Eric eyed the rising slopes of Mount Baby the other day. "You're playing Risk with L.E.O.," he said. "And L.E.O. is winning."
Jackie appears to think so too. "Hi! How are you?" she said this evening when I arrived for class. I said, "Fine, how are you?" but she didn't hear me because she was saying "Oh, look at you, you're so cute with your bump!"
Tonight's childbirth class was mainly on C-sections. "Don't zone out!" Jackie told us. "I know you're all thinking you're going to have vaginal births, but three out of ten couples have c-sections these days." She described legitimate indications for C-sections, and indirectly described what she considered illegitimate ones--convenience, extreme caution due to fear of malpractice lawsuits, media influence. We watched a video on C-sections, planned and unplanned. She discussed inductions, and how they work, and potential natural alternatives. She passed out a handout on eating well, saying "Is eating junk all the time bad for the baby? Well, no, it probably isn't, but the mothers who say 'I feel terrible' are always the ones who say 'Oh, I had some doughnuts for breakfast...and a Code Red Mountain Dew and a bag of chips for lunch...'" And we did a relaxation/visualization exercise. Our snarkiness during this last got a little much for me, but otherwise it really was relaxing. The session went pretty quickly overall, despite my being hungry. One more to go, and then we'll be ready to be parents! Ha!
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Potential consequences
My coworkers have just suggested a truly excellent idea for getting enough sleep on maternity leave: once L.E.O. has reached six weeks, send her to daycare and stay home by myself the rest of the time.
This may be the major problem of planning for a child we fully expect to take over the world and order our execution along the way. We don't really have to worry about whether L.E.O. will turn against us as a teenager or abandon us in our old age. We're never going to get the bill if she needs therapy. No matter what we do, she's going to kill us anyway.
This may be the major problem of planning for a child we fully expect to take over the world and order our execution along the way. We don't really have to worry about whether L.E.O. will turn against us as a teenager or abandon us in our old age. We're never going to get the bill if she needs therapy. No matter what we do, she's going to kill us anyway.
Monday, June 8, 2009
32 weeks
Here we are at seven and a half (approximately) months, and I am definitely looking pregnant.
(Sorry for the blurriness. Blame Eric.)
Apparently I look pregnant enough now that strangers don't hesitate to identify me as such. I went to Joann yesterday to get fabric to make L.E.O.'s quilt and "bumper," and the clerk looked at my selections and said, "Is this a quilt for the new little one?" Later, I went to Andersons for fruit and cheese and a basil plant (since none of the seeds I planted came up) and slipped on a raspberry in the produce section and fell flat on the floor. There was this horrified collective gasp by the people around me; a couple of people rushed to help me up, and a woman walked up to say "Are you here with anyone? Did you slip, or did you faint?" (I fell on my side, and L.E.O. didn't seem to be hurt. In fact she seemed to have slept through the entire thing. Before long she was bouncing around as usual. Apparently she thinks the way to get out of me is by punching a hole through, like a chick in an egg.)
(Sorry for the blurriness. Blame Eric.)
Apparently I look pregnant enough now that strangers don't hesitate to identify me as such. I went to Joann yesterday to get fabric to make L.E.O.'s quilt and "bumper," and the clerk looked at my selections and said, "Is this a quilt for the new little one?" Later, I went to Andersons for fruit and cheese and a basil plant (since none of the seeds I planted came up) and slipped on a raspberry in the produce section and fell flat on the floor. There was this horrified collective gasp by the people around me; a couple of people rushed to help me up, and a woman walked up to say "Are you here with anyone? Did you slip, or did you faint?" (I fell on my side, and L.E.O. didn't seem to be hurt. In fact she seemed to have slept through the entire thing. Before long she was bouncing around as usual. Apparently she thinks the way to get out of me is by punching a hole through, like a chick in an egg.)
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Childbirth class II: Sex, Drugs, and Rock 'n' Roll
The second class consisted of a couple of videos, a long lecture on medications, pelvic exercises, visualization/breathing exercises, and some wicked props. First, Jackie (the instructor) announced, she would be eating strawberry shortcake while we watched a video on natural versus medicated childbirth. At least she did it quietly. The video included graphic, explicit depictions and explanations of how epidurals work. "I loved mine," said one of the coaches when Jackie asked us afterward if we'd had or known anyone who had had an epidural.
"You've already seen the video, so you know most of the stuff on this poster," she said afterward, holding up a poster on the potential risks and side effects of epidurals. "So I'm not going to beat you over the head with it." She proceeded to describe each one in loving detail: lowered blood pressure, itching, fever, restricted movement, lack of sensation, failure to progress, inability to push, stoned-seeming baby, spinal headaches, and (rarely) seizures, paralysis, and death.
"Then there are the narcotics," she said. "If you could buy stock in a drug, Nubain would be a good one, because we go through so much of this stuff. The narcotics will tend to mess with your head; you'll feel the contractions, but you won't care." The one second-time mother in our class said, "I loved Nubain."
After the medication briefing we saw another video, this one on natural birth, and listed all of the various techniques the couple used. "The thing is, even if you choose to use medications, you still need to know this stuff," Jackie said. "You're still going to have some pain, you're still going to have to labor a little."
During the break we looked at the epidural kits and the forceps and suction equipment she'd brought along to show us. Eric went up to her and asked after the drugs put in the epidural. "Are you the chemistry person?" she said when she'd answered him. "I must be boring you to death." He laughed and disclaimed, saying he'd never be a childbirth expert and expertise in one area didn't translate to another. "It's like the people who think a nurse is a nurse," she agreed. "My family members will come up to me to say, 'I have some chest pain, what should I do?' and I'll say, 'Well, how many centimeters dilated are you?'"
After the break she had us practice pelvic tilts (even the men--Eric said, "I need a white suit and some rhinestones for this") and Kegels. This, she said, would make pushing much easier. "You can do this whenever you want, no one's going to know," she said brightly, "and you should practice it as much as you can. Just do five reps here, five reps there, and no one will be able to tell. Another good place to practice," she lowered her voice, "is during intercourse." The men perked up.
Finally, we scattered around the room with our blankets and pillows and were told to try visualization while Jackie played a tape of beach sounds. "Coaches, I've put something in a paper towel next to you," she said after a while. "Place it in your partner's hand and close your hand over it."
She guided us through breathing (in through the nose, out through the mouth--we don't know why, but yoga teaches the same thing) and said, "Now a contraction is starting. Visualize yourself in your happy place and breathe through the pain." The thing in the paper towel turned out to be an ice cube, and after a bit it really did provide a simulacrum of pain that had to be endured, since Eric's hand was closed over mine so I couldn't just drop it. "A masochist would love this exercise," I whispered to Eric.
After the class we toured the maternity ward--which Eric and I had already done, of course, but I wanted to look again. We packed six pregnant women, six coaches, Jackie, and Jackie's cart of props into the elevator. "Are we over the weight limit?" someone said.
"We're going to get stuck," said someone else.
"I've actually delivered someone in an elevator," Jackie said.
"Yes, but did you have more room that time?" I said, trying to keep someone's elbow out of my face.
We looked through the ward and toured one of the two jacuzzi rooms, and Jackie described how she had only once in eight years seen both rooms (out of sixteen) full when another woman wanted one, and when it happened she went into one of the rooms and begged the mother to let Jackie move her to another room so the new patient could have that one. "Of course!" the mother said, and started packing her things immediately. Apparently the jacuzzis are hot stuff. Our due dates are fairly spread out, so with luck any of us who want one won't be competing with the others when the time comes.
"You've already seen the video, so you know most of the stuff on this poster," she said afterward, holding up a poster on the potential risks and side effects of epidurals. "So I'm not going to beat you over the head with it." She proceeded to describe each one in loving detail: lowered blood pressure, itching, fever, restricted movement, lack of sensation, failure to progress, inability to push, stoned-seeming baby, spinal headaches, and (rarely) seizures, paralysis, and death.
"Then there are the narcotics," she said. "If you could buy stock in a drug, Nubain would be a good one, because we go through so much of this stuff. The narcotics will tend to mess with your head; you'll feel the contractions, but you won't care." The one second-time mother in our class said, "I loved Nubain."
After the medication briefing we saw another video, this one on natural birth, and listed all of the various techniques the couple used. "The thing is, even if you choose to use medications, you still need to know this stuff," Jackie said. "You're still going to have some pain, you're still going to have to labor a little."
During the break we looked at the epidural kits and the forceps and suction equipment she'd brought along to show us. Eric went up to her and asked after the drugs put in the epidural. "Are you the chemistry person?" she said when she'd answered him. "I must be boring you to death." He laughed and disclaimed, saying he'd never be a childbirth expert and expertise in one area didn't translate to another. "It's like the people who think a nurse is a nurse," she agreed. "My family members will come up to me to say, 'I have some chest pain, what should I do?' and I'll say, 'Well, how many centimeters dilated are you?'"
After the break she had us practice pelvic tilts (even the men--Eric said, "I need a white suit and some rhinestones for this") and Kegels. This, she said, would make pushing much easier. "You can do this whenever you want, no one's going to know," she said brightly, "and you should practice it as much as you can. Just do five reps here, five reps there, and no one will be able to tell. Another good place to practice," she lowered her voice, "is during intercourse." The men perked up.
Finally, we scattered around the room with our blankets and pillows and were told to try visualization while Jackie played a tape of beach sounds. "Coaches, I've put something in a paper towel next to you," she said after a while. "Place it in your partner's hand and close your hand over it."
She guided us through breathing (in through the nose, out through the mouth--we don't know why, but yoga teaches the same thing) and said, "Now a contraction is starting. Visualize yourself in your happy place and breathe through the pain." The thing in the paper towel turned out to be an ice cube, and after a bit it really did provide a simulacrum of pain that had to be endured, since Eric's hand was closed over mine so I couldn't just drop it. "A masochist would love this exercise," I whispered to Eric.
After the class we toured the maternity ward--which Eric and I had already done, of course, but I wanted to look again. We packed six pregnant women, six coaches, Jackie, and Jackie's cart of props into the elevator. "Are we over the weight limit?" someone said.
"We're going to get stuck," said someone else.
"I've actually delivered someone in an elevator," Jackie said.
"Yes, but did you have more room that time?" I said, trying to keep someone's elbow out of my face.
We looked through the ward and toured one of the two jacuzzi rooms, and Jackie described how she had only once in eight years seen both rooms (out of sixteen) full when another woman wanted one, and when it happened she went into one of the rooms and begged the mother to let Jackie move her to another room so the new patient could have that one. "Of course!" the mother said, and started packing her things immediately. Apparently the jacuzzis are hot stuff. Our due dates are fairly spread out, so with luck any of us who want one won't be competing with the others when the time comes.
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, May 31, 2009
Time to reorganize
I've been very anxious lately. I hadn't quite realized how anxious until Thursday night, when the relaxation exercise in class started me crying. I can blame pregnancy hormones a little, but only a little; it's my nature to be a worrier. (The instructor handed out a small questionnaire for each couple and on my side was "How good are you at relaxing?" and on Eric's side was "How good is your partner at relaxing?" The options were Excellent, Good, Fair, and Poor. We both chose Fair.) Not all of the anxiety has been about L.E.O., but a good deal of it has: how the delivery will go, how we'll figure out how to care for her, how we'll handle our finances to fit in daycare and diapers and college savings, how our lives will stretch and trim and reshape to accommodate her.
(And of course how much time we'll have left before she orders our execution, but we'll be very proud in the intervening time.)
We have sixty days left, approximately, and we're getting more serious about preparing for a baby in our lives: rearranging a bunch of the house to get the bookcases and other things out of the nursery ("You don't think we could leave this in here?" Eric said, brandishing a RenFaire sword), discussing daycare options, filling out insurance and preregistration paperwork, freaking out. Every once in a while Eric or I will grab the other's hand and say "Are we sure we really want to do this?" The other person always says yes (or "Well, it's too late now"). Maybe that's why it's good to have two of us. I was talking to Eric about my anxiety the other day, and I guess it was his turn to be the optimistic, confident one. He said, "What is there to worry about?"
I started enumerating all the potential problems I was thinking about, and--here's the strange part--he shot them all down. Normally this doesn't happen. Normally nothing budges my worrying. But whether I was too tired to disagree or too unsure of my ground to contest or too insecure to deny myself the offered comfort, I found myself thinking that maybe everything would be all right.
That didn't last terribly long, of course. But I remember the feeling, and it helps to know I had it. Maybe everything will be all right. And if it isn't, at least we're getting a nicely reorganized house out of the deal.
(And of course how much time we'll have left before she orders our execution, but we'll be very proud in the intervening time.)
We have sixty days left, approximately, and we're getting more serious about preparing for a baby in our lives: rearranging a bunch of the house to get the bookcases and other things out of the nursery ("You don't think we could leave this in here?" Eric said, brandishing a RenFaire sword), discussing daycare options, filling out insurance and preregistration paperwork, freaking out. Every once in a while Eric or I will grab the other's hand and say "Are we sure we really want to do this?" The other person always says yes (or "Well, it's too late now"). Maybe that's why it's good to have two of us. I was talking to Eric about my anxiety the other day, and I guess it was his turn to be the optimistic, confident one. He said, "What is there to worry about?"
I started enumerating all the potential problems I was thinking about, and--here's the strange part--he shot them all down. Normally this doesn't happen. Normally nothing budges my worrying. But whether I was too tired to disagree or too unsure of my ground to contest or too insecure to deny myself the offered comfort, I found myself thinking that maybe everything would be all right.
That didn't last terribly long, of course. But I remember the feeling, and it helps to know I had it. Maybe everything will be all right. And if it isn't, at least we're getting a nicely reorganized house out of the deal.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
All the pretty little ponies
L.E.O. had better not ever ask for a horse for her birthday. She's already given me four--four charley horses, that is; one two nights ago and three last night. ("How is that possible?" Eric said. "You only have two legs." I would have hit him, but he was out of arm's reach and my calves ached too much to get up.) The Mayo Clinic guide says no one knows for sure why they happen, but it may be due to the uterus putting pressure on the nerves, or decreased circulation. The Web concurs. Both tell me there's no cure and it sucks to be me. I suppose when L.E.O. is running things and has her advisory board of mad scientists I could ask her to have them find out, or make me bionic legs or something.
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