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.

A mother's memory, refreshed

I forgot how warm a newborn's head is.

Miss Maia is doing well, settling into home life, I think. Mom and Dad are here for another day--they arrived the day she was born--and have been a huge help in keeping the house running and getting us all a chance to take a breath and sort out what this new life is going to be like.

Labor and delivery were delightfully short and uneventful. I'll post a birth story later...hopefully less late than Chloë's. It'll also be shorter. I must say, I'd forgotten how annoying those hospital beds are, especially when you've got an IV in one arm and three hospital bracelets in the other. Also, how many different nurses you get in the course of a two-day stay.

Nursing is going well this time. It's still in the hurty stage, but Maia's weight is about where it should be, according to her pre-discharge and first-checkup measurements, and she's happy to latch on and stay there, except for a penchant for drifting off for five-minute naps and then waking up, ready for another refreshing drink, just when I've gotten up and am trying to use the bathroom or get a snack or a glass of water. I'd forgotten how thirsty nursing makes me. Also how sleepy. And how, when everything is quiet, you can hear the milk moving through a baby's tiny body as she drinks.

Also, I'd forgotten that moment at the beginning of nearly every nursing session where I feel awful and everything in the world is hateful. Ah well.

I've been told I can start lifting Chloë again, which is good because she's been very annoyed about being denied. She likes having a baby around to kiss and point at and say "Baby baby baby baby baby baby baby" to, but she's not so hot on being forbidden to climb on me because she's in danger of squishing her sister. I've been trying to have one-on-one time with her when possible. Having Maia around makes me notice how grown-up Chloë is, so loose-limbed and tousle-haired and talkative. And fun, except when she's being whiny, but I can understand that at a time like this.

We've been tense as Maia has gotten yellower, but we discussed jaundice at her checkup yesterday and the pediatrician had us go get a bilirubin level, and she's fine. We're going back later this week for another checkup, just in case, but I think she's doing fine. Everything is so much easier this time around. I know about changing diapers and clipping nails, and while I dislike the nighttime wakings as much as ever I know exactly what to do during them. I'm a little concerned about Thursday, when we wake up and have no Grandpa and Halmoni around, but every other family of four is able to deal with it; we will too.

Chloë's birth story, part 1

Seeing as it's been, um, eight weeks, I thought I'd start working on keeping my promise and put up Chloë's birth story. It will be in several parts, because I love useless detail, but there will be no quiz, so feel free to tune out if you don't want to hear about how crackers, wet shorts, a bean bag, a Jacuzzi, and what Eric keeps calling hallucinations lead up to our overlord's birth. (There will be some graphic content, as well, so be warned.)

Onward:

The evening of July 22nd, 2009, I was lying on the couch, reading. I had finally gotten the last answers I needed on my paperwork for my maternity leave that day and planned to turn it in the next day. I also planned to buy a R.I.N.D.S. rig the next day since I knew time was running low, though I still firmly believed that, having had the world's most boring pregnancy so far, I would continue to be solidly normal by being a few days late.

I wanted a snack, so I retrieved the box of Wheat Thins Fiber Selects Garden Vegetable (they taste better than they're titled). I lay down again, bit into a cracker, and felt an odd sensation between my legs. Sort of a sudden spurt of liquid sensation. Not exactly like peeing my pants (which Jackie warned us was what most "I think my water broke" situations turned out to be), but I could see how it could be confused with that. So I put down the box of what I will forever call my water-breaking crackers and went upstairs.

"What do you think?" I said to Eric, once I'd confirmed that my underwear was quite a bit bloodier than a simple pants-wetting incident would have called for.

"Huh," he said. We looked at each other.

Another spurt of fluid exited me, also tinged with pink. "Huh," I said. "I should probably call the midwives."

The number the midwives had given me was for an answering service; the lady who answered promised that someone would call right back. I went and laid on the bed with Eric and waited.

"Hello," I said when the midwife on call, Sandy, called me, and then, idiotically, "How are you?"

"You had me paged," she reminded me.

"I think my water broke," I said.

"How far along are you?" she said.

"Thirty-nine weeks."

"Well, it may be nothing; or sometimes the baby kicks just right and a little comes out," she said. ("She wet her pants," I could hear her thinking.)

"Tell her there was blood," Eric said, and I did so.

"Oh," she said, her tone changing. "Well, let's have you come to the hospital and be examined. When do you think you'll be here?"

"Maybe half an hour?" I guessed.

I hung up and Eric went into action: going straight for the mostly-packed bag, retrieving the list of what was left and packing them. I was getting more spurts of liquid, so I sat on the toilet. "We may not be staying," I said, though I didn't really believe it.

"It's better to have it and not need it," Eric said as he continued to shovel things into the suitcase.

We weren't ready to leave until nearly an hour had passed; I'd called at nine, and it was almost ten. Eric brought the suitcase down to the car; I dashed upstairs to change my pad again just when I was putting on my shoes, and then we were off.

This may be the last time we ride in this car as a childless couple, I thought in car on the way to the hospital (still not wanting to commit to the idea that I was going to the hospital to stay). I'm really glad the mothers gave us these waterproof pads, I thought (shifting around on the one I'd put down on my seat).

"Ugh," I said when we arrived at the hospital, looking down at my shorts, which were now soaked. But there was nothing to be done, so we entered. Another pregnant woman was ahead of us, being registered. While we waited, I noticed a couple of people in the waiting area notice my shorts. I watched a few droplets run down my leg to my sock.

When the lady at the registration desk noticed me, she gave me the appropriate form without even asking why I was here and shanghaied a nurse to take me upstairs. (The other pregnant woman got a wheelchair. I wasn't offered one, which was fine since I was in no pain and didn't really want to sit down in my wet shorts anyway. I wonder if the woman at registration had similar thoughts.)

That nurse, who turned out to be the supervisor just about to go home for the evening, took us to one of the triage rooms. "We'll examine you in here," she said, pulling a hospital gown from a cupboard. She started to hand me the gown, then really looked at me. "Oh!" she said. "We don't need to examine you. Let's get you a room."

She led us further down the hall, toward the nurses' station. They saw me and started to laugh. "I was going to put her in triage until I noticed her clothes," our nurse confessed. "It's kind of obvious, isn't it?" said one of the ones at the desk. I was kind of annoyed that while I had avoided being laughed at for coming for a false alarm, I hadn't gotten away with not being laughed at.

The room had a pull-out couch, a DVD player, a small fridge, an uncomfortable (the nurse said) bed, and a bathroom with a Jacuzzi tub. I changed into the hospital gown and was helped onto the bed (which wasn't really that bad) over a waterproof pad. Our nurse introduced us to the current nurse on duty, who was sick and was quickly replaced with our first real nurse, Stephanie.

"First we need to get you hooked up to the monitors," she said. I wasn't excited about the monitors to start with, having read that electronic fetal monitoring has made absolutely no difference to birthing outcomes except for potentially contributing to the C-section rate, but I knew that the hospital required some initial monitoring and the midwives had told me it wouldn't need to be done continuously after that.

So I spread the gown and moved my hips so that Stephanie could get the two belts on me. "You have such a cute belly!" she said. "Do you even have any stretch marks?"

"I don't know," I said vaguely, though I did.

"Let me look." She did, and (mothers of the world, do not hate me) pronounced, "You don't have a single one!"

The two belts (one to monitor contractions, one to monitor fetal heartbeat) did their thing. The baby looked perfect and I was actually having occasional contractions, though I couldn't feel them. Sandy came in and said to me, "I'm really sorry your water broke so early. You're the last person I wanted this to happen to." She explained that I was under a twenty-four-hour deadline, and that if my contractions didn't start progressing very soon, she was going to have to start Pitocin on me. I was completely unenthusiastic about this, and she said she could give me a couple of hours, including a little bit of sleep. So Eric curled up on the couch, and me in the bed, and we did our best to sleep.

Flower Hospital visit

We visited Flower Hospital yesterday, and made our final decision in favor of Bay Park. Flower was pretty nice: not as long a drive as I thought it would be (twenty minutes, though that was only to the campus and not to whatever entrance we'd be using to drop me off when the time came, since there was no label for "maternity ward" or "breeders this way" or anything so we didn't know which way to go), and the rooms were spacious and well-kept.

But Eric and I both got an unpleasant vibe from the place. We had to talk it out a bit before I was convinced that we had reasons to reject it other than gut instinct--or rather that the gut instinct was based on something substantial. I think on Eric's part it was partly the big tour group we were in and the tour guide's (necessarily?) talking-down-to-the-poor-ignorant-people tone. I didn't like it either, but I can forgive it in a situation like that. We were both put off by what felt like a very unexpectedly traditional attitude towards labor and delivery: "We will cure you of the disease of pregnancy."

I'd heard that Flower was very progressive and modern and mother-friendly; they certainly do encourage having the babies in the rooms, and have birthing rooms with no separate recovery rooms, and no official visiting hours and such. But we got a handout that stated that every woman is placed on electronic fetal monitoring as soon as they're admitted; we got the strong impression that the hospital's, or at least the nurse's, opinion is that every woman would and should want an epidural ("or you can get other pain medication through your IV" and, in the handout, "we also have alternative things like beanbag chairs and aromatherapy"); the nurse asked who was having a boy and reassured those people that the circumcision would take about ten minutes and "usually they do just great." I wondered whether they would kick up a fuss if we were having a boy and didn't want him circumcised. I also wondered whether they were really progressive other than introducing birthing rooms to the area. The guide asked "Is anyone using a midwife?" and when one women raised her hand, said, "There are also two rooms with tubs, if you're interested in that," sounding very dubious about anyone who would do such a thing; whether she meant working with midwives or laboring in water, I wasn't sure which.

(Apparently they used to have a birthing room for water births, but there was some situation in which a woman in the tub needed a bed and there was none in the room, so they took the tub out. I don't see why they couldn't have just added a bed, since the rooms were certainly big enough.)

So I called the midwife group attached to Bay Park this afternoon and got an appointment. I'm to bring in my records from my current doctor when I go; since the appointment is in a week I'm probably going to go pick them up rather than having them mailed. I have to admit I'm looking forward to leaving my doctor, now that we've made the decision--her administrative staff have continued to drive me crazy. And Eric doesn't need even more crazy on his hands.

Bay Park hospital

We visited Bay Park Hospital last night. They don't have set tour times, just a "pop in whenever" policy, though they do ask that you call ahead to make sure a room will be available for viewing, and when I called they asked if we could come a little later than we'd proposed because that was just at shift change. "Um, hi," I said as we approached the nurses' station. "We were wondering if we could get a tour...?"

"Sure!" said one of the nurses, Lisa, leaping up. It was a slow night, apparently; she said as much as she was showing us one of the rooms. They have ten rooms there (two with tubs), where labor, delivery, and postpartum recovery happen; you don't get moved. "We have cable," Lisa said, "and a DVD player, and a little fridge down here. The couch pulls out into a bed. There's a shower in the bathroom, there. The bed isn't very comfortable because it's a labor bed, but we put a mattress-type cover over it. There are no visiting hours, just quiet time at night." She showed us the nursery and the OR and the kitchenette ("snacks are for the mothers only," she said, "but there's coffee and tea and cocoa for guests. The cafeteria closes at six, but there's a Meijer right outside") and the waiting room, told us about "the lactation Nazi," and gave us cards for the midwife group and her favorite OB/GYN attached to the hospital. "Congratulations, thanks for coming down, and I hope you choose us!" she said as we left.

We liked it a lot. It looks new and efficient and fairly comfortable, and very family-oriented, and all the personnel seemed happy to be there. We definitely like it better than Toledo Hospital, and it's very close to work, so appointments with the midwives or OB/GYN would be convenient. We're touring Flower Hospital on Monday, and then we'll decide for sure, but Flower will have to be pretty impressive to get me to forsake the sixteen minutes' drive to Bay Park.

Quickening

It feels mostly like little muscle spasms, but every once in a while there's an actual tap or bump. I do believe there's something in there. It makes me so happy, especially since I've been starting to feel like I've somehow gotten a small bowling ball lodged down there that sloshes around whenever I get up from a chair.

("You see?" says Eric. "Everything's fine. You were worried for nothing." Ha! I have not yet begun to worry.)

We took the Toledo Hospital maternity tour last night, with five or six other couples and an assortment of friends/sisters/grandparents (I assume). Normally the tour is recommended in your seventh or eighth month, I believe, but we went early because we're still researching hospitals. I was slightly embarrassed to be in the company of all these obviously pregnant women, one of whom had already been to the hospital for a false alarm and another of whom is due next week, with no discernible bulge under my sweater.

I was more embarrassed when we gathered in one of the labor and delivery rooms and I started getting dizzy and had to sit on the floor before I fell over. All these women in their third trimesters and I'm the one who can't handle standing in a room for ten minutes. I don't know what caused it--too much dinner, not enough air in the room, thinking about "the equipment" in the room's closet, instinctive reaction to hospitals? If I have the same reaction when we look at the other hospitals on our list, maybe we'll consider a home birth. We can refinish the bathtub by July, I'm sure.

Week 15 visit

...Was very short, actually. Check for UTIs, check the weight (I've gained back the four pounds I lost), check the heartbeat again, discuss testing, schedule the ultrasound (March 10), out the door. I was particularly glad to hear the heartbeat again--it was much easier to find this time, even if L.E.O. did swim away in the middle of the doctor trying to count it--because I'd woken up the day before having slept through the night and not having a bursting urge to run to the toilet. I immediately concluded something was wrong. I almost as immediately concluded that was stupid, but I couldn't shake the worry all day so it was nice to get confirmation that I was being stupid. (Eric said, "Everything's fine. You're neurotically obsessed with something that makes no sense. That sounds like pregnant to me.") It appears just to be a blessing of the second trimester, along with an increased appetite and energy level (sadly for Eric, as this means we're going to start working on household projects with vigor).

I also checked with Dr. Mason on why she only uses Toledo Hospital, and she says essentially because it's a large practice: they used to have privileges at several local hospitals and would have to send people out to four different hospitals six times a night, and it got to be too much, so they decided to reduce to one. She says she can give me a referral to another doctor if I decide to use a different hospital, which helps. We're going to visit the three hospitals of interest (they all offer free tours) and make our decision based on that.

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.