36w3d

I wasn’t sure I would get this far, but today I’ve equalled my record of days pregnant.

B was born, an emergency cesarean, at 36w3d. After a Thursday night of delightful Jon Stewart and a few minutes of the talentless Colin whoever who left me cursing that he was given a TV show. After the water trickled at 2:30am Friday, then rolled out, a wave no bathtowel could match.  We slowly got our things together; I told one of my staff via IRC that I wouldn’t be making our 7:30 telcon, H lined the passenger seat with lawn bags and towels, and I waddled out in a sundress, the only thing I had left that fit, with a green towel wedged between my legs, as calm as could be.

This time, I understood how remarkable it was that I actually got pregnant – most women with a bicornuate uterus have a 40-45% chance of miscarriage.  As far as conception goes, I’m 2 for 2.

I had no overseas trips, no real business to tend to other than mothering and shepherding little one along to term. That said, a job would have been a welcome distraction from the sickness and unexpected worries of the first and second trimesters, not to mention the disturbing surprise at the top of the third.

Yet here we are. At her last ultrasound exam, I thrilled to hear of a growth spurt. Weightwise, she has managed to climb back up to 50th percentile. Her head is measuring close to her brother’s, otherwise known as the melon on the vine. The neonatologist hugged me, saying “Congratulations! She is just as normal as can be.” I called H and my mother – both times shaking and in tears. I saved my energy to write email to the rest of my family and friends, since I knew I’d just be whimpering with joy and relief if I made another call.

Little one is moving briskly and with impunity – mama feels all sorts of things in parts of her body she didn’t know her uterus could go. I think she likes to kick my appendix, or loop her foot around my hipbone. There’s always something poking down there that isn’t mine.

H calls everyday at noon, just making sure I haven’t gone into labor. Don’t tell him, but I think I’ll be driving myself to the hospital this time, just to make sure we get to the right place.

34w4d

Zen lessons continue unabated in the Little One Prenatal Challenge. This week, it began at my OB’s office. Her assistant said, “We’ve scheduled your delivery – Wednesday 19 November at 1pm.”

My eyes popped. “Are you serious? You’re aware there’s no way I’ll get that far.” (A known uterine abnormality prevented me from even getting to term with Ben; plus, my current profile scared a fellow patron at the coffee shop who thought for sure I would be giving birth at the pick-up counter.)

The assistant agreed. “I know, I agree with you. But this is hospital procedure.”

“So, since the delivery is scheduled on a date that is medically impossible for me to reach, what do I do when my water breaks? How will this be any different than what happened the first time, when I ended up with an emergency C-section at 36w3d?”

The short answer is – it won’t be any different. Except that now I’ve been given conflicting instructions by two staff at the practice, one of which included instructing the physician on-call of my medical conditions, because, I guess, THEY CAN’T BE EXPECTED TO READ A CHART.

So my zen lesson is – of course I could have gone to a midwifery practice. I would have had informed partner-based care throughout the pregnancy, I still would have been sent to the specialist practice for diagnostics, and had a chance for the wonder MD to deliver. I’m preparing an information sheet now to give to H in case I faint or something gets in the way of me explaining my medical condition once we’re at the hospital. But instead of getting really angry, I just shook my head.

Meanwhile, she is rolling and wedging herself into unusual positions. This is a mix of good and bad – good, because she is active: bad because she is pushing the air out of my lungs with different parts of her body I have yet to identify at unexpected times. H does his best to greet me each morning with a spoon, his fingers resting on my belly hoping to pat his daughter to be. He marvels out loud at her strength, and speed of movements. Later if we share a car trip somewhere, he uses both hands to pull me out of his car (the ‘99 Honda Accord starts to feel like a low-rider when you’re this size). My waddle gets slower and slower, as the body gives way to the bump.

Food tolerances are almost normal. I can eat many of the things I usually love, if not in the same quantities. Finally, chocolate! Small amounts of fresh grapefruit! These are little pleasures, which are nearly as delightful as the memory of the first glass of water I was allowed to drink after B was born.

The baby bag is nearly packed, and we have a full wardrobe waiting for her entrance. Now as long as the gender predictions hold, we’ll be ready to be fully unprepared all over again.

one more for today (funny)

Check out the path one extremely dissatisfied surfer took to my site:

http://search.conduit.com/Results.aspx?q=pictures%20of%20couples%20making%20love%20on%20a%20kitchen%20table&meta=all&hl=en&gl=ca&SelfSearch=1&SearchSourceOrigin=10&ctid=CT1370655

Ha Ha! Got there months too late – all that’s left is a pregnant lady! ;)

yes we can (hold babies)

After seeing too many videos of the unbridled hatred encouraged to fester at McCain-Palin rallies, I sought refuge in the blog of a college student called “Yes We Can (Hold Babies)“. Too cute for words, yet not treacly. And definitely deserving of your support.

Late update, for ralph: My favorite, right here:

the happiest boy in the world

what is great about being pregnant, 30w+

This pregnancy has been full of uncertainty and worry; only recently have I been able to enjoy it more fully.

Even though I am having more trouble getting around (hah), it’s a pleasure to be out and about. Generally speaking, I think people treat pregnant women pretty well. Strangers smile, offer congratulations and well wishes. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if that were standard operating procedure. My own social experiences are usually pretty positive, but it would be even better to have that sense of good will more often than the days I’m visibly pregnant.

But if I recall my own behavior, expectant moms get top of the list treatment. They’re brave, whether they know it yet or not. They are making a visible, good faith commitment to a world that has no explicit interest in their well-being, and offering the most precious and vulnerable effort they will likely ever make in their lives to that apathetic (at best) place. So who among us, especially parents, wouldn’t smile, with their hearts in their eyes, hoping that future mother wouldn’t find a better place than we may know to date. That maybe this time, with this mother, it will be different, better, the changing point.

petite and powerful

This is my new mantra – every morning, as I roll all of my weight onto my elbow in order to sit up, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. Petite and powerful I whisper with every kick, blurb, roll over. Petite and powerful, she dances 30 minutes after my first glass of orange juice, waves to her future big brother through the opening in my bathrobe, under an expanding belly that looks more like bread dough about to overtake the bowl.

Petite and powerful is what I hoped, silently, on our way to the specialists’ office last Friday afternoon, when H took wrong turn after wrong turn, making me wish we had relied on my car and sense of direction. Petite and powerful I thought, feeling the warm sticky gel on my abdomen, while saying to the 5th tech, “Bicornuate uterus, placenta at the top of the left fundus, very active, though she lost a quadrile in weight last month”. Petite and powerful held her own this month, staying in the 30’s percentilewise, giving her father and mother breathing room – though keeping her mother chained to 120g protein a day.

At this stage of the game, it means she’s about 4 lbs, and that the best signals we have from her are the powerful – her movements are hardly ever delicate. She muscles around just like her brother, looking for space to stretch. She sometimes sends an arm or leg low in my womb, as if she’s going to kick her way out. When she’s quiet for a long stretch, I go back to the fridge for a juice, sip a cup, and wait.

Yesterday, the nurse at my regular OB’s office confirmed my thinking – all I have to do is make it through the next 4 weeks, eating plenty of protein, keeping off my feet, and avoiding stress. To that, I add “petite and powerful”, and feel 1 November coming to meet the both of us, bringing her out to meet the world.

By the way, the love and support we’ve received since my last post has been a godsend. I think it kept both of us growing, supported, and strong. My love and thanks in return.

lay it down, let it go, fall in love

The chorus of the title track from Al Green’s latest album croons its directives: lay it down, let it go, fall in love. The lush strings, growls, and feeling of Al’s 70s groove (which he himself has said has contributed to repopulation in that decade) comes back with such rich, loving, gusto, you’ll conceive all by yourself just by listening. It’s that good.

But what makes Al one of the most emotive singers this side of living is his presence in the lyric, his living and breathing of it. At any tempo, singing straight or falsetto, he’s never half-assed about his message or the urgency of his duty to deliver it.

My own love of Al began about 15 years ago in earnest, and unlike those warming couples in the 70s, alone, where Al’s voice was a balm for my heartfelt wounds. And his songs of love, what people could find together, what he was finding and showing you in lyric and delivery, wouldn’t leave you lonely, but comforted.

So honey, take a moment. Listen to the Right Reverend tell you what it’s all about, and then find the music. You can download or spin up, but once you do, listen to Al. Put your keys down.

maternity store chats, the economy, and voting

Last week, in search of pants that would accommodate the biggest belly ever to house a petite powerhouse, I ended up in discussions about the economy, neglect of veterans and their families, and the struggle to find good skilled workers.

The new boutique in our increasingly upscale mall is a bit of a surprise – independently owned, unique merchandice, totally upscale. Lots of moms from the Eastside are going to beat a path to their door with the glamorous choices they offer. There’s no discount rack here, so I would look at the pretty items and figure by the time they have such a rack, Little One will be out, kicking ass and taking names.

The owner was at the desk of the little gem, helping me with bras that clearly were not up to the task in spite of their sizing and beauty. We talked a little about the new shop – I had seen her original place and thought it was great – and she started describing the challenges of finding staff.

The pattern of mall employees is often migrant – traveling from shop to shop, not much in the way of wages, often young, often somewhat unpredictable. She knew that she would need to work closely with any new staff and not just train them. The whole issue of getting them invested in working in the store, in a similar way to herself. She was already looking for ways to make it easier for women who already had small children to be able to work and have the baby around. Or to find other flexible ways to accommodate good workers, but it was tough. She was building the business entirely with her own money – a big gamble especially in this economy – and she needed to make sure it would work.

I also went to the chain maternity store. Their merchandise runs from Target pricing to midrange. All kinds of women come here to shop, and there are always markdown rounders for both the bargain and more professional-level clothing. (I know those rounders intimately.)

The women working there are wonderful. Almost always young, many young mothers themselves. From the ones I have met and talked to, it’s often not their only job.

The young woman I met today – let’s call her Mrs 4, for her 4 children (including a niece she adopted) – is like many women with young families. She and her husband struggle to make ends meet – to get their children the things they need, to do well in school, to do well for themselves. Both she and her husband are from military families – her husband enlisted at 17, and did two tours of duty in Iraq.

Tour 2 was devastating. He lost 5 men in his unit, and it took a tremendous toll on him. When he ended his tour, he was in desperate need of psychiatric care. So, after he was placed in a psychiatric inpatient facility, the family received a letter telling them that since he would require more than 6 months of inpatient treatment, they would no longer qualify for military housing. They would need to find a new place to live, stat, but the army would pay to move their things to wherever they managed to find housing. Is this supporting the troops?

Walking away from the register, she kept saying “Go vote! You’ve got to vote! Do you know who you’ll choose?” When I told her there was no question, she smiled and whispered, “Vote Obama! Vote Obama!”

These aren’t people who have time to watch conventions or get bloggy. They are (over)working mothers, trying to make ends meet. They want to see a change in the economy and in the world their children inhabit. It was Mrs. 4 who said “I don’t care what anyone says. We’re in a recession – I see it here in the store.”

With all the media coverage, it’s easy to lose track of what is really at stake in the election. The antidote to tabloid politicking is talking to a real person about what’s going on in their lives, and figuring out what needs to be done, or at least, which direction to take.

the incredible shrinking (baby) woman

Just when you think you’ve managed to swim in a new sea and its cycles, a wave comes from behind at lowtide, leaving you gasping.

As an official “high-risk” obstetrics patient, I’ve been put on a regimen of checkups with special features – ultrasound exams every 4 weeks, to check on both baby (presumed by mommy to be fine) and cervix for signs of early labor. From 16 to 28 weeks, Little one’s growth rate has been dropping. I’ve been asking why, and have been advised to increase protein intake, reminded not to smoke (not an issue) and to keep healthy. Measured in percentiles, she’s gone from 78th to 32nd in 12 weeks – a full quartile in the past 4 weeks alone. This was a tear-inducing shock. Not to mention a complete reversal of experience I had with my first, who maintained a 95th percentile size and still is near the top of his development curve four years later.

At the OB’s instructions, I have been protein loading until the cows come home, and even then, I hit them up for a pail of milk. I’ve been feeling bigger, and thought for sure we’d at least maintain her growth rate (90g or protein a day, minimum; dropping the OB-sanctioned coffee and white-knuckling my way through the days of migraine). But the sonographer said 32nd %ile for weight, and I gasped.

“She was 58th at my last exam.”

I had brought a chart I made from the last three ultrasound reports, showing the downward trends. I had noted that the placenta was evaluated at Grade 2 at 20 weeks – about 10 weeks too soon for such a grading. I had a list of questions, and now I had tears to blink back. H held my hand while I looked at the twinkling lights in the ceiling (all ob/gyn practices should consider such features for their examining rooms…)

The MD I had this time, my third in 5 visits, was the one who delivered my son in an emergency c-section, and he must have remembered what we were like – as he showed up with a set of charts for us. He explained that we were still in a safe spot, and went through each of the measurements, explaining to us what he looked for in terms of trendlines and when they saw a red flag. He explained the ratios and relationships they watch closely, and the range of error with ultrasound readings – up to 10% on weight, and even more on percentiles for abdominal circumference.

He told me that maybe the baby was figuring out where she wanted to be – petite and powerful, perhaps, based on her activity level. He told us what would happen if she took a big drop at the next exam, and what the next steps would be, including increased exams to determine if there was a particular issue getting in the way of baby’s growth, and the issue of discussing how early to deliver.

He told us that if there was a problem with the placenta, there would be little we could do to override that, save to keep the same high-protein, high-nutrition diet to get as much to the baby as possible.

He also told me I could come back at any time, regardless of appointment. “Just show up if you’re worried. We’ll take you.” It was kind and reassuring.

But on the way home, I couldn’t help but wonder, “What if what she wanted to be was a brief visitor? What if she decided this wasn’t the time or place for her to arrive?” I’m still wondering.

It won’t be your idea of change, but you should still vote for it.

Here’s another one that’s been stewing around for months. I hope it was worth the wait, though it may still be the equivalent of bathtub wine in terms of sophistication of thinking.

While I will be voting for Obama in the upcoming election, I’m not in the league of his acolytes. I’m choosing him because I think he is smarter – on the whole and politically – and that he will make better decisions, better appointments and better policies than any of his opponents, an admittedly low bar. In truth, I think he’s more likely to make good judgments and take actions that are constructive on their own merits. And because as a scholar of the good-old-boy school of politics, he’ll get things through without having to change DC, the very last task he’d take on once in office.

What? Isn’t Obama all about change? Isn’t that the mantra of millions of hopeful voters? Well, mantra, tagline, slogan, servicemark, it’s marketing. A close read of his rewarding, well-written books not only brings the reader through the narrative the senator has chosen to create, it also reveals more about his traditional positioning and why no one should be surprised that politically, there’ll be no new blisters on his hands, given his adeptness at hardball.

The conversation I’ve had with his supporters who feel that personal connection, that sense of promise for overwhelming change, has minor deflationary impact, but resonates with most of the feminists I know. It goes something like this:

“Y’know, I hear all about this change thing, but I have to say, after reading his memoirs and interviews – the majority of which lament the somewhat sainted father who left behind 4 women’s children and barely made time or resources for him and his mother, and noting the deliberate choices he has made in his own life – I think he longs for a traditional patriarchical model – of women in perpetual service. One where man exists to serve god, or country, or at the very least his own personal ambitions, justified in whatever way he chooses. And that woman exists to serve man. Is that change? To me, not so much.”

The feminist women who may be voting for him but who aren’t suffering from tinges of fanaticism – or sadly, the ones who still haven’t let go of the mundane misogyny of the primary race and thus claim to be staying home – nod knowingly.

(I didn’t have to support Hillary to know there was something truly ridiculous afoot with coverage. All I needed were eyes and ears. I think it’s interesting that Obama never said a peep about it – in fact, kept staffers on who made some of the most ridiculously sexist and personal accusations, while letting go of people who said unfortunate but not sexist things and yet who could contribute real leadership and intelligence to his campaign. Oh, until he reported that his grandmother told him she thought the coverage and treatment of HRC was unfair and obviously sexist, and that her remarks made him think there may have been something to it. Was it light dawning on marblehead? Nah. Hardball. Why waste cycles condemning the first and last acceptable public discrimination?)

The dudes are speechless, then try to tell me I must be secretly awed by his oratory.

“Oh, no, no secret that I admire him and his gift with language – especially in contrast to the last four years of unintentional Orwellian malapropism. But I’m 41, and I’ve heard enough smooth talking in my life to appreciate and enjoy it for what it is.” They’re left stuttering. I assure them I know how to vote, but I’m well aware of what I’m getting, and it isn’t change, unless you compare it to the criminal operations of the last 7.5 years. Which is welcome.

Why is it that Dems have to fall in love – blinders and all? Is it any better than the blinders one must live with as a Republican in order to fall in line? One doesn’t have to fall in love to make the best choice for office. Just make an informed choice. And given the freakish behaviour and position of Grampa this week in light of the Russian invasion of Georgia, you have all the information you need. Having an administration that is not warhappy and doesn’t break the law is the next necessary stage for our citizens and for those of the world. Vote with your brain, not your brain in love. Vote Obama.