I’m alone when I’m not with you March 26, 2007

Most of my parental success stories have been the result of sheer, blind, dumb luck. I mean, I’ve got a degree in child development and I read a lot of books, but when it comes right down to it: my parental victories have had very little to do with the books lining my bookshelves or the degree tucked into a faux leather folder moldering away in a box at the back of my closet. They’ve been accidents. Either that, or Linnea is raising herself brilliantly and just letting us tag along for the ride.

Saturday morning, somehow, we all ended up in Linnea’s bed. I don’t even really remember how it came about, but when I came to full consciousness, I was looking up at her rainbow canopy and having a nice, painful contraction. Neither one of which was expected, and only one of which was even partially welcome (the canopy, just in case you’re wondering). Nea has been very attentive as I’ve gotten bigger, and she knew immediately what was wrong.

“Mama! Your tummy hurts!” and she curled her warm, footie-pajamaed body around my bump and rubbed it gently while I tried to remind myself that cessation of breathing doesn’t really help a body deal with pain and M slept through the whole thing. When the contraction eased, and I relaxed, she sat up and touched my cheek and said, “Don’t worry, Mama. I won’t let the alligators get you.”  

That statement might rank in the top five of the kindest, most loving things anyone has ever said to me. And I wonder when in the world our relationship reached a place where we could switch places like that–it’s my job to protect her, to help her when she hurts, to not let the alligators get her. It was really quite an amazing moment, that lasted until I had another contraction and Linnea got bored with defending me against alligators (she IS only three, afterall) and decided she needed breakfast.

The contractions? Led to nothing but a long and cranky day spent on the couch. They were strong enough, they were long enough, but they left something to be desired in the regularity department. And they gradually decreased in intensity, which is not generally the direction active labor goes. But oh well. Even if Saturday wasn’t destined to be the day I got to hold my second baby in my arms, it WAS the day my first baby held me (and her sister) in her arms and kept the alligators away.

And what better definition of family is there than that?

A light at the end of the tunnel… March 15, 2007

So, I went in for my 35-week OB check-up today. Everything looks good–Sarah is measuring right where she should be, which means the pains I’ve taken with managing my gestational diabetes are paying off, and I’ll probably avoid having to go on insulin (whoo-hoo!); my blood pressure was excellent; Sarah is head-down (I could have told the doctor that–it’s sort of easy to tell when you’ve got another person’s head nestled in your pelvis) and ready to go.

Plus, Dr. D told me that if I hadn’t done anything on my own by April 25th, she’d schedule an induction for April 26th. Sweet freaking hallelujah! I almost cried, I was so relieved to know when I’d be done, even though I’m still sending my unborn daughter, “Come out early, but not TOO early” vibes. Because I don’t want to HAVE to go to the 26th, but at least I know I won’t go further than that.

I found out that a former classmate is also pregnant. She’s due in July, and I’m pretty excited for her. It’s funny. M and I got married in the middle of the second year of seminary. All our friends were still swinging and single, and our apartment sort of became their homebase. We’d cook them dinner when food in the cafeteria sucked, we used to throw legendary parties, we were the stable married couple in The Group. And now our friends are starting to catch up with us…getting married, having babies. It’s fun to not feel like the weirdoes. Suddenly, when The Group has little impromptu reunions, we won’t be the only ones who forgo closing down the bar because we’ve got kids with us that need to be in bed by 8PM; we won’t feel vauguely guilty while listening to our friends bemoan their love lives because we’re so happy. We’re all starting to hang out in the same boat, and what I truly love more than anything is that we’re all still friends, even through all the changes.

Life is good. 🙂

A New Look March 13, 2007

Yep, it’s still me: Beege. Just did a little freshening up around here–it’s spring (even in Minnesota) and I’m nesting, so it seemed like the thing to do.

For those of you keeping score at home: this week I will enter my 35th week of pregnancy. I’m fairly round, but carrying everything out in front. I got in an argument (well, argument is a strong word, although I DID have to fight the urge to pull hair) with two cashiers at my grocery store who swore based on the way I was carrying that I was actually going to have a boy, not a girl, because nobody who carries their baby all out in front like I am has a girl. I just smiled and said, “Well, I’ll be sure and let her sister know that, since I carried my first daughter the same way.” I post on a bulletin board for other expectant mothers, and one of their major complaints throughout our pregnancies has been about strangers who come up and touch their bellies. I’ve never had that happen–either this time, or with Nea. But I AM looking forward to not having strangers feel like because I’m pregnant they can just assault me with their every opinion of pregnancy, childbirth, and parenting. I was actually verbally assaulted by a woman who was flaming PISSED that I’d found out the sex of my baby.

Whaaaaaaa…?

I didn’t know this woman. I’d never seen her before in my life. I hope I never see her again. And if she hadn’t been a customer at the store, I would have had a few choice words for her. Shit. I probably should have let her have it, anyway, the old biddy.

I’ve been given advice on how homebirth is better, how I should never attempt childbirth without an epidural, how I should/should not vaccinate my child, how I should bank the cordblood, how cordblood banking is just a scam, how to “naturally” induce labor, etc. It’s insane. It’s like I have, “I’m pregnant. Please, enlighten me. I’m living on tenterhooks to hear your opinions on everything you think I’m going through.” tattooed on my belly.

Five more weeks. Five more weeks. Five more weeks.

Then I’ll move on to bitching about a whole new set of stuff. 🙂 Just for you.