The potty is back out. Sans stickers; Maia kept prying them up, and anyway that reward system is over. If we give Chloë stickers, we'll put her chart back up for them.
I told Chloë recently that we're starting to run out of diapers, and when we do we'll be switching her to Pull-Ups. (Actually Easy-Ups, the Pampers brand. They have Dora.) She seemed okay with it at the time, though she's asked every once in a while since whether we still have diapers. We're going to run out today. I also asked her whether we should bring the potty out, and she said yes, and even reminded me when I forgot to do it that night--though I don't think she's sat down on it yet. (Maia has. She gets a big grin whenever we help her on it. Then she stands up and tries to stick both feet in the hole.)
The only roadblock in the potty training path has been this reluctance to do without her diaper. She's got control; she doesn't like being messy; she's totally verbal. (Good gods is she verbal.) She recently had to pee in her diaper without a change at the grocery store, and she wasn't happy about it--to the point of not sitting down at the pharmacy, which she usually likes to do, because "I have a wet diaper." We drove out of town about half an hour last week to take family pictures, and on the way back Chloë announced she had to pee. "Well, we're not going to stop to find you a bathroom just to go in your diaper," I told her. "So you can just pee now in your chair, or you can wait until we get to the restaurant for dinner."
"How long will it be?" she asked. I said, "Several minutes," and she said, "I'll wait." And she did--fifteen minutes or more, until we arrived at Chili's and got into the bathroom and I closed the stall door. She now usually says "I have to pee," as soon as she gets up in the morning. She's been waking up dry from naps and usually in the morning (though she also had her first nighttime leak recently, due to her habit of taking a sippy of water with her to bed). The other morning she told me, "I kept the pee in my body all night!" Basically, she is potty trained...just without the potty part.
So the key--the only--question is, how do we get her away from her diaper and onto the potty? Mom suggests that maybe in the summer, when it's sweaty and hot, she'll be happier about removing the diaper. We're also going to try another end run, if it gets to that, by telling her that when she's three she has to wear underwear, period. But I hope we're not in Easy-Ups until then; they're expensive.
She told me this morning, "I used to wear Pull-Ups. But then it dripped ("dwipped"), so then I needed my diaper." I'm not sure if this is significant. In our last potty-training attempt, when she sat on the potty she always said, "The pee won't get into the potty," seeking confirmation. (She does that all the time. It's funny. "I can play train tracks after breakfast," she says anxiously, or "I can put my sockses on my bed. It's okay." The other night it was, "I'll need my sparkly shoes on for going outside to blow bubbles." Very sneaky, since what she really wanted was to be told we could go out and blow bubbles.) She hadn't seemed unduly upset the couple of times she had accidents when trying out underwear, but maybe they upset her more than I thought.
At any rate, her concern seems to be with leaks. Some advice we've read suggests that toddlers often think that pee is part of their bodies and they're anxious about losing it, but I'm not sure whether that's the case here or whether she just didn't like the yuckiness of the pee going everywhere. There's also an obvious need for the comfort of the familiar diaper. I wish we'd been able to get this done before Maia was born; I wonder if jealousy of Maia's baby status is part of the issue. But we've got what we've got. So she'll switch to Easy-Ups today, worries about leaks notwithstanding, and we'll see how it goes.
Showing posts with label decisions decisions. Show all posts
Showing posts with label decisions decisions. Show all posts
Friday, May 11, 2012
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Baby you can drive my car
I miss my car.
Maia is now officially in her big-girl convertible carseat, the Chicco infant carrier a fond but rapidly receding memory as of Sunday. She's 21 pounds and change, and the Chicco only goes up to 22, at least the model we have. Later models go up to 30, and I wish we'd gotten one of those. Also that reminds me that I need to write a letter to Chicco to inform them of my sadness that they don't sell convertible carseats in the US, as if they did, we'd have bought one. The price would make the move we've made--which I'm going to get to in a minute when I'm done with my consumerist rhapsody--even more desirable, but we'd have done it. Heck, we would have bought two when Chloë first graduated. Have I mentioned how much I love our Chicco travel system?
Ahem. So the time has come for both girls to be in big-girl carseats. When this happened with Chloë, we bought one and transferred it back and forth at daycare for about two days and decided this was too much of a pain in the ass and bought a second so we could each have one in our cars. With Maia, of course we're going to have to have two girls in carseats sometimes, but buying another one for each car would effectively remove any spare seating for another passenger, ever, and of course would cost an extra $160 or so. So we decided that we'd get one carseat (same as Chloë's, a Graco My Ride 65; huge, but easy to use and seems comfortable) and install it in my car, as it's the de facto family car and is bigger and nicer than Eric's. That car would then remain with Eric and the girls at home and be used whenever necessary to transport either both girls or just Maia (at least until she's forward-facing). Eric's car would then become the work car: I take it to work every day, and Eric takes it to his work and to gaming. And when we split up with the girls, we revert to our own cars (we did not actually discuss this but I assume Eric knows this and if not he'll find out the first time we do it). So over the weekend we bought a carseat, installed it, and sadly took the carrier bases down to the basement. And yesterday I drove Eric's car to work.
I had a terrible day and I swear it was mostly due to the car. Not that it's a bad car. The driver's side mirror is having some weird feedback with my glasses and the brakes are too sensitive (which I know actually means that my car's brakes are not sensitive), but it's a fine car, drives well, better turn radius. But it's someone else's car, and more, I feel cut off from my own car. I've had that car for nine years. It's one of my last this-is-mine personal spaces. I know it. I love it. I talk to it. On the way to work and back I had this gnawing mostly nonverbal running commentary in my head: this is not my car I want my car this doesn't feel right my car would not do that I want my car dammit where is my car. I talked to Eric's car, but it wasn't the same.
I had no idea I was going to feel this way. I don't consider myself territorial about the car--I don't mind when other people drive it or borrow it. And it doesn't bother me when we go on a vacation and I don't have it around. But apparently part of being at home, for me, is driving my car; and I'm feeling its loss, even though it's in the garage right now, wondering where I've been. (Only it's not, because I told it what was happening the last time I drove it.) (Yes, I know the car wouldn't wonder anyway, because it's a car.) (Anyway, don't think about me like that. Cars that are anthropomorphized last longer than cars that aren't. Fact.) (When parentheses attack!)
Eric goes to work Wednesday and will drive his car. I think I'd better take the girls somewhere that night. Because I don't want them to be bored, you know. And because I miss my car.
Maia is now officially in her big-girl convertible carseat, the Chicco infant carrier a fond but rapidly receding memory as of Sunday. She's 21 pounds and change, and the Chicco only goes up to 22, at least the model we have. Later models go up to 30, and I wish we'd gotten one of those. Also that reminds me that I need to write a letter to Chicco to inform them of my sadness that they don't sell convertible carseats in the US, as if they did, we'd have bought one. The price would make the move we've made--which I'm going to get to in a minute when I'm done with my consumerist rhapsody--even more desirable, but we'd have done it. Heck, we would have bought two when Chloë first graduated. Have I mentioned how much I love our Chicco travel system?
Ahem. So the time has come for both girls to be in big-girl carseats. When this happened with Chloë, we bought one and transferred it back and forth at daycare for about two days and decided this was too much of a pain in the ass and bought a second so we could each have one in our cars. With Maia, of course we're going to have to have two girls in carseats sometimes, but buying another one for each car would effectively remove any spare seating for another passenger, ever, and of course would cost an extra $160 or so. So we decided that we'd get one carseat (same as Chloë's, a Graco My Ride 65; huge, but easy to use and seems comfortable) and install it in my car, as it's the de facto family car and is bigger and nicer than Eric's. That car would then remain with Eric and the girls at home and be used whenever necessary to transport either both girls or just Maia (at least until she's forward-facing). Eric's car would then become the work car: I take it to work every day, and Eric takes it to his work and to gaming. And when we split up with the girls, we revert to our own cars (we did not actually discuss this but I assume Eric knows this and if not he'll find out the first time we do it). So over the weekend we bought a carseat, installed it, and sadly took the carrier bases down to the basement. And yesterday I drove Eric's car to work.
I had a terrible day and I swear it was mostly due to the car. Not that it's a bad car. The driver's side mirror is having some weird feedback with my glasses and the brakes are too sensitive (which I know actually means that my car's brakes are not sensitive), but it's a fine car, drives well, better turn radius. But it's someone else's car, and more, I feel cut off from my own car. I've had that car for nine years. It's one of my last this-is-mine personal spaces. I know it. I love it. I talk to it. On the way to work and back I had this gnawing mostly nonverbal running commentary in my head: this is not my car I want my car this doesn't feel right my car would not do that I want my car dammit where is my car. I talked to Eric's car, but it wasn't the same.
I had no idea I was going to feel this way. I don't consider myself territorial about the car--I don't mind when other people drive it or borrow it. And it doesn't bother me when we go on a vacation and I don't have it around. But apparently part of being at home, for me, is driving my car; and I'm feeling its loss, even though it's in the garage right now, wondering where I've been. (Only it's not, because I told it what was happening the last time I drove it.) (Yes, I know the car wouldn't wonder anyway, because it's a car.) (Anyway, don't think about me like that. Cars that are anthropomorphized last longer than cars that aren't. Fact.) (When parentheses attack!)
Eric goes to work Wednesday and will drive his car. I think I'd better take the girls somewhere that night. Because I don't want them to be bored, you know. And because I miss my car.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Maia's birth story
Maia's birth was much faster and less annoying than Chloë's. As the attending midwife said, "First babies don't just fall out." It had a bit of a run-up in medical advice and family politics, but otherwise was nice and uneventful.
At my 39-week appointment, the midwife, Amy, who had delivered Chloë, talked to me about being GPS positive, which you'll remember from last time meant I would need antibiotics during delivery to prevent possible serious infection in the baby. She checked me and found that I was 3 cm dilated, 80% effaced. "Your body's ready to have this baby," she said. She went on to say that since I was clearly on the cusp of active labor, it might start at any time and things were likely to happen very fast, and in that case the baby was at more risk of infection if I didn't get at least four hours' worth of antibiotics before she was born, and controlling the start of labor might be the best thing. She concluded, "So, should we strip your membranes?"
I was nonplussed, and wasn't excited about being induced before my due date. (I looked up stripping membranes later and it's not exactly induction, more encouragement, but I didn't know that at the time and she didn't explain.) Amy said that my next appointment should be scheduled for my due date and we'd talk more about induction then, if I actually made it to the appointment. It was clear she didn't think I would.
But I did; five days later, on April 26, I went in and talked to a different midwife, Heather. She, too, was concerned about GBS, though she wasn't as strongly in favor of induction as Amy had been. She said, "At this point I could go either way. In a week, we'll draw the line and say 'You have to have this baby now,' because outcomes get worse after 41 weeks. Right now, it's your decision." Eric and I discussed it and decided to schedule an induction for the next day.
I was ambivalent about this decision, since I've been inculcated in the natural-childbirth school of thought and also wasn't sure whether insurance would cover the induction itself (they did). Also nearly changed my mind when told we should be at the hospital at 6 AM. But we showed up almost on time, after having sent Chloë to spend the night with the mothers, and got checked in.
Getting registered and set up and settled in took some time (especially since the first nurse couldn't get an IV in me, instead "blowing up" my vein which gave me a horrible bruise for three weeks afterward) and I didn't see the midwife on duty, Sue, for an hour or more. She told my nurse, Midge, to get me started on antibiotics and then an hour after that I'd get Pitocin. "We'll increase it a little bit every half-hour until you're at about two to three minutes between contractions," she told me. "And in a while we'll break your water, and that should help get things going too."
So they started the IV at around 8, added the antibiotics at 9, and started Pitocin at 10. "How long was your first delivery?" Sue asked. I told her 20.5 hours. "Oh," she said. "Well, this will be much faster. We're aiming for before 6."
After that, there wasn't much to do for a while. We looked at the readout of my contractions, which were unnoticeable. Upon first getting hooked up, it turned out I was in fact having contractions at ten or twelve minutes apart already, but I wasn't feeling them, and didn't for a few hours. I shifted positions every so often and read or knitted. Eric played on his phone. We talked. We got me to the bathroom regularly, which was an ordeal since I had to bring the monitors and the IV stand with me. Midge came in to check on us a few times. "Is there anything I can get you?" she said. "Most of my patients are more needy than this; I feel like I'm neglecting you." I asked for some juice to make her feel useful.
Somewhere around 11, Sue came in to break my water. "I thought we wanted to avoid that because of GBS," I objected. I was also kind of creeped out by the whole idea, though I didn't say that part.
"You need at least four hours of antibiotics, and you've had two," she said. "I'm watching your progress, and I don't see you having this baby before one." She got out the water-breaking tool, saying ,"Some women don't like this because it makes the contractions come. But they have to come."
*WARNING: GRAPHIC GIRL CONTENT* The water-breaking tool was basically a long crochet hook, and she inserted it into me and started sawing back and forth, which really creeped me out. After what I thought must be longer than necessary, there was a little trickle between my legs, and she removed it, saying, "Fluid nice and clear. Good. It's just trickling now, but in a while you'll get up and there will be a gush," she told me. *END WARNING*
She left, and I started crying a bit because the procedure had made me feel awfully vulnerable and I was still ambivalent about all this intervention. On the other hand, delivery before dinnertime was a happy thought, and I recovered quickly and had lunch, such as it was. Since I had said I might think about an epidural, Sue had put me on a clear-liquids diet plan, so I had some juice and some sorbet and nothing else. (They provided broth and gelatin as well, but the broth was chicken and the gelatin was "varied flavors" flavored, so I passed on both.)
I started noticing the contractions, first more as involuntary motion in my muscles than anything else. Midge felt at the top of my bump and explained that she was feeling for the strength of the contraction. "Press your nose," she said. "That's a soft contraction. Your chin is a medium, and your forehead is a strong one." Then I started feeling a bit of pain. Then I started staring at the clock during them--ostensibly to time them, but really because the staring helped steady me. Midge asked how my pain level was. We'd discussed this at length when she first came in, and she made it clear that she was in favor of drugs but could happily help me do natural techniques if I wanted. We'd also discussed her pain scale, in the first actually helpful description of the 0-10 scale I've heard. "0 means no pain," she told me. "1 means it's there, but it's no big deal. 5 means you're antsy in your seat, starting to think you can't tolerate it. 10 is your arm being torn off. 5 is when we'll start talking about pain meds. But we can get something for you anytime you want it. Just tell me."
As I got up the scale from 0 to 3 and 4, I started, as I told Eric, thinking about the breathing techniques we'd learned in our birth education class last time--not necessarily relying on them, but thinking about them to distract myself. Then I started actually using them. Midge watched me through one and counseled me for the next-- "Slow, deep breath in for the count of five," she said, and counted for me. "Then slow breath out."
I was still going back and forth on the pain meds issue, but I was also starting to have trouble keeping control during contractions and wanting to vocalize--which is not the same thing as needing to scream, but is the step before it, and I remembered how awful it was with Chloë. So at this point, around 2:15, we asked Midge to call Sue to check my progress and help advise me. Sue came in and checked. "You're at about six centimeters, and your cervix is tissue-thin," she said. "I'm actually not going to leave the floor until your baby is born, just in case. But this is the perfect time for some medication if you want it." When I still couldn't decide, she suggested that I try some Nubain, "To get you through the worst of it," since I was coming up on transition (seven to ten centimeters), and I finally said yes.
Midge left with the order to get the Nubain, and so did Sue, after telling another nurse or technician (I don't remember) to get the delivery cart into the room, just in case. I lay in the bed, on my side, through another contraction or two, squeezing Eric's hand, and started vocalizing--an "Aaaaaaaah" sort of sound, fairly controlled, though it was getting more difficult. Now that I'd made the decision to get some pain relief, I was happy I'd done it, and complained about why Midge was taking so long.
Then, in the middle of another contraction, the pain turned into a sudden stuttering urgent need to push, and my focused vocalization turned into a wild uncontrollable wail that I probably couldn't reproduce now if I tried. Eric says when he heard it, he thought, "Okay: now an hour of the hard stuff." I was pushing, though I knew I probably shouldn't since no one else was in the room, and just as the contraction ended Sue and Midge and a couple of other people burst in.
"What changed?" Sue demanded.
"I'm actually feeling the need to push," I said, apologetically, because I knew I was supposed to have gone through transition first and what had happened to it?
"That’s what I thought," she said in satisfaction, as people started scurrying around. "We were at the end of the corridor, and I heard you and said, 'That's a baby coming.' Nothing else sounds like that. Let's get you on your back and into the stirrups."
"Nooooo," I said, because another contraction was starting and the idea of rolling over and putting my legs up was totally ridiculous. But Midge and whoever else was in the room--I totally don't remember--started moving me, getting me and the bed set up quickly and smoothly, and I cooperated because I knew dimly that they were right and I couldn't possibly deliver a baby with my legs shut tight like they were. *WARNING: GRAPHIC GIRL CONTENT* Also, I had had the classic I-need-to-poop feeling during the previous contraction and wasn't convinced I hadn't, and figured that if I had and I moved they could remove the pad from under me and clean it up. (They didn't.) *END WARNING*
"Remember, use the cries for efficient pushing," Eric said, remembering last time when I'd been told I was spending too much energy screaming and not enough pushing. I did my best, though it felt like everything was so urgent and happening so fast that I wasn't able to focus and figure out how.
That contraction ended and another started. "This is it!" Sue said encouragingly. "This is your baby coming!" I was panting and feeling a wild need to push with all my might. "Here it is!" Sue said. "Push!" I pushed, a long, long push, and felt a sort of weird scrambled feeling down there, and wasn't totally sure whether I had just delivered a baby or not, but was still feeling an adrenaline-fueled need to do something, sort of a panic but without the actual panic--"Keep pushing!" she said again, and I pushed, and felt the "ring of fire" start and expand, and then, all at once, Maia was born.
Sue held her up, limbs sprawling, weakly mewling. "Do you want her?" Midge said. I was still panting, my heart racing, feeling like I couldn't get a grasp on what had just happened to my body, and didn't answer right away, so she said again, "Do you want her?" I gasped, "Give me a minute." So Eric got to hold her first. In a bit, when I was enough calmer that I thought I could hold her without dropping her, she came to me, the umbilical cord slapping cold against my lower belly. She had a funny ridge on her head, sort of Klingon-like, and a burst blood vessel in her left eye. Sue said the ridge was normal, from pressures in the birth canal, and the blood vessel wasn't surprising. "She'll probably have a bruise later on because she went through so fast," she said. "It's a good thing I ordered the delivery cart just in case."
Maia was pretty alert, so we tried nursing right away. When she was done, the nurses/technicians took her and started doing the usual procedures--cleaning, weighing, administering medicines, and so on. Sue pulled on the cord, cut now, to get the placenta out. I could feel it and pushed to help get it out, though she hadn't asked me to. In the meantime, Midge was throwing away the Nubain, which she'd had in her hand when she ran in. "That was what we call a slam-dunk baby," Sue said, partly to us and partly to the nurses, as she was sewing me up (I got a second-degree tear, same as last time). "I've got two more births today and they're both going to be just like that!" It was less than half an hour after she'd pronounced me six centimeters.
One of the technicians helping take care of Maia turned out to be the same one who'd wanted to watch while I had Chloë. Her name is Monica, not Martha. Eric mentioned it, and she remembered us, and was pleased he remembered her. She and Midge went to help me out of the stirrups and sit up. "Chin to your chest," Monica instructed me. I obeyed, though I thought that was kind of odd, and Midge said, "No, no--no epidural. She can move."
"Oh, that's right!" Monica said, as they helped me up. "I always forget that about natural births."
Before long, Maia was measured and cleaned and wrapped up, and I begged for food (should I have another baby, I must remember to pack some snacks), and we all started feeling life slow down a little, though we weren't over the speed of the birth. Or at least Eric and I weren't. Maia was pretty nonchalant about the whole thing. "Here I am," she seemed to be saying. "You'll have to deal with me on my terms." She's still saying it, and we still are.
At my 39-week appointment, the midwife, Amy, who had delivered Chloë, talked to me about being GPS positive, which you'll remember from last time meant I would need antibiotics during delivery to prevent possible serious infection in the baby. She checked me and found that I was 3 cm dilated, 80% effaced. "Your body's ready to have this baby," she said. She went on to say that since I was clearly on the cusp of active labor, it might start at any time and things were likely to happen very fast, and in that case the baby was at more risk of infection if I didn't get at least four hours' worth of antibiotics before she was born, and controlling the start of labor might be the best thing. She concluded, "So, should we strip your membranes?"
I was nonplussed, and wasn't excited about being induced before my due date. (I looked up stripping membranes later and it's not exactly induction, more encouragement, but I didn't know that at the time and she didn't explain.) Amy said that my next appointment should be scheduled for my due date and we'd talk more about induction then, if I actually made it to the appointment. It was clear she didn't think I would.
But I did; five days later, on April 26, I went in and talked to a different midwife, Heather. She, too, was concerned about GBS, though she wasn't as strongly in favor of induction as Amy had been. She said, "At this point I could go either way. In a week, we'll draw the line and say 'You have to have this baby now,' because outcomes get worse after 41 weeks. Right now, it's your decision." Eric and I discussed it and decided to schedule an induction for the next day.
I was ambivalent about this decision, since I've been inculcated in the natural-childbirth school of thought and also wasn't sure whether insurance would cover the induction itself (they did). Also nearly changed my mind when told we should be at the hospital at 6 AM. But we showed up almost on time, after having sent Chloë to spend the night with the mothers, and got checked in.
Getting registered and set up and settled in took some time (especially since the first nurse couldn't get an IV in me, instead "blowing up" my vein which gave me a horrible bruise for three weeks afterward) and I didn't see the midwife on duty, Sue, for an hour or more. She told my nurse, Midge, to get me started on antibiotics and then an hour after that I'd get Pitocin. "We'll increase it a little bit every half-hour until you're at about two to three minutes between contractions," she told me. "And in a while we'll break your water, and that should help get things going too."
So they started the IV at around 8, added the antibiotics at 9, and started Pitocin at 10. "How long was your first delivery?" Sue asked. I told her 20.5 hours. "Oh," she said. "Well, this will be much faster. We're aiming for before 6."
After that, there wasn't much to do for a while. We looked at the readout of my contractions, which were unnoticeable. Upon first getting hooked up, it turned out I was in fact having contractions at ten or twelve minutes apart already, but I wasn't feeling them, and didn't for a few hours. I shifted positions every so often and read or knitted. Eric played on his phone. We talked. We got me to the bathroom regularly, which was an ordeal since I had to bring the monitors and the IV stand with me. Midge came in to check on us a few times. "Is there anything I can get you?" she said. "Most of my patients are more needy than this; I feel like I'm neglecting you." I asked for some juice to make her feel useful.
Somewhere around 11, Sue came in to break my water. "I thought we wanted to avoid that because of GBS," I objected. I was also kind of creeped out by the whole idea, though I didn't say that part.
"You need at least four hours of antibiotics, and you've had two," she said. "I'm watching your progress, and I don't see you having this baby before one." She got out the water-breaking tool, saying ,"Some women don't like this because it makes the contractions come. But they have to come."
*WARNING: GRAPHIC GIRL CONTENT* The water-breaking tool was basically a long crochet hook, and she inserted it into me and started sawing back and forth, which really creeped me out. After what I thought must be longer than necessary, there was a little trickle between my legs, and she removed it, saying, "Fluid nice and clear. Good. It's just trickling now, but in a while you'll get up and there will be a gush," she told me. *END WARNING*
She left, and I started crying a bit because the procedure had made me feel awfully vulnerable and I was still ambivalent about all this intervention. On the other hand, delivery before dinnertime was a happy thought, and I recovered quickly and had lunch, such as it was. Since I had said I might think about an epidural, Sue had put me on a clear-liquids diet plan, so I had some juice and some sorbet and nothing else. (They provided broth and gelatin as well, but the broth was chicken and the gelatin was "varied flavors" flavored, so I passed on both.)
I started noticing the contractions, first more as involuntary motion in my muscles than anything else. Midge felt at the top of my bump and explained that she was feeling for the strength of the contraction. "Press your nose," she said. "That's a soft contraction. Your chin is a medium, and your forehead is a strong one." Then I started feeling a bit of pain. Then I started staring at the clock during them--ostensibly to time them, but really because the staring helped steady me. Midge asked how my pain level was. We'd discussed this at length when she first came in, and she made it clear that she was in favor of drugs but could happily help me do natural techniques if I wanted. We'd also discussed her pain scale, in the first actually helpful description of the 0-10 scale I've heard. "0 means no pain," she told me. "1 means it's there, but it's no big deal. 5 means you're antsy in your seat, starting to think you can't tolerate it. 10 is your arm being torn off. 5 is when we'll start talking about pain meds. But we can get something for you anytime you want it. Just tell me."
As I got up the scale from 0 to 3 and 4, I started, as I told Eric, thinking about the breathing techniques we'd learned in our birth education class last time--not necessarily relying on them, but thinking about them to distract myself. Then I started actually using them. Midge watched me through one and counseled me for the next-- "Slow, deep breath in for the count of five," she said, and counted for me. "Then slow breath out."
I was still going back and forth on the pain meds issue, but I was also starting to have trouble keeping control during contractions and wanting to vocalize--which is not the same thing as needing to scream, but is the step before it, and I remembered how awful it was with Chloë. So at this point, around 2:15, we asked Midge to call Sue to check my progress and help advise me. Sue came in and checked. "You're at about six centimeters, and your cervix is tissue-thin," she said. "I'm actually not going to leave the floor until your baby is born, just in case. But this is the perfect time for some medication if you want it." When I still couldn't decide, she suggested that I try some Nubain, "To get you through the worst of it," since I was coming up on transition (seven to ten centimeters), and I finally said yes.
Midge left with the order to get the Nubain, and so did Sue, after telling another nurse or technician (I don't remember) to get the delivery cart into the room, just in case. I lay in the bed, on my side, through another contraction or two, squeezing Eric's hand, and started vocalizing--an "Aaaaaaaah" sort of sound, fairly controlled, though it was getting more difficult. Now that I'd made the decision to get some pain relief, I was happy I'd done it, and complained about why Midge was taking so long.
Then, in the middle of another contraction, the pain turned into a sudden stuttering urgent need to push, and my focused vocalization turned into a wild uncontrollable wail that I probably couldn't reproduce now if I tried. Eric says when he heard it, he thought, "Okay: now an hour of the hard stuff." I was pushing, though I knew I probably shouldn't since no one else was in the room, and just as the contraction ended Sue and Midge and a couple of other people burst in.
"What changed?" Sue demanded.
"I'm actually feeling the need to push," I said, apologetically, because I knew I was supposed to have gone through transition first and what had happened to it?
"That’s what I thought," she said in satisfaction, as people started scurrying around. "We were at the end of the corridor, and I heard you and said, 'That's a baby coming.' Nothing else sounds like that. Let's get you on your back and into the stirrups."
"Nooooo," I said, because another contraction was starting and the idea of rolling over and putting my legs up was totally ridiculous. But Midge and whoever else was in the room--I totally don't remember--started moving me, getting me and the bed set up quickly and smoothly, and I cooperated because I knew dimly that they were right and I couldn't possibly deliver a baby with my legs shut tight like they were. *WARNING: GRAPHIC GIRL CONTENT* Also, I had had the classic I-need-to-poop feeling during the previous contraction and wasn't convinced I hadn't, and figured that if I had and I moved they could remove the pad from under me and clean it up. (They didn't.) *END WARNING*
"Remember, use the cries for efficient pushing," Eric said, remembering last time when I'd been told I was spending too much energy screaming and not enough pushing. I did my best, though it felt like everything was so urgent and happening so fast that I wasn't able to focus and figure out how.
That contraction ended and another started. "This is it!" Sue said encouragingly. "This is your baby coming!" I was panting and feeling a wild need to push with all my might. "Here it is!" Sue said. "Push!" I pushed, a long, long push, and felt a sort of weird scrambled feeling down there, and wasn't totally sure whether I had just delivered a baby or not, but was still feeling an adrenaline-fueled need to do something, sort of a panic but without the actual panic--"Keep pushing!" she said again, and I pushed, and felt the "ring of fire" start and expand, and then, all at once, Maia was born.
Sue held her up, limbs sprawling, weakly mewling. "Do you want her?" Midge said. I was still panting, my heart racing, feeling like I couldn't get a grasp on what had just happened to my body, and didn't answer right away, so she said again, "Do you want her?" I gasped, "Give me a minute." So Eric got to hold her first. In a bit, when I was enough calmer that I thought I could hold her without dropping her, she came to me, the umbilical cord slapping cold against my lower belly. She had a funny ridge on her head, sort of Klingon-like, and a burst blood vessel in her left eye. Sue said the ridge was normal, from pressures in the birth canal, and the blood vessel wasn't surprising. "She'll probably have a bruise later on because she went through so fast," she said. "It's a good thing I ordered the delivery cart just in case."
Maia was pretty alert, so we tried nursing right away. When she was done, the nurses/technicians took her and started doing the usual procedures--cleaning, weighing, administering medicines, and so on. Sue pulled on the cord, cut now, to get the placenta out. I could feel it and pushed to help get it out, though she hadn't asked me to. In the meantime, Midge was throwing away the Nubain, which she'd had in her hand when she ran in. "That was what we call a slam-dunk baby," Sue said, partly to us and partly to the nurses, as she was sewing me up (I got a second-degree tear, same as last time). "I've got two more births today and they're both going to be just like that!" It was less than half an hour after she'd pronounced me six centimeters.
One of the technicians helping take care of Maia turned out to be the same one who'd wanted to watch while I had Chloë. Her name is Monica, not Martha. Eric mentioned it, and she remembered us, and was pleased he remembered her. She and Midge went to help me out of the stirrups and sit up. "Chin to your chest," Monica instructed me. I obeyed, though I thought that was kind of odd, and Midge said, "No, no--no epidural. She can move."
"Oh, that's right!" Monica said, as they helped me up. "I always forget that about natural births."
Before long, Maia was measured and cleaned and wrapped up, and I begged for food (should I have another baby, I must remember to pack some snacks), and we all started feeling life slow down a little, though we weren't over the speed of the birth. Or at least Eric and I weren't. Maia was pretty nonchalant about the whole thing. "Here I am," she seemed to be saying. "You'll have to deal with me on my terms." She's still saying it, and we still are.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Labors of love
I'm sitting here watching my belly move under its own power. Dude, there's a baby in there, I think. And then: dude, it's going to have to come out! Dammit! The idea of labor was much more academic the first time around. Not that I'm living in dread of it this time; I know what it's like, but I also know I got through it and got over it, and I can also reasonably hope that this time will be better or at least shorter.
I'm also contemplating pain medication. I'm wondering if I got brainwashed last time into thinking that natural childbirth was the ideal for no good reason. After all, no one ever talks about natural appendectomies. I still think the idea of a needle inserted into my spine and left there is pretty darn squicky, but then Nancy used Nubain and said it was great, and that doesn't sound so bad. We'll see. I've still got a couple of months to think about it.
In the meantime, Chloë continues to be awesome and funny and ever more like a kid than a baby. Today we went to a quilt shop I'd just heard about, and on the way out she wanted to stomp in a puddle while looking at the moon. (And talking about it. "Moo'? Moo'? Moo'. Howah [water]. Howah! Pa [splash]! Moo'? Moo'? Dahr [star]? Moo'? Ka [car]! Howah. Howah. Moo'? Moo'? Moo'?") She had a fabulous time. Eventually I said it was time to go and tried to take her hand, and she screamed "Nooo!!" and then "Dada!!" (like he would have been on her side) and had a meltdown while I carried her to the car and strapped her in and removed her shoes and socks because they were sopping wet. At home she had to be instantly read a couple of books, including the Valentine's Day book she's owned since yesterday and read about six times already, before I could make dinner.* During dinner, she commented that her eggs were broken (she was eating an omelet). We started bedtime preparations a little early because she was so obviously tired--she was hiccuping, and while on the potty was trying to call out letters she knew from the box of bath foam letters, but the hiccups were interrupting her, and this was totally hilarious. Then she burst out laughing when I pulled her shirt off. Such a giggly happy funny girl. I hope the new baby won't seem too boring in comparison.
*This happens in the morning too. I stumble into her room bleary-eyed and am reading books before I know what I'm doing, because how can you resist a one-year-old in a panda sleeper holding out Goodnight Thumper and saying "Book. Book," and then calling "Dupah!" in imitation of the way you do it, but with an adorable high baby voice instead? And then your spouse laughs because the book doesn't actually have that in it, just a line about "Then Thumper heard something. He listened closely. His mother was calling for him. It was time to go home" and you put the "Thuuuuum-peeeer!" call in yourself, so it's entirely your doing that she now calls "Dupah!" every time you read that page and also at random times during the day?
I'm also contemplating pain medication. I'm wondering if I got brainwashed last time into thinking that natural childbirth was the ideal for no good reason. After all, no one ever talks about natural appendectomies. I still think the idea of a needle inserted into my spine and left there is pretty darn squicky, but then Nancy used Nubain and said it was great, and that doesn't sound so bad. We'll see. I've still got a couple of months to think about it.
In the meantime, Chloë continues to be awesome and funny and ever more like a kid than a baby. Today we went to a quilt shop I'd just heard about, and on the way out she wanted to stomp in a puddle while looking at the moon. (And talking about it. "Moo'? Moo'? Moo'. Howah [water]. Howah! Pa [splash]! Moo'? Moo'? Dahr [star]? Moo'? Ka [car]! Howah. Howah. Moo'? Moo'? Moo'?") She had a fabulous time. Eventually I said it was time to go and tried to take her hand, and she screamed "Nooo!!" and then "Dada!!" (like he would have been on her side) and had a meltdown while I carried her to the car and strapped her in and removed her shoes and socks because they were sopping wet. At home she had to be instantly read a couple of books, including the Valentine's Day book she's owned since yesterday and read about six times already, before I could make dinner.* During dinner, she commented that her eggs were broken (she was eating an omelet). We started bedtime preparations a little early because she was so obviously tired--she was hiccuping, and while on the potty was trying to call out letters she knew from the box of bath foam letters, but the hiccups were interrupting her, and this was totally hilarious. Then she burst out laughing when I pulled her shirt off. Such a giggly happy funny girl. I hope the new baby won't seem too boring in comparison.
*This happens in the morning too. I stumble into her room bleary-eyed and am reading books before I know what I'm doing, because how can you resist a one-year-old in a panda sleeper holding out Goodnight Thumper and saying "Book. Book," and then calling "Dupah!" in imitation of the way you do it, but with an adorable high baby voice instead? And then your spouse laughs because the book doesn't actually have that in it, just a line about "Then Thumper heard something. He listened closely. His mother was calling for him. It was time to go home" and you put the "Thuuuuum-peeeer!" call in yourself, so it's entirely your doing that she now calls "Dupah!" every time you read that page and also at random times during the day?
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Eventually she'll have a personal attendant to make these decisions.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Drug week
"Have you decided on what medication you'll use, if any?" said the student midwife who saw me at the office today. "Are you going all-natural, doing IV medications, something else...?"
"I didn't know I had to decide already," I said, a bit taken aback by her seriousness.
She said, "Mmm," and continued to look intently at me, so I went on. "I'm taking a childbirth class and the next session is on medications, so I figure I'll wait until I get more details then to decide."
"All right," she said and went on to something else, what contraception I planned to use, I think. It struck me as a bit odd that in any other situation, the medical practitioner would be the one telling me what was best, but here I'm expected not only to choose myself, based on no prior experience (but then, they have no prior experience with me either), but to do my own research--they haven't given me any information on medications other than a bit on the side effects of epidurals.
Besides, I rather suspect she was going off a checklist in her head of "What to Ask a Patient at Seven Months."
Otherwise, the visit was very boring; I've only gained half a pound since I was there last ("Have you been eating better?" asked the nurse, looking at me suspiciously as I got off the scale; I said, "No, but I took a vacation and we walked everywhere," and she was satisfied) and L.E.O. is very squirmy but very healthy. "She's head-down right now," reported the student midwife, "though she may not stay that way. It's early yet."
I asked her when L.E.O. might be expected to settle into her final position and stay there and she gave me a vague answer that suggested she didn't know. I also asked her whether my mother delivering early meant I might deliver early, and she said that was a myth, but that the length of the labor might be correlated. I wasn't totally confident in her information (especially since she followed it up with anecdotes about her mother and sister) but when the real midwife came by to check on her and asked me if I had any questions, I decided not to embarrass the student midwife by asking them again. I'll ask again next visit, or in class on Thursday.
"I didn't know I had to decide already," I said, a bit taken aback by her seriousness.
She said, "Mmm," and continued to look intently at me, so I went on. "I'm taking a childbirth class and the next session is on medications, so I figure I'll wait until I get more details then to decide."
"All right," she said and went on to something else, what contraception I planned to use, I think. It struck me as a bit odd that in any other situation, the medical practitioner would be the one telling me what was best, but here I'm expected not only to choose myself, based on no prior experience (but then, they have no prior experience with me either), but to do my own research--they haven't given me any information on medications other than a bit on the side effects of epidurals.
Besides, I rather suspect she was going off a checklist in her head of "What to Ask a Patient at Seven Months."
Otherwise, the visit was very boring; I've only gained half a pound since I was there last ("Have you been eating better?" asked the nurse, looking at me suspiciously as I got off the scale; I said, "No, but I took a vacation and we walked everywhere," and she was satisfied) and L.E.O. is very squirmy but very healthy. "She's head-down right now," reported the student midwife, "though she may not stay that way. It's early yet."
I asked her when L.E.O. might be expected to settle into her final position and stay there and she gave me a vague answer that suggested she didn't know. I also asked her whether my mother delivering early meant I might deliver early, and she said that was a myth, but that the length of the labor might be correlated. I wasn't totally confident in her information (especially since she followed it up with anecdotes about her mother and sister) but when the real midwife came by to check on her and asked me if I had any questions, I decided not to embarrass the student midwife by asking them again. I'll ask again next visit, or in class on Thursday.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Forecast dizzy with a 99% chance of extra work
Ugh. I've been dizzy and light-headed most of the day. It probably didn't help that I had a nice long shower this morning; according to my book, that's likely to make me dizzy because it dilates the vessels near my skin, and my blood pressure is theoretically already decreased because my circulatory system is expanding (though it was fine the last time the doctor checked it...but then, I guess that was almost a month ago). Plus expanded lung capacity means decreased carbon dioxide to the brain which means breathing changes that might make me feel short of breath. In summary, I'm spending most of today sitting down.
Bev sent me a mommy-to-be care package: an oil spray for dry skin, cream and lotion for stretch marks (useful in later months, I'm sure), and a baby name book. It was very cute and cheered me up quite a bit, especially since we've been discussing the doctor/midwife/hospital question and as a result of some things Eric's mom told him about Toledo Hospital, he wants to look into other hospitals instead, which means I'd have to switch doctors. The midwife group he wants me to switch to (Angie's) is as far away from work as I can get without leaving the metropolitan area, which displeases me. However, I guess he can pick the farthest-away hospital if he wants, since he's going to be the one doing all the driving back and forth.
Incidentally, we were talking about "natural" vs. epidural/C-section births a few days ago, and James called. One of the first things he asked was "So, are you going to have a natural birth?" and my first thought was My God, why does he care? followed by What business is it of his anyway? and by that time he was finishing, "...or are you going to schedule it?" Because, of course, if I were going to schedule an induction or C-section, he and Mom and Dad could buy plane tickets early. Unfortunately I want them to be here for the birth but not that badly. Plus I'd almost certainly go into labor early. Maybe I should have them buy tickets, just for that insurance.
Bev sent me a mommy-to-be care package: an oil spray for dry skin, cream and lotion for stretch marks (useful in later months, I'm sure), and a baby name book. It was very cute and cheered me up quite a bit, especially since we've been discussing the doctor/midwife/hospital question and as a result of some things Eric's mom told him about Toledo Hospital, he wants to look into other hospitals instead, which means I'd have to switch doctors. The midwife group he wants me to switch to (Angie's) is as far away from work as I can get without leaving the metropolitan area, which displeases me. However, I guess he can pick the farthest-away hospital if he wants, since he's going to be the one doing all the driving back and forth.
Incidentally, we were talking about "natural" vs. epidural/C-section births a few days ago, and James called. One of the first things he asked was "So, are you going to have a natural birth?" and my first thought was My God, why does he care? followed by What business is it of his anyway? and by that time he was finishing, "...or are you going to schedule it?" Because, of course, if I were going to schedule an induction or C-section, he and Mom and Dad could buy plane tickets early. Unfortunately I want them to be here for the birth but not that badly. Plus I'd almost certainly go into labor early. Maybe I should have them buy tickets, just for that insurance.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Hiring decisions
My first two appointments are finally scheduled with my ob/gyn. I'm less and less sure about staying with them. After the not-calling-me-with-my-test-results thing, I was going to schedule my appointment (one at 7-8 weeks, one at 10 weeks, I was told), but couldn't produce the first-day-of-last-period date, so the woman told me to call back the next day, Tuesday. I did. The person on the phone, a different woman, insisted I give her my insurance information so they could check it before they'd schedule me to come in. Even though I've been going there for more than a year, I'd been there less than a month ago, and they already had it on file.
So I gave it. The woman said she'd put it through and when it was approved (is women's healthcare so downgraded that insurance doesn't reliably cover pregnancy?) she'd call back, possibly that same day.
She didn't call. She didn't call the rest of the week. My sister-in-law Angie gave me the name of the midwife association she goes to. (She used to go to my doctor's group, Maumee OB/GYN. So did Courtney. That's why I started going. Neither of them still go there.) I called back yesterday. "Melissa's the regular scheduler, and she's out," explained a yet different woman I spoke with, this one named Leslie. "I can't find your paperwork. I'll check with the billing department and call you back tomorrow."
I didn't expect a call, but I got one. I like Leslie. "We found your paperwork," she said. "Since Melissa's been sick I just didn't know how she had things organized." Not at all, was my thought, but I said nothing. We scheduled my 7-8 week appointment for next Monday--an hour with the nurse, she said, to get my medical history and give me information--and my approximately 10-week (really 11, if I'm counting right) appointment with the doctor to get a pap (sigh) and hear the heartbeat. That part cheers me up, at least. And I was grateful to actually get some information. I’m fond of Leslie. Still not sure about the office, though.
But I'm not sure whether Angie's association would help; I'm not sure whether I need or want a midwife, or if they supplant or only supplement an obstetrician, or what would happen to the hospital option (I have only one with Maumee OB/GYN, Toledo Hospital, and a 10% chance that my doctor will be on call at the critical time). Also, they're even further from our house than Maumee is, which would be a big pain, especially later on. There are other options, of course, but I don't know which ones are good ones.
Basically I don't know and I don't know what I need to know. Therefore, for the present...as Eric would say...
...to the Internet!
So I gave it. The woman said she'd put it through and when it was approved (is women's healthcare so downgraded that insurance doesn't reliably cover pregnancy?) she'd call back, possibly that same day.
She didn't call. She didn't call the rest of the week. My sister-in-law Angie gave me the name of the midwife association she goes to. (She used to go to my doctor's group, Maumee OB/GYN. So did Courtney. That's why I started going. Neither of them still go there.) I called back yesterday. "Melissa's the regular scheduler, and she's out," explained a yet different woman I spoke with, this one named Leslie. "I can't find your paperwork. I'll check with the billing department and call you back tomorrow."
I didn't expect a call, but I got one. I like Leslie. "We found your paperwork," she said. "Since Melissa's been sick I just didn't know how she had things organized." Not at all, was my thought, but I said nothing. We scheduled my 7-8 week appointment for next Monday--an hour with the nurse, she said, to get my medical history and give me information--and my approximately 10-week (really 11, if I'm counting right) appointment with the doctor to get a pap (sigh) and hear the heartbeat. That part cheers me up, at least. And I was grateful to actually get some information. I’m fond of Leslie. Still not sure about the office, though.
But I'm not sure whether Angie's association would help; I'm not sure whether I need or want a midwife, or if they supplant or only supplement an obstetrician, or what would happen to the hospital option (I have only one with Maumee OB/GYN, Toledo Hospital, and a 10% chance that my doctor will be on call at the critical time). Also, they're even further from our house than Maumee is, which would be a big pain, especially later on. There are other options, of course, but I don't know which ones are good ones.
Basically I don't know and I don't know what I need to know. Therefore, for the present...as Eric would say...
...to the Internet!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)