start out that way, and that was never and will never be my primary motivation. I'm not wanting to be one of those people who is "doing it just so I can say I can." I think it's the best choice for me and my little Bumblebee, and I will continue to think that as long as no new, substantiated information comes along that tells me otherwise (specifically, from my caregiver; otherwise, I'm not going to change my mind).
There is a lot more to this story, but I realize this has gotten long and rambling. I wasn't joking when I questioned my ability, at first, to organize my thoughts into something cohesive and coherent. I think I've gotten my point across, but I think I could have said it much better, too. So I apologize for that, and will try to put my thoughts in better order before I write the next installment.
(Incidentally, the storms are over now, unless something else pops up tonight. The second storm that was headed our way pretty much did die on the Ohio River. And I have no problem at all with that!)
Thursday, May 20, 2010
A Haiku
2 p.m. At The Office
or
I Ate Too Much For Lunch Today
or
I Ate Too Much For Lunch Today
Drifting quietly
Into the land of slumber
Dozing at my desk
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Bitty Surprise
This morning, as I was getting ready for work a little bit later than I usually do have been lately, I heard something unexpected.
The Birdie was awake, and fussing that she wanted to get up. Okay, that wasn't too surprising, because she has been waking up early a lot lately, but what was surprising was what she was saying. For possibly the first time ever, I heard through the baby monitor, "Mom-meeee! I want my mommy!"
Blink. No, surely I must have heard that wrong. Because she has never ever awakened asking for me. Not in the morning, and certainly not in the middle of the night. It's always Daddy she wants, to the point where she will sometimes wail, "Nooooo! I don't want yooooooouuuuu!" if I go in, instead. (But it's fair, because the Imp is the same way with me, except he can't put it into such sharp, specific words quite yet.)
So, after I finished getting ready for work, I popped in and told my still-sleeping husband (who had forgotten to turn the baby monitor on in the bedroom last night) to go ahead and shower, and I'd see if I could get the Birdie to calm down and play quietly in her room until Daddy could get upstairs.
I was still a bit skeptical that she had actually been calling for Mommy, but as I climbed the stairs I heard her wail again, and she was definitely saying "Mommy." Amazing.
I went in her room, and she sat up, all happy to see me. "Mommy!" I sat down on her bed and gave her a hug.
"Good morning, sweetie! What do you want?"
Often, the first question out of her mouth in the mornings is (or seems to be), "Where are we going today?" This morning, she asked a variation on it: "What are we going to eat?"
"Oh, well, sweetie, I have to go to work, but Daddy will fix you something when he gets up here," I replied, with sudden suspicion, but pretending to be oblivious.
She cut right to the chase and confirmed my suspicion. "Are we going to eat cake pops?"
Ahh, yes. Cake pops. She had been delighted by them last night, and ever since she saw them, she had been dying to try them. And suddenly it came together. This was why she unexpectedly and uncharacteristically wanted Mommy this morning. Because Mommy and cake pops go together, in her mind - and the cake pops were apparently the very first thing that crossed her bitty mind this morning. Or close to it.
And before you say, "Oh no, you are just being cynical, she really wanted you and the other is only coincidence," let me assure you that I am not being cynical. I accept that she is a Daddy's Girl, and I have no problem with that now. I am okay (most of the time) with her preference of Daddy, to the point of her often wanting nothing to do with Mommy if he is around. I love my Birdie and I take my hugs when I can get them (sometimes stolen from a screaming Birdie, but I still get them). But, no. It is not coincidence. Mommy made the cake pops. Mommy is in charge of the cake pops. I want a cake pop. Therefore, I must have Mommy come get me so she can give me one. I am quite sure that is how her thought process went.
Back to the conversation.
"No, we're not going to eat cake pops right now."
"When are we going to eat them?"
"We'll eat them after dinner."
"Oh."
"You know, there is one with your name on it, waiting for you."
"There is? Is it the pink one?"
"Yes."
"Is there one with the Imp's name on it?"
"Yes, there is."
"Is it the white one?"
"Yes."
"Is there one with your name on it?"
"No, Mommy and Daddy don't have their names on them, because I still have to decorate them. But you can help me decorate them tonight!"
I then tried in vain to get her to stay and play quietly in her room, but she insisted on going out. The conversation quickly turned back to the number-one thing on her mind, though.
"Can I help you decorate them?"
"Yes, you may."
"Can I help now?"
"No, sweetie, I have to go to work now."
"Nooooo! You can't go to work!"
And I think this is the first time she has ever cared whether I left the house.
Behold, the power ofcheese Cake Pops.
The Birdie was awake, and fussing that she wanted to get up. Okay, that wasn't too surprising, because she has been waking up early a lot lately, but what was surprising was what she was saying. For possibly the first time ever, I heard through the baby monitor, "Mom-meeee! I want my mommy!"
Blink. No, surely I must have heard that wrong. Because she has never ever awakened asking for me. Not in the morning, and certainly not in the middle of the night. It's always Daddy she wants, to the point where she will sometimes wail, "Nooooo! I don't want yooooooouuuuu!" if I go in, instead. (But it's fair, because the Imp is the same way with me, except he can't put it into such sharp, specific words quite yet.)
So, after I finished getting ready for work, I popped in and told my still-sleeping husband (who had forgotten to turn the baby monitor on in the bedroom last night) to go ahead and shower, and I'd see if I could get the Birdie to calm down and play quietly in her room until Daddy could get upstairs.
I was still a bit skeptical that she had actually been calling for Mommy, but as I climbed the stairs I heard her wail again, and she was definitely saying "Mommy." Amazing.
I went in her room, and she sat up, all happy to see me. "Mommy!" I sat down on her bed and gave her a hug.
"Good morning, sweetie! What do you want?"
Often, the first question out of her mouth in the mornings is (or seems to be), "Where are we going today?" This morning, she asked a variation on it: "What are we going to eat?"
"Oh, well, sweetie, I have to go to work, but Daddy will fix you something when he gets up here," I replied, with sudden suspicion, but pretending to be oblivious.
She cut right to the chase and confirmed my suspicion. "Are we going to eat cake pops?"
Ahh, yes. Cake pops. She had been delighted by them last night, and ever since she saw them, she had been dying to try them. And suddenly it came together. This was why she unexpectedly and uncharacteristically wanted Mommy this morning. Because Mommy and cake pops go together, in her mind - and the cake pops were apparently the very first thing that crossed her bitty mind this morning. Or close to it.
And before you say, "Oh no, you are just being cynical, she really wanted you and the other is only coincidence," let me assure you that I am not being cynical. I accept that she is a Daddy's Girl, and I have no problem with that now. I am okay (most of the time) with her preference of Daddy, to the point of her often wanting nothing to do with Mommy if he is around. I love my Birdie and I take my hugs when I can get them (sometimes stolen from a screaming Birdie, but I still get them). But, no. It is not coincidence. Mommy made the cake pops. Mommy is in charge of the cake pops. I want a cake pop. Therefore, I must have Mommy come get me so she can give me one. I am quite sure that is how her thought process went.
Back to the conversation.
"No, we're not going to eat cake pops right now."
"When are we going to eat them?"
"We'll eat them after dinner."
"Oh."
"You know, there is one with your name on it, waiting for you."
"There is? Is it the pink one?"
"Yes."
"Is there one with the Imp's name on it?"
"Yes, there is."
"Is it the white one?"
"Yes."
"Is there one with your name on it?"
"No, Mommy and Daddy don't have their names on them, because I still have to decorate them. But you can help me decorate them tonight!"
I then tried in vain to get her to stay and play quietly in her room, but she insisted on going out. The conversation quickly turned back to the number-one thing on her mind, though.
"Can I help you decorate them?"
"Yes, you may."
"Can I help now?"
"No, sweetie, I have to go to work now."
"Nooooo! You can't go to work!"
And I think this is the first time she has ever cared whether I left the house.
Behold, the power of
Inspired!
Have any of you seen the Bakerella website? She is amazing, and she has some of the most brilliant creations I've ever seen.
My favorites are her character-themed Cake Pops. Take a moment to browse through some of the stuff she's done. (But open it in another tab so you can come back and finish reading my post!)
As the title of this post suggests, I have been inspired to make some little cake pops of my own. Me? Really? Yes. Me. I don't bake. I'm so, so, SO not creative when it comes to drawing and designing things. I just wasn't blessed in that area. That's okay with me, because I have other strong points. (Shhhh! Let me have my illusions!)
I'm not one of those people who is good at doing something simple and being happy with it. Just ask my husband, who cringes every time I have to take some sort of food item somewhere. (Since having kids, I have gotten MUCH better about making a simple choice when it comes to a meal, but before I had two little monsters to chase, I would choose something difficult and impressive. Or that would be impressive, if it worked.) Sometimes my creations were brilliant, and sometimes they were duds.
And sometimes, it didn't quite seem like they would work up until the very last minute when, after hours of me cursing and throwing things and stomping around and weeping and anything else you can (or maybe can't) imagine me doing, they would turn out just fine, and I'd feel like a total doof for the way I'd been acting for the last hour or so while Craig hid in the family room playing his video game.
Oh, no, not me.
So, of course I can't just do plain old Cake Pops, not after seeing Bakerella's remarkable creations. And I had a brilliant idea: Goggy* Cake Pops for the Imp's birthday, which is about 3 weeks away. No, wait. Ooh. Two weeks. Eek.
* "Gog" = "Frog" in Imp-speak.
For once, though, I gave myself some realistic expectations (because, dang, those critters look hard)! There were two main parts to it: First, I would do a "test run" ahead of time so I could figure out little details, such as how long I should expect it to take (to avoid the last-minute scramble/working into the wee hours of the night before the party), what tools I'm going to need (to avoid the last-minute rush to the craft store), and what the best coating and decorating techniques would be (to avoid the last-minute frustration, anger, and tears when my ideas didn't work, after all). Second, I plan on doing a variety of designs, and not make all of them little goggies, which will cut down on the more intricate parts. There will be Gogs, balloons, and just plain balls (which I can decorate - or not - as I wish and have time to do).
I started my test run on Monday night, and let me say that I am so glad I decided to practice. With two toddlers running around, it makes everything take so much longer! Monday night, I got the cake balls made, the six test goggies shaped, and everything stuck in the fridge to cool. I had to make my own icing because we didn't have any, and that was a little bit of a pain, but I vastly prefer homemade icing to store-bought anyway, so that didn't upset me much. The cake was already made because we baked too much for the Birdie's birthday back in December and froze some of it. I knew that could make it maybe not taste as good, but - hey! we are practicing! who cares?
Last night, I went to Michael's and got all of the crafting items I didn't have. When I got home, Craig had to leave right away, so I ordered a pizza (because that's what the Birdie wanted, and who am I to deny her, haha) and got started dipping some of the critters. I liked the initial results. So did the Birdie, who wanted to eat the results. Immediately. Naturally. (I did deny her that one, because if I let her eat them, then I'd have nothing left to practice decorating.)
Once the kids were in bed (and the Imp was rocked, and rocked, and rocked...thirty minutes, sigh) I decorated a few of the pops and dipped some more of them. Here are the preliminary results (please excuse the camera phone photo, it was all I had on hand and my hips and feet and back and belly hurt too much I was too lazy to walk downstairs and get the real camera).
As you can see, I probably have about six or seven left to dip, and then we'll decorate them. The Birdie has already claimed a seat at the table to help decorate. :)
Once I'm done, I'll post about them, with real pictures and the lessons I learned for the next time I do them. I'll also be asking what you like best, because I have two techniques I used for the goggies, and I need to decide which looks (and works) best.
I will say that they're not working out to be quite as hard as I expected, probably because I'm allowing myself extra time to do them and giving myself permission to make mistakes (which I wouldn't have, of course, if this weren't a practice batch). They're far from perfect, which is fine.
Really. Fine. Fiiiiiiiine. (Excuse me for a moment while I beat down my inner perfectionist.)
Okay, that's better.
Has anyone else tried these before? If so, what did you do? Characters or balls? What colors? How did they turn out? I'd love to hear and see pictures, if you have them!
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