37w0d - A Loss

Growing up, I lost a lot of people I love. I had five grandparents in the world when I was born (one divorce and remarriage), and by my preteen years I only had one. I lost my beloved uncle in that interim, too. With each of those deaths, there was time. They were struck down by cruel cancer, Alzheimer's in one case, things you expect in old age. Watching a loved one suffer isn't easy - much harder than my parents, I was the kid, I kept on going to school and seeing my friends, normal life for most of my day - but by the time they pass, you've known. You've maybe prayed for the end. 

My grandparents were old. Or, they felt old to me. My dad's parents were Holocaust survivors. They were of such a different generation. I look at my parents and in-laws and they seem so young, active, capable. Not the image of a grandparent I grew up with. 

Yesterday, early afternoon, my husband called me sobbing. His dad died. Massive heart attack. Gone in an instant. He was in northern Wisconsin at his cabin, celebrating his 22nd anniversary with J's step-mom. They were snowmobiling. He turned, grimaced, and that was it. It was immediate. His step-mom and neighbor did CPR but it was too late. I don't think he could have known what was happening, or felt much pain. The suddenness and the fact that he was in a place he loved, doing what he loved, with a person he loved, are the blessings in this horrible situation. 

J is lost, he's distraught. He wanted to see his dad hold his grandson. God knows we tried to make this happen sooner but now, 1-3 weeks before our boy is born, his grandfather is dead. What was such an exciting, anxiety ridden time is now so heart breaking. My husband hurts so badly and I can't make that go away. All I can do is hold him while cries, reassure him that no major decisions have to be made now. It sounds selfish, perhaps, but I hate the shadow of grief that is now hanging over the birth of our son. Of course we will be overjoyed, but J will be torn apart by love and longing for what absolutely should have been. 

J's dad and I did not always see eye to eye. I don't think that changes anything. I loved him because J loved him so fiercely. He was his parent, his teacher, and his boss for many years. Their relationship was more complex than most father-son relationships. I wish J would have his dad around to look to while he navigated parenting. J deserves that. He doesn't deserve this horribly-timed heartache. 

It's been less than 24 hours but it feels like it's been days. I am finding myself, at 9 months pregnant, more capable than I thought I was. While J has sweetly waited on me like an invalid in the past month or so, I have found the energy to take care of him. I am not worried about the activity, the hours, the throngs of family and friends descending. I welcome that for J. I dread the continued sadness. I didn't think we were there yet, the time where you start losing parents. We are becoming parents. Too much cycle of life. 

35w5d - Sonographer Makes Mistake, Hilarity Ensues

Yesterday was my first appointment with my regular OB since the "holy-shit-he's-tiny" ultrasound. The tone was decidedly less peppy than in my previous checkups. I got tested for Group B Strep a week early just in case they made the call for baby boy to make a slightly premature exit. We went over worst case scenarios and just "ok" case scenarios which, from my doc's perspective, seemed to be middle path we were headed down. No induction next week unless absolutely necessary but induction likely in the 38-39 week range. Basically normal except he'd be a small guy.

After we somewhat somberly went through everything, I asked to review the individual measurements taken at the ultrasound two weeks ago. Every time the sonographer took a measurement that afternoon - circumference of the head, abdomen and length of the femur - a corresponding gestational average would come up. I saw immediately that his abdomen circumference was lagging behind. The measurements for his head and femur, however, produced dates that were pretty much right on par with my dates. While lying on the ultrasound table with warm jelly smeared across my belly, I was reassured that at least those things were measuring at about average. When we met with an OB afterwards, she told us that his head had measured 6th percentile, his femur at 8th and his abdomen at 3rd. Somehow with the weight calculation he averaged to 17th percentile.  I expressed my confusion, first on how 3, 6 and 8 average to 17 (I mean, I'm no math genius but still) and then as to why the head and femur measurements on the screen would show him to be at least close to average and then come back in the single digits. She explained that the algorithm used to determine the average percentile was complex and took into account many other measurements. I was too sad and worried to push the issue any farther. Usually, I'll press on until I fully understand but in this case, I felt that I just needed to go home and sit with my news. Or lie on my bed and groan feeling generally horrible which is what I actually did.

Yesterday, I had the wherewithal to dig into it more. I didn't want to perseverate on numbers, I explained to my regular OB, but I did want to understand and not feel like a passive patient. I told her what I had seen on the screen and that the numbers didn't make sense to me. She started to spout the same answer about the complex nature of the algorithm but I could see her questioning her words as she said them. Then she stopped and carefully re-read the chart. "Well, this is a potential game changer," she said. "The sonographer entered your due date as 4/02. Your actual due date is 4/12. I'm having them rerun these calcs immediately." Ten days is a big difference in fetal development. Three quarters of a pound, lots of lung development. Depending on where that delivery date falls, ten days can be the difference between going home the next day and a week in the NICU.

THIRTY EIGHTH PERCENTILE, bitches. That's where he's averaging right now. Not 17th. Not a belly at the 3rd percentile. He falls well within the "normal" range for fetal development. His abdomen is still a little small but not to the extent that they're concerned. My follow-up ultrasound was cancelled. I'm back on track to deliver when he's fully cooked, no more talk of early induction.

So that was a fun two weeks. We scrambled to get the nursery done for a potentially early arrival from our long-awaited roommate. I ate too much ice cream in an ill-advised attempt to force him to grow with the gentle coaxing of Ben & Jerry. Guess what? Still kinda lactose intolerant. It took a lot not to wallow in feeling like I was failing Parenting 101 by neglecting to feed my fetus. Oh, they need to eat? Like every day? Shoot. I was constantly kinda stressed, kinda sad, but still very hopeful. I felt in my bones that things would be ok, I just didn't know what our version of ok would look like. And now, total and utter relief. I should be more angry at the ultrasound tech but honestly, she made a really basic, human mistake. She entered "0" instead of "1." I'm pretty sure I do things like that on a daily basis. Now, my job doesn't have quite the stakes that hers has but I am understanding. Things could have spiraled into a lot of very unnecessary interventions but fortunately that didn't happen. I'm the one that insisted  on human caregivers.

35w2d - Of Growth and Uncertainty

Oh ladies, it's been a little roller-coaster-y for the past two weeks. Things are still good but I'm facing my first hiccup of pregnancy. Ok, more than a hiccup potentially. I'll explain.

For those of you who are still in the trenches or haven't reached 20+ weeks, during the second half of your pregnancy your OB or midwife starts a highly technical measurement procedure where she takes a cloth measuring tape and, starting at the top of your pubic bone, stretches it over your bump to the top of your uterus. Supposedly, your measurement in centimeters should be approximately equivalent to your gestational week. As in, when you're 25 weeks, the measurement is 25 cm; 30 weeks, 30 cm. Give or take a couple of centimeters on either side. This is not hard science. I mean, it's done with sewing equipment for chrissakes. It does sorta-kinda-accurately give an idea of your rate of growth. In my case, it raised a flag.

At around 28+ weeks, I went from spot on measurements to lagging behind. My doc kept an eye on it for another appointment or two and then requested a fetal growth scan. Last week at the scan we found out that our kiddo is measuring at a measly 17th percentile. This was the second round of ultrasound measurements, this time by a supervisor. Our first round of measurements put him at 11th percentile, only 2 notches away from a diagnosis of IUGR (intrauterine growth restriction). We're taking 17th percentile and running with it. His abdomen measured particularly small which translates to him not getting all the nutrients he needs in utero. Fetuses, geniuses that they are, will funnel all of the nutrients to the brain and heart at the expense of building fat reserves if they need to. Why is this happening? They don't really know. Typically it's because the placenta stops working as efficiently as it should for this stage of pregnancy. The placenta slows its roll toward the end of the third trimester. Sometimes it doesn't make it quite so far. That could be happening with me. Not sure.  Here's the plan: 3 weeks after the initial scan, I'll go in for another ultrasound. If baby boy has grown leaps and bounds, well then, aces. Let him keep cooking. If he hasn't grown sufficiently and there's more evidence that he's not getting enough nutrition from my placenta, then they may decide to induce with the thought that he'll be better off outside than in. At the point of that scan, I'll be close to 37 weeks. Almost full term, not quite. I hope that I'm able to cook him to term. If not, it will be because we're doing the best thing for him. Upside being I'll get to see that sweet face just a little sooner. However it needs to happen so that he comes into this world healthy is fine by me. The evening of the ultrasound I was a sad mess. I felt like I was failing my boy way too early. Now, bolstered by my incredible doula, a particularly therapeutic trip to the acupuncturist (approaching this from all side - western meds and eastern crunch), and the kind words of friends and family, I'm feeling very confident. No matter what happens, things are going to be ok. I have an awesome team taking care of me from OB, to doula, to a stellar NICU if, god forbid, it's necessary. Also on my side, I feel him moving all the time. He feels enormous. I know he's just a little guy but my god I feel like I'm going to explode. I've gone from ribs that, as of this Saturday evening, felt as though they were going to snap into crumbled bits. I think that wonder boy is starting to settle in lower as the rib pain, while not gone, is subsiding and has been replaced by near constant bladder pressure. For now, I prefer the latter.

That's the Six Flags part of the post. In utterly lovely news, I had my baby shower. It was so, so nice. Everything I wanted. No games, fabulous food, lots of friends and family. I woke up the morning of my shower and, on cue, baby boy was squirming around. "They're throwing a party for us today!" I told him, because I am a nerd and was overwhelmed. It occurred to me that morning how long I've waited, even within this pregnancy, to just celebrate the fact that our son is well on his way. It was so joyous. I loved it. I got some good loot too, I cannot lie. Baby gear is expensive. I am grateful for every scrap gifted to us. With the influx of stuff, J and I were forced to make some serious headway on the nursery. As of yesterday evening, we are nearly done with the exception of getting the artwork on the walls (on its way from Etsy) and getting a little bookshelf. We have a crib with clean sheets, a dresser filled with clean clothes, a changing table and a bassinet that, while still in its box, can be erected at absolutely any time. My mom herded me around Target and pointed out what I might need immediately to help him survive/stay clean/save upholstery. I'm stocked up newborn size diapers, wipes, gentle baby shampoo and wash, and am the proud owner of a breast pump. Everything is ready, you know, whenever.

The follow-up growth scan takes place a week from tomorrow and then we'll know a lot more. We'll either get an induction date or the thumbs up to keep cooking. Or, something in between. Shit is getting very real and I am getting impatient. I don't want to under-cook my baby boy but I am so anxious to meet him. The time span of when that meeting may occur is preposterously large right now: between 1 week+ and 7 weeks. So much for a cozy 4 week span of possibility.

30w6d - Physical Fitness Fail

My God, I am full of good ideas. Full of reason, too. I've heard that you should exercise consistently through your pregnancy and so I've been to prenatal yoga three times, all during my second trimester. There's consistency for you. Any Google device or basic pregnancy book will tell you that you should not introduce any wildly new exercise regiments during your pregnancy and I think they might all read "and especially not during your third trimester, genius." But you know me, I'm all "fuck the establishment, I do what I want." (Ha, not really. Haven't touched a turkey sandwich or a fully caffeinated coffee since two lines showed up. The few times I've had a nip of delicious red wine, I've convinced myself of decreased fetal movement. Typically, j'adore rules.)

With my newfound damn-the-man attitude, I signed up for a class at the new Pure Barre studio. Pure Barre is like Bar Method or any of the other handful of ballet barre based exercise regimes. I didn't know what that meant but perhaps some of you do. The following thought synopsis explains why I chose to stomp through the snow to administer a little self-torture at 30 weeks.

1. I need to get my ass in gear or I will die in childbirth like it's the Middle Ages. Buns, thighs, and a pelvic floor of steel can probably be achieved easily in the next 8 weeks with a simple and shockingly expensive workout routine.
2. I have no energy. I'll potentially have more energy if I start working out... NOW. (I optimistically signed up for a second class prior to taking the first. Promptly cancelled.)
3. I used to be a reasonably accomplished ballet dancer. Pure Barre will be just like ballet class and all the physical fitness and coordination I posessed when I was 16 will come flooding back. That happens. It's science. Especially during pregnancy.

So, I mean, I really thought this whole thing through. I thought we'd stand at the bar the whole time, listen to classical music or something new agey, and do ballet-like movements to burn our buns. Not at all, Bob, not at all. First off, the class was packed. Music starts and it is throbbing club music. We are in "da club" and I am visibly, awkwardly pregnant. I feel like a pregnant lady in an ill-fitting tank top in a club because basically, that's what I am. If you've seen Knocked Up, it was basically like that except for A) they let me in and B) I was wearing no makeup and the shabbiest stretchy clothes I could find that would fit over my ass, boobs and belly.* Class did not start at the barre. After a brief warm up, the teacher put us flat on our backs for abdominal work. Vena cava compression time. I half-assed the ab work and sat up frequently to ensure oxygenated blood flow to my fetus who, at this early point, was audibly saying "What. The. Fuck." I don't blame him. We've had such a good, relaxing and spacious run until I decided to compress him so that I could have a prego six pack. We eventually moved to the barre, all was good, and then moved right back to the floor for the continuation of the abdominal series. I asked ahead of time if it was fine for pregnant ladies to take the class. The owner assured me it was with a few obvious modifications that she rambled through in 10 seconds. Perhaps, had I been doing Pure Barre for my whole pregnancy, I would have been more comfortable with said modifications. Not the case. I took several self-imposed time outs where I sat cross legged on the floor and wondered why I had donated money to this ridiculous cause. What's wrong with a brisk walk and some prenatal yoga? Nothing. Nothing at all.

I survived. Fetus survived. We went home and complained a lot. Then, crazy me, I had a restless night of shitty dreams where I worried about baby boy. Really, you shouldn't compress a fetus like that. I'm sure of it. I know that abdominal work is safe and encouraged but by god there are limits.

I bet you kids do Pure Barre all the time. I bet you were doing squats at the barre while you gave birth. Good for you. I've gotten a D+ on physical fitness during this pregnancy. I've made a real effort to go on walks and, like I boasted, have made it to 3 whole prenatal yoga classes. Whatever. I'm cooking a baby. I'm busy. Cutting myself some slack now.


*I have been losing clothing - specifically my forgiving yoga pants - throughout pregnancy. I have blamed my husband on several occasions. This is obvious sabotage!!! He thinks I'm nuts and I say he's bad at laundry management (he has 43 individual socks and none of them match). We're both right.

Several of you requested a bump photo. I decided to hire the most expensive photographer and stylist I knew. Sadly, it all fell through. Here's a photo of me in my office bathroom earlier this week, wearing a clip art lucha libre mask. Little known fact: I am really good at doing my hair.

30 weeks. Viva la lucha.

28w4d - Bienvenido a "Third Tri"

I've been a neglectful blogger. Sorry bout that. My friend urged me to write more and I said I would and then I failed. I have been feeling sooooo overwhelmed. Work has become a bear. Much more so that usual. I believe I've mentioned that I work in property management. Here's what happens to properties when a once-in-20-years polar vortex (could that sound more dramatic?) occurs: all hell breaks loose. Pipes freeze, ice dams on roofs, water leaks into interior spaces, heating systems have a complete nervous breakdown. Here's how emotionally, intellectually and physically equipped I feel to deal with arctic disasters at the beginning of my third trimester: not at all. Right now, I wish I worked in an Indian call center. "Hi, my name is Roxanne (obviously not). Have you tried cycling your router? Oh really? Well, try again." See, I'd ace that shit. Indian call centers are warm, might potentially have reasonably comfortable seating, and might have decent shift hours (probably not). I'm just complaining. I'm sorry. Constant complaining is currently my crutch. Just ask my husband. Enough of that.


28 weeks in review (I just typed "38 weeks" which actually would be the most telling typo ever): I am a small pregnant lady. My weight gain was slow to start but is now staying on track. It is, however, centered on three places: boobs that look as though they'll be able to end hunger in a smattering of east African nations, a small-to-medium-sized low and compact belly, and a constantly growing ass. I don't understand why or how my ass has taken the lion's share of the responsibility but Nordstrom Rack's underwear department has been happy to comply with my never ending need for larger and larger underthings. In fun news, my uterus is measuring on schedule (low tech obstetrics) and baby boy is bouncing around as though I'm feeding him crack. This is hands down my favorite part of pregnancy. In the past week or so I've reached the point where I can feel a heel attached to a leg swinging around my upper right abdomen. I can feel that little leg and rub it for all of ten seconds before he squirms away. I can find a butt somewhere just south and right of my belly button. Confirmed by my OB at my last appointment, my guy is head down now! He still has room, could flip breech, but for now seems to alternate between head down and an angled transverse position. The miracle is that I can feel all this at all. Pregnancy has ceased to me a mysterious "condition" and now has become this very literal experience of carrying around an articulated human being wedged between my lower ribs and pubic bone. This may seem obvious to those of you who have been pregnant before but I really can't believe that later pregnancy feels so literal. I know, overuse of that word. But there it is. I am not merely swelling, I am carrying around a person.

I have become desperate to meet said person. As I get to know that one leg and mini butt, I just want him out and with me.  Perhaps this is a thinly veiled desire to start maternity leave this very moment (see first paragraph and "polar vortex"). I know, he's not at all done cooking. 10-12 more weeks. But how bout 10? 10 sounds good, right? I am insane and am completely thrilled and excited by the idea of going into labor. When I go into labor, it means I get to meet him. How Giselle Bundchen am I? I'll remember that it hurts at some point. Our child birth class takes place in 3 weeks. Maybe I'll reconsider my excitement then.


I've gone from wanting the nursery to be done in the next two months to wanting it done this very second. Because now he feels real. People who have legs need a bedroom and they need it now. Embroider that on a pillow if you wish. It's J's job to do all the physical work as he is A) a furniture maker and finish carpenter and B) he is not pregnant. This morning I maybe flipped a little bit because I determined that he was tackling projects in the wrong order. I have since apologized and blamed hormones. It's not hard to be too critical when your job is surfing the internet for adorable nursery décor while others slave away doing physical labor. Poor J. Wait, no, he gets a baby out of the deal, too.


"Third trimester" and "baby shower" are terms that I was not sure would ever be uttered in the same sentence as my name. Unless, of course, someone said, "That Amy, she'll never have a third trimester or baby shower." Yet, here they are upon me. This weekend I am headed to Boston with my besties where my friend and I will share honors at a mini brunch shower. (I am one of three of my best girlfriends expecting between February and July. All of us are having boys. All of us will learn about tiny penises together.) Then, later in February, I am having another shower thrown by my mom's best friends, known affectionately as The Cowgirls. These ladies have known me since I was a little girl and each has played a really special role in my life. I asked the Cowgirl hosting the shower if it could be a Jewish deli themed shower because generally I'd prefer to eat bagels, cream cheese and capers rather than play painfully awkward games. She was thrilled with the idea and is obliging. My registry is done (I need/want all of that?) and I've started to get gifts here and there. My little infertile soul wonders if the senders know that they might have wasted their money by sending gifts to a baby that will never actually exist. Then I get kicked in the ribs and work to banish all such thoughts. People with legs are real and need things. They need a nursery, clothes, a stroller with specs that rival my Toyota's, an activity gym for tummy time and pumping iron, pacifiers with stuffed animals attached, and swaddling blankets nicer than anything I've every put on my own bed. It is all excessive and thrilling.


I'm currently working on a post of my pregnancy essentials. Things that have kept me comfortable and diminished the complaining to a low roar. Forthcoming. Until then, mucho amor. I stalk all of your blogs, FB pages, etc. and am thinking constantly of your smiling faces and the state of your uteri.

25w5d - Plague, Kegels, and Nesting

My holidays were more exciting than yours. More exciting IF you consider a familial case of plague-like stomach flu and an infant hospitalization exciting. And I do. You clicked on me, remember? First thing first, Niecelette is totally fine now however I will say that she started it. Along my brother-in-law. Simultaneously. At about 11 PM on December 22nd, Niecelette nursed like a champ and then proceeded to vomit it all up. Twice. Then slept and slept and slept which, as rule, newborns do not do. They sleep, wake up, feed, then sleep again. Not Niecelette. Unbeknownst to my sister, she was starting Baby's First Hunger Strike. In a bathroom down the hall, at the very same time, my sister's husband started vomiting as only a 6' 5" Canadian can. Niecelette kept on sleeping and my sister just stayed up staring at her, willing her to wake up and get her boob-on. At around 11 AM the next morning, my dad (a pediatrician) called it and took Niecelette to the emergency room. She hadn't eaten in 12 hours and was very lethargic. At the hospital, it was determined that she had a run of the mill stomach virus, just like her dad, but because she was only 13 days old she needed to be monitored for dehydration and kept on an IV. She and my sister spent the night at the hospital. The next evening (Christmas Eve), after feeding in very small amounts every 4-5 hours, she was allowed to go home.

 

In a medical crisis, I am your go-to-gal. I think it comes from growing up in a medical family; I'm the only one in the immediate family not currently or formerly in some branch of the field. (I like buildings.) I understand the lingo and can typically see past the symptoms to the bigger picture. However, when your 8.5 lb niece is lying there in a toddler hospital gown (Really children's hospital? No infant-sized apparel?), not eating and unable to stay awake, I promise that your cool, sensible Google-medical-school-educated head will fail you and your heart will just melt all over the floor. We were told the whole time that she was okay and would get better but still. Gah.

 

Niecelette revived and thrived, as did her dad. On Christmas morning, we all gathered at my mom and dad's house for presents and general merriment. My mom bore a slight resemblance to a green puddle and proceeded to get the same virus. Thinking myself of heartier stock than these weaklings, I washed my hands 74 times and went on my merry way to J's family's celebration. The next morning I woke up to bowel-churning, head-spinning nausea and remained more or less in the fetal position for 36 hours. I feel bad for my judgement of Niecelette's lethargy and refusal to eat. Here's what I did while sick with the same virus: did not eat and slept for the entire time. So, she had kind of a good wellness plan. I'll give her that.

 

Everyone was seemingly in the clear, virus gone, by Friday. The whole family - my mom and dad, Juice, her husband, baby Niecelette, J and me - packed into our respective vehicles and spent the next few days at the family cabin in Wisconsin. It was glorious until J got a belated strain of the virus and was banished to the bedroom. With the exception of that hiccup, it was a generally fabulous trip. I got to hold and play with Niecelette constantly. She is possibly the cutest baby ever. I also found that my relationship with my sister had slid back into normalcy after oh, say, 9 months of torture. Even once I was pregnant, the childish strain of "but her pregnancy is bigger, better, farther along, more naturally conceived than mine" played constantly in my head. It only took two or three weeks after the birth of my niece. Sigh. It gets easier, it just takes a birth, stomach virus and the general easing of emotional insanity to make the pain start to fade.

 

Ok, enough of that. I've written tomes on my emotional response to my sister's pregnancy/my miscarriage/my current pregnancy/yada yada. I shall write more, I'm sure.

 

Another milestone occurred while I was in Wisconsin. One morning, while wearing light grey, thin cotton pajama pants (you'll need that detail for later), I was standing around laughing with my sister and her husband. Of all things, we were talking about pregnancy brain. We joked about something mildly funny and, appropriately, I laughed a little bit. Not a lot. Just a little. And then I peed. Not a lot. Just a little. Juice then made me laugh again. Just a little. I then peed an equivalent amount. So now I've peed a little twice which means I've peed a medium amount in previously described pants. Under my breath I murmured, "Omigod I just peed my pants," turned, and walked to the bathroom at which point my sister saw my copiously pee-stained pants and announced that I had peed my pants. Fair enough. It was true. Once in the bathroom, I sneezed and peed again. So that happened. I became incontinent at 25 weeks pregnant. As I may have mentioned before, I have this bizarrely long torso that I inherited directly from my simian ancestors. My uterus has tons of room to expand before lifting and hitting my ribcage. As a result, little guy is riding low and at times wedges himself between my hip bones and smashes my bladder. According to the websites, he now weighs about 1.5 lbs. According to the science experiment described above, my bladder can accommodate under but nothing equal to or greater than 1.5 lbs of crushing pressure. I may have to accept that when he settles in that low wedge position from which he will not be moved, I will just pee myself. I knew this might happen. I just didn't realize I would have to buy maternity Depends this early in the game. 

I don't use hashtags frequently. I reserve them for my twitter posts about tween pop stars. But here, I feel that a hashtag is required. #timeforkegels.

 

In general, non-bodily fluid related news, I am nesting. It has hit with a vengeance. I have gone from being perfectly content with the future nursery looking like a hoarder/heroin addict's den to selling almost everything we own on Craigslist. Want a decrepit piano? Check Craiglist. A well-intentioned Christmas gift of a leather, memory foam full-size massage table? Ditto. Bar stools from an unused bar? All yours. Also the bar. Take it. I might sell my bed, refrigerator, sofa and anything else that takes up room. This is addictive.

 

Here's a stupidly adorable pic of me and Niecelette. True, I am possibly the most irresponsible aunt ever but, in my defense, it was 40 degrees, she was wrapped in fleece and down, my mom took the photo and my sister watched and approved whole-heartedly. I intend to retake this photo annually as a completely accurate measure of her growth (and mine). As her mother is 5' 8" and her dad is 6' 5", I figure she'll be taller than me by age 7.

 

Never too early to learn to make snow angels.

 

Happy 2014! May you stay blissfully free of viruses and incontinence.

 

 

  

 

 

22w4d - The Family Grows

Holy emotional shit storm. Yesterday, December 10th at 10:10 AM, I became an aunt to a beautiful baby girl. 8 lbs 1 oz, 21 long, long inches.  7 months and 9 days after the announcement that sent me reeling for so long. 2 days after my first due date. I wish I could say that in the moment, none of it mattered. I am not proud. My mom and I paced the hall outside of the delivery room until we heard her first cries. Immediately, we both bawled. We cried, while she cried, for the total miracle of your own daughter/sister having her own healthy baby. I cried too for the distance this pregnancy put between us, even while I was in the midst of my own. I flipped back and forth between elation and this difficult feeling of longing, a childish response of "this should have been me." I hate to admit those feelings. It was not my time. It was a miracle, my family had grown by a whole perfect human being.

Those feelings dissipated entirely once I got to meet her. Really, she is possibly the most beautiful little girl in the world. She has a shocking amount of thick, dark brown hair and rosebud lips. I couldn't stop touching her impossibly soft cheeks and belly and holding on to her feet. She will know me as "that giant that won't stop poking me." I spent the day my newly larger family. Mostly we stared and commented on how much she looked like a member of our immediate family. Halfway across the country, my brother-in-law's family commented on how much she looked like their family. They are wrong. She is totally one of us. Smushy, rosy lips are our trademark. It's hilarious how narcissistic newborns make us. We are so quick to claim their every feature as our own. I really do think she looks like a hybrid between me and my sister as newborns because me-me-me-me-me. That's what babies do to us. We become so vainly introspective as we gaze into their every-baby-could-have-been-switched-at-birth faces.

My sister was a total trouper. Her water broke on Monday afternoon with nary another sign of impending labor. Once at the hospital, they started her on Pitocin which led to a completely sleepless night. At 6:15 am she was 3 cm dilated. Only 2.5 hours later she was fully dilated and evicting that kid. No sleep, no pain meds, 1.5 hours of pushing. She's like a Navy Seal of childbirth.

I stayed until early evening and then drove back home to the city. I gushed on the phone to friends (hands free, safety first) and then sat in traffic and allowed anxiety set in. Seriously, I hate that I did this and that I continue to let myself go to these dark places. It seems so selfish. I am sometimes incapable of reason and seeing the big picture. My heart started aching. Surely, it would not go so perfectly for me. Bad things happen to me - this is my default, stupid, dark place mantra. I will never get my boy. I will go into early labor. I will lose him. April will never come (unlikely). Maybe he will be born but not healthy, not beautiful like his cousin. Will my family gush over him as much since he's a boy and not a rosebud-lipped girl? Send in the men in white coats. I'm sure there's a perfectly lovely asylum where I can convalesce for the rest of my pregnancy, preferably in a medically-induced coma. These are the fucking thoughts that circled my mind last night and this morning. I hate them. I hate those thoughts. They represent the worst of me and the worst of two years of infertility. I am ashamed that I can't just revel in the love and awe I feel for my niece and enjoy this wonderful, healthy pregnancy that I've been blessed with. To clarify, I do get those moments of peace, wonder and happiness. I experienced that nearly all day yesterday with my niece and sister and didn't fall apart until I was alone in the car. On weekend mornings, when I sit around reading, sipping a cup of tea, and feel and see my boy bopping around inside, I am there: totally in love and in the moment. He and I feel natural and meant to be. I just can't always cling on to that. I bought a Christmas ornament for him and hung it on our tree. I visit it as my reminder of how good I have it and how real he is. Fake babies do not have Christmas ornaments, right? We call our boy "Pindakaas," the Dutch word for peanut butter, because...because why not? Pin for short. We remain miles apart on names and I am a bit concerned that he will forever be known as Pindakaas. I suppose there are worse names. Pin's ornament is a piece of toast with peanut butter and two banana slices on it (J and I are clearly the bananas - one of us more than the other). Impossibly cute, like my fetus. Handcrafted affirmations in felt.

TGIE - Thank God for Etsy

I am going over to my sister's house after work to welcome them home and eat my mom's home cooking. As soon as I'm there, I'll be madly in love again. I will feel like that the whole time I'm there. I will possibly/probably melt down in the car. And then I'll pull myself together, feel my baby boy squirming, and will be fine. And then not. And then fine again. Possibly until April.

I'll leave you with a photo of my family's new perfect love.



Look at those sweet lips and that head of hair. Could you die?