False Labor

On Monday night, Toby and I spent from midnight until 5 AM in the labor and delivery ward. It was a long night. I spent all day yesterday exhausted and trying hard not to cry. (I become an absolute mess on little to no sleep. Think doom and gloom and end-of-the-world scenarios and you have my yesterday.) Anyway…

So here is what happened… at 7 PM on Monday evening, I began having contractions. They came every 10 minutes and lasted for 60 to 90 seconds. That went on for two hours. I wasn’t convinced anything was really happening because they didn’t particularly hurt and I still have 10 days to go. You see, since I haven’t ever gone into labor on my own, it’s hard to know. I mean, I have experience labor. But only after being induced and given an epidural. (However, I should mention, the epidurals I have had enabled me to still feel some pain. This, I am told, is so that a woman knows when to push and also experiences enough pain to want to. Not sure it’s true, but it worked for me.) So, I guess I have felt some degree of labor, but not entirely. I definitely don’t trust myself to know when it’s real or not.

So, I didn’t believe it. But then things started to become a bit more intense. Nothing I couldn’t handle. Nothing I couldn’t talk through. We watched The Walking Dead the entire time. But my contractions had migrated from my upper abdomen, to my lower pelvis. Basically, they started to feel like period cramps and, forgive me for the TMI, but they felt like I had to poop.

I still didn’t fully believe it. Having suffered from severely painful periods throughout my teens and twenties, I still felt like they weren’t painful enough to call or do anything. My periods used to be so bad, I’d pass out. Ambulances were called by confused bosses and terrified teachers. I was once accused of being on drugs at school. My periods were very intense. So, when comparing those contractions with my previous periods, I just didn’t think anything of it.

Well, after several hours of regular contractions and the fact that they were getting closer together, I called my doctor. Since this is my third pregnancy, and I live in New Jersey, a bit of a toss from New York City, she told me to come in. We called my mother, who lives about an hour and 15 minutes away, she hopping in the car. Once she arrived, we took off. We left just after 11 PM.

It didn’t take us long to get into the city. No one is on the road at 11:30 PM on a Monday night. Once I got there, Labor and Delivery was a ghost as well. I was admitted immediately. I was hooked up to monitors and given an exam. I was told I was 3 CM dilated, one more centimeter than I had been last week during my weekly checkup. Contractions were coming every 5 minutes and growing increasingly more intense (still nothing like what I was used to). The doctor suggested we wait it out and see if the contractions would amount to any cervical movement.

At around 3 AM, my contractions were strong enough that I was unable speak. They forced me to focus on my breath. They were a lot more painful, much like the ones I’d had in the past. I also began to shake, which is something that happened during active labor with both my boys. I was SURE I was making headway. I was absolutely positive. I would have bet money I was going to have a baby yesterday.

At 4 AM, she checked me again: 3 CM. NO movement whatsoever. The painful contractions stopped shortly thereafter.

At 5 AM, I was sent home.

The good news is, we missed rush-hour traffic.

So, I am still pregnant. And I should be. I am not quite done with my 39th week. After Saturday, I enter the safety zone for induction, so I am seriously considering that for next week. He’s done. He’s cooked.

I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow as well as a stress test. (The baby’s heartbeat did two wonky things on Monday night, so I was told to count fetal movements and make sure they don’t drop off. He is fine, however. They wouldn’t have let me go otherwise.)

So, that’s where I am! Tired. Spent. Ready to meet him. Ready to run again. Ready to get my body back. Just ready.

I’ll keep you posted. In the meantime, I’ve a bunch of work to catch up on—lollipops and some graphic design.

Thanks for reading.

38-Week Wakeup Call

I’m supposed to have a baby in two weeks. And I had forgotten about this up until today. You see, I don’t hold my breath when it comes to these “due dates” everyone talks about when they talk about having babies. Both of my boys had to be evicted. Emory was kicked out 4 days past-due because I suddenly started having high blood pressure. That didn’t end up being the best birth story of all time. But I really don’t want to get myself too worked up about childbirth right now, so I’ll stop right there. If you wish to read that long-ass, boring birth story, you may do so here. (Chapters are linked from that post. That post was written last.)

With Elliot, things were a touch different. I went into that pregnancy with the intention of avoiding an induction and letting labor come “naturally”. (I have always loathed that word when it comes to describing childbirth, hence the quotes. There’s no such given definition, ladies. So stop suggesting otherwise. And stop acting smug about your choices and making others feel bad. Just stop.)

Anyway, Elliot’s due date came and went. And I mean I knew his due date. I knew his due date because I knew down to the minute when he was conceived. I have calendars and notebooks FULL of calculations, treatments and insane scribbles that went into trying to pregnant. And while he was a miracle baby—a complete surprise conceived naturally after a year and a half of fertility treatments from one of the best doctors in the United States—he was still scrutinized down to the very last ovulation predictor stick.

Oh, yes. I knew his due date.

Well, he too ended up being late. But since they started monitoring me at 40-weeks, I also knew he was safe the entire time. I became a regular in the ultrasound department at New York Presbyterian where they measured my amnionic fluid, his heartbeat and his size. Since everything was A-OK, I was told I could wait a bit longer.

And wait, I did. I went 15 days past my due date. That’s when my doctor did what OBGYN doctors should do in my opinion: she scheduled an induction. That induction went smoothly. And I had that booger out in 5 pushes.

All this to say, I am wildly cynical when it comes to due dates. And I know damn well not to assume this guy will actually come early. My boys just don’t do that sort of thing. And that belief was backed up last week when I visited my doctor and she informed me that my cervix was completely shut. Not even half a centimeter to work with. Nada.

On the other hand, people keep telling me that since this is is my third child he may just fall out of me. You may have heard about the woman who gave birth on a New York City sidewalk. That was her third baby. My younger brother (my mom’s third) came out quickly. And while the idea of getting a baby out quickly appeals to me, my plan is to have this baby at the same NYC hospital I had the other two. So, “falling out of me” isn’t really something I’m interested in especially since there’s a river, a shitload of potholes, traffic and a tunnel between myself and that hospital.

Still, the thought has never crossed my mind that he may actually come out on his own. Well, not until this morning.

I woke up at 6:30 in order to shower before the house explodes with the stressfulness that comes with getting everyone out the door on time. I don’t sleep for more than 3 hours at a time anymore thanks to having a bladder the size of a lima bean. Couple that with the battering of a watermelon-sized baby into said tiny bladder, and I’m always on the toilet. I’d been up an hour earlier to pee, so I was confused when I noticed something dripping down my inner thigh.

That’s when I had the following conversation:

“Are you peeing yourself?”

“Yes, I am peeing myself.”

“But you just peed an hour earlier!”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you. I peed myself.”

“You’re so gross.”

“I know.”

So I sat down to pee and nothing came out.

“Well, that’s weird.”

It wasn’t until after I’d showered and gotten dressed did I begin to ponder the idea that my water had broke. You see, I’ve never actually experienced that before. That was always done for me. So I have no idea what it looks like, what it smells like, how much of it comes out, if it’s colored. I know nothing about such things.

Did my water break?

I googled and decided no. I’m just a disgusting pregnant woman with incontinence, another glorious side-effect of being 9 months pregnant. But peeing myself did give me the wakeup call I needed.

“You’re going to have a baby soon.”

And that’s not something I’d given much thought up until today. And I wish I were kidding. But it hasn’t occurred to me that we’re going to have another family member living with us in a few weeks. It hasn’t occurred to me that I need to buy pads, diapers, Mylicon, wipes, diaper rash cream. It hasn’t occurred to me that I need to find a local pediatrician for that immediate, post-birth checkup.  It hasn’t occurred to me that I need to make sure I can fit THREE children in the back of our RAV4. None of this occurred to me until this morning when I pissed myself while getting into the shower. And while that was slightly humiliating, I guess it’s the wakeup call I needed.

I am going to have a baby soon.

Cord Tissue Banking

Toby and I banked both Em and Elliot’s cord blood. We are very happy with this decision. I regularly receive letters from the organization we chose about medical breakthroughs and/or trials should one of our kids need the help. Thankfully, we haven’t had any medical issues with either of our boys. But you never know. And so we like having it there just in case.

Well, the new guy arrives soon, so I called to arrange a third bank setup. The tech informed me (yes she is actually medically trained!) that since the birth of Em and Elliot, they came out with another option.

Now, you can store cord tissue as well. In my very limited amount of research, cord tissue stem cells are a lot more like the ones we hear/read about on the news. They can do more with it. And you can use them between siblings (75% chance of a match). Even we could use it should we need it one day (50% chance of a match).

So, Internet, we are trying to decide if it’s worth the added expense. Right now, we pay about 125 a year to store the blood. That would double. That’s fine. But the initial fee is double as well, so we’re looking at a one-time feel of just under 3,000.00.

Money isn’t really an issue. I mean, it is, but we’d pay for this if we knew it would one day help any of us.

I plan on researching this throughout the day, but thought why not ask the Internet as well. Do you know anything about cord tissue banking? Are you doing it? Would you? Any biology nerds out there want to weigh in? Anyone know about what it might be used for down the road? I’d love your thoughts!

Were You Depressed During Pregnancy?

I’ve been hesitant to write about this because writing about it seems unfair, ungrateful and careless. It’s unfair to my unborn son and to all those who are pregnant or trying to get pregnant. It’s careless because certain thoughts don’t belong online. I know this. I am so aware of this. But I’m going against my better judgment here. And I’m going to write.

For the first several weeks of this pregnancy, I spent hours (and I mean hours!) googling phrases like: “depressed during pregnancy”, “morning sickness and depression”, “pregnant all I want to do sleep all day and night”, and “pregnant can’t take care of my kids”. I found a few personal (and therefore reassuring) stories. But not all that many. I found a great deal of articles about postpartum depression, but not all that many about depression during pregnancy. That’s probably because most women don’t discuss it online (or elsewhere) because it’s not kosher to complain about something that’s supposed to be one of the most joyous times of a woman’s life.

I want to chock it up to hormones, because it just doesn’t make sense otherwise. And this next bit is going to come off sounding crass and ignorant to all those dealing with chemical depression. I understand what chemical depression is, but very rarely have I experienced it firsthand. Most of the time, whenever I’m feeling depressed, I can shake it off. There have only been a couple of times in my life where things have become unmanageable—something I couldn’t work through, shake off, or wait out. And each time I knew this to be the case because whenever I searched for joy, I came up empty. I can almost always find joy.

I assume my funk has a great deal to do with being sick all day long, every day, for weeks on end. I assume that it was made worse because I was taking Unisom for nausea, and Unisom is known to cause depression. I assume it’s also because this pregnancy was unplanned and that I’m terrified of having three kids. (What does one do with three of kids when two kids run them into the ground every day?) I’m going to be 40 in a few months. I will spend my 40th birthday fat, sick, bloated and cranky.

I was supposed to run a marathon this year—my first one! And I can’t even run a mile right now. I had to give up my spot. And every Saturday, whenever I glance at the family calendar in the kitchen, the one where I planned my mileage all the way up until November, I feel sad. And I know that’s entirely selfish, but it eats me up. I should be training for a marathon, not becoming fat and immobile. I see runners out on their long-distance, weekend runs and I feel nothing but jealousy and envy toward them. (Much like the jealousy I had toward pregnant bellies not three years ago.) I am sincerely jealous of joggers! What the hell is wrong with me? Who have I become? I’m not proud of this person. I am not even sure I like her.

Guys, I’m sad. And I’m not supposed to be and that’s making me even sadder. And I’m having a great deal of trouble digging for joy. I keep trying! Every day, I get up and I try. And I see glimpses of it here and there. I experience glimpses of joy lighting candles at dusk, or buying flowers at Trader Joe’s. I see it occasionally while reading to my kids, when I’m not winded from getting the words out. I feel a bit of joy knowing Homeland starts again tonight.

But I don’t bake anymore, and I love baking. I keep buying the ingredients to bake amazing things, things I once LOVED to share with people. But now I don’t see the point because eating makes me feel terribly sick. I have a nonstop case of metal mouth, which is exasperated by even the tiniest amount of food in my stomach, sugar and carbs being the worst of all. Eating is a chore I have to do to stay alive. Who wants to bake and eat a slice of pumpkin pie if that slice of pie is going to make them sick? What’s the point?

I keep reading that some women start to feel better at 20 weeks. And I’m hoping that since week 14 didn’t bring me much in the way of relief, week 20 will. And maybe by then I’ll start to see joy again. Maybe I’m just exhausted and sick of being sick. I don’t know. But I want to feel normal, not that I’m sure what normal is anymore. It’s been that long.

After I miscarried and went through months and months of fertility treatments, I spent a great deal of time searching for stories like my own. But I did so silently. And I have regretted that ever since. Because I think if I wrote about it many of you could have made me feel better. At the very least, I think you would have made me feel less alone.

So, I’m going to publish my thoughts today, even though I am truly aware of how selfish and careless it is to do so. I need to know that this is temporary and that one day I will be myself again. I used to have so much energy! I spent a great deal of my time creating things. Now? I get tired thinking about it. I am so lazy. I don’t see the point to doing most things I once enjoyed. And that’s so unlike me.

“I’m blue, like Pantone 292.”

I just want to feel normal again.

News.

First off, I’d like to apologize for using my blog to announce this. Many of you deserve an email or a phone call. But my head hasn’t been in the best place for the last few months. So, please forgive me for doing it the easy way.

Ready?

We are expecting our third baby in March. I know! I was surprised as well. Believe me. This pregnancy wasn’t planned. We were totally done having kids. And given my history with infertility and loss, I didn’t think this was even possible, especially at 39. But. Here we are…

Truth be told, I’ve been worried about telling anyone about this pregnancy. You see, I’ve been unbelievably sick this time around. And the nausea and persistent vomiting has left me horribly depressed. And since I had to stop running, my depression worsened. Running cheers me up. And I can’t do it. I tried for the first two months, but it became too difficult. So, I stopped.

I’ve been feeling very confused about this pregnancy. Being this sick all the time has made me miserable. And because I’ve been so sick, it’s been difficult for me to experience joy, which is insane and makes me very angry with myself. How can I be anything less than ecstatic given everything I went through in the past? Anyway, I’m hoping that some of this is hormonal and will soon pass. Either way, Michele from 2009 would feel a great deal of anger toward this Michele. (And this Michele probably deserves that.)

Given how sick I’ve been, and the fact that Toby works a lot, I haven’t been able to take very good care of our kids. And things were getting worse instead of better. So, about six weeks ago, we decided that I should take the boys and stay with my parents for a while—just until this unrelenting nausea lets up. Thankfully, I have a wonderful family who has been simply amazing. Not sure where we’d be without them.

So, we’re having a baby! And I found out just last week via CVS it’s a little boy. And the last several days I have experienced some much needed calmer waters. The nausea let up a bit. For the first time in 12 weeks, I have felt closer to normal. The excess saliva, the incessant nausea and the metallic taste in my mouth let up a bit and I saw joy again. I saw myself again. And then it finally occurred to me: HOLY SHIT! WE ARE HAVING A BABY!

I’m not dying. I’m not diseased. I an not fat and useless. (Well, I feel that way. All that weight I lost? It’s back. But, I’ll lose it again. I have to.) I will run again. I am NOT going to feel this way forever. Thank goodness.

Things have been better the last couple of days.

On top of welcoming a new human creature into our lives, we’re also leaving Brooklyn. After 14 years (minus the two spent in DC and San Francisco) we are leaving. We need a larger home. We simply can’t afford to stay in Brooklyn. We’ve outgrown our 900 square foot apartment. And Em is six. Moving will become increasingly more difficult for him as he gets older. (I know this firsthand.) But as sad as it makes me to leave Brooklyn, it’s time.

We close on our new (and first!) home in Maplewood, New Jersey next week.

We will have a yard. And FOUR bedrooms.

Lastly, I need to thank many of you. A few weeks ago, I hit an all-time low. I was coming off a two-day bender throwing up and spitting into a bucket full of tissues. I was exhausted and I felt like a failure as a mother. It was bad—really, really bad. I was alone at the time and I took it to Twitter. And so many of you reached out to me that day. And it helped. So, thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Thank you for reaching out to me.

(Thank you: Heather H., Sarah B., Dianne, Lessa, Sara S., Neil, Isabel, Sarah, Amanda, Nicole, Anne, Natalie… and I’m sure I’m forgetting someone here. But thank you too.)

So, Internet. We are having a baby! Our third baby boy. And I’m terrified. Excited! But also terrified. Three kids? I’m not even sure I knew what I was doing with two. :] Anyway, I hope the second trimester will prove better for me, because the first one? It was a doozy.

Feel free to ask me questions. Feel free to tell me this will get easier, this nausea. Or tell me it won’t. And for those of you with three kids, lay it on me. What do I need to know going from two to three? How do I keep the middle child from becoming crazy?

(Lastly, for those of you reading this who are suffering from infertility and loss, I think about you every day. I know this doesn’t help. And I understand how difficult it is, but I want you to know how much I care and understand. And… well, words fail me. But I think about you and you’re not alone even when you feel that way.)

Maternity Clothing.

I’m using my blog for this because I feel weird about sending out a mass-email asking my New York friends if they are pregnant or thinking about getting pregnant. Seems entirely to presumptuous and rude. I know that when I was desperately trying to get pregnant, had someone written me out of the blue asking if I needed a bunch of maternity clothing, I probably would have just sobbed onto my computer keyboard. So, instead of doing that, I’ll write this passive post instead.

(Wow, longest caveat EVER!)

I have a box of pretty decent maternity clothing that needs a home. There is both summer stuff (shorts, a dress) and winter stuff. There are a few sweaters as well as a few dresses. I have some jeans as well. I also have a winter coat! So if you’re thinking of getting knocked up, say, right around June or July, you’ll totally need this coat come next winter.

Let me know if you’re pregnant or getting pregnant or know of someone who’s pregnant. I’d love to gift these to a local friend or a friend of a local friend. Send me an email if you know of anyone! (Yes, I’d like to stay local. I don’t really feel like dragging this box to the Greenpoint post office to ship out.)

The Silence of the Boobs.

Forgive me for any grammar/spelling errors in advance. I’m writing this quickly as I am paying a woman decent money to come over, look at my boobs and help me figure out how to make them feel better. How I will get through this awkward meeting without booze? No clue. But getting drunk and working on one’s latch in order to feed a newborn doesn’t seem like such a great idea. So, I’m going to sit through this meeting sober.

This post may include information that will gross out the childless and/or those who are (for some stupid reason) freaked out about the idea that a boob is sometimes used to feed someone. So: stop reading right now if you’re not interested.

I’m trying to breastfeed again. And this time the little booger is super interested. He latched on immediately. We were breastfeeding within an hour of his birth. I was floored, excited. Yeah, things were good.

And we continued this way for the two days we were in the hospital. I fed him literally around the clock. I have what they referred to as a “cluster feeder” or something like that. He feeds every half hour, sometimes more, all night long. We got little sleep but I didn’t care.

He lost weight but nothing too bad. He was peeing a lot. The nurses were pleased. Things seemed fine. And they were. Mostly.

By day three he’d lost 10% of his bodyweight. He was also jaundiced, dehydrated, and just really fucking hungry. His pediatrician said, Enough already! Start feeding him from the breast and then give him 2 ounces (or more) of pumped milk or formula. We took him home and immediately gave him a bottle of formula. He ate up that bottle so damned fast, it was kinda sad. He was a new baby—active, awake, happy.

The problem is, again, my breasts just don’t produce enough milk to sustain this child. Em was the same way. I pumped with Em exclusively because we never got a latch down. I tried. It just didn’t work. So I pumped. I wasn’t ever able to sustain him this way alone. I always supplemented. He was happy.

This time the kid is interested, but he’s just not getting enough. Not yet.

But here’s why I’m hiring someone: it’s not because I don’t have enough milk. I’m OK with giving him what I can and then supplementing whatever I need. This time it’s because I must have gotten the latch wrong. Because the pain I’m experiencing is some of the worst pain I’ve ever felt. I won’t go into too many glorious and therefore disgusting details, but my nipples are absolutely falling apart. A piece of cotton—shit! AIR hurts them. And they are so beat up and scabbed over, milk can no longer get out. So the milk I do have in there is actually stuck.

My boobs are screaming. Someone needs to make the boobs stop screaming.

I have read that it’s not supposed to hurt THIS bad, so I hired someone to show me what I’m doing wrong. And I’m hoping for the best. I would like to make this work to some degree. If it doesn’t, I won’t beat myself up again like last time. I refuse to. But I’d like to make it work.

I know. Many of you are probably thoroughly grossed out. But I warned you to stop reading at the beginning. I guess what I’m saying is it’s your fault. :]

So, that’s where I am this time around regarding the whole boob thing. Any insight you might have is greatly appreciated. Hell, I’d love to hear about your battle wounds because misery DOES love company. And my boobs are miserable.

It rubs the Lanolin on the skin…

(Yeah, this joke is getting old, am I right?)

OK! I’m off. I need to mentally prepare myself for this very awkward meeting.

Brothers.

Introducing Emory to a new sibling has been both amazing and a little difficult. (Granted, some of that might be my hormones talking.) I’ll write more about that transition soon. But for now I want to share this shot.

The moment Em walked into the visiting room he said, “Where’s my baby brother?” And he asked to hold him. So we let him.

More soon! I’m facing some baby blues right now but nothing I can’t handle so far. More about that, too. For now, things are pretty OK. Thanks for the kind words, comments, emails and calls. Y’all mean a lot to me.

41 Weeks. Update: Still Pregnant!

I had my 41-week appointment on Tuesday. I’m still pregnant. I’m 2.5 centimeters dilated. Nothing much else has changed. My doctor went ahead and stripped the membrane again. I requested it, even though I am sick with a terrible cold. And while the idea of going into labor and having to push with snot flying out of my face makes me kinda wanna die, I am ready to be done with this.

My brother and I went out for lunch directly following the appointment and I had some pretty intense contractions. But once we started walking back to the subway, they stopped entirely.

Speaking of the subway and other public places, I keep finding myself having the same conversation with strangers.

“When are you due?”

“Last week.”

At that point they usually let out the type of laugh accompanied by a gentle punch to the shoulder. You know, an, “Aww shucks! I bet!” type of laugh.

It’s like when you ask your boss when they need the project and they say, “Yesterday!” and you laugh because you totally get it. It’s of the utmost urgency! They need that project done, like, YESTERDAY.

Like that.

And then the stranger says something like, “Oh, yeah. It gets really hard at the end. You just want it to be over already. Soon. Soon!”

No, really. LAST WEEK. I think to myself. But I’m too tired to explain that this project was actually due last week and this kid ain’t paying a lick of attention to his boss.

CUJO: YOU’RE FIRED.

Yesterday, the conversation changed a bit. Em and I were at the indoor playroom and the woman behind the counter asked me when I was due.

“Last week.” I said.

She actually gasped as did young man sitting beside her.

“You are joking!” She yelled this. “But… but you look so happy! Why do you look so happy?”

“Because I’m drunk.”

Dead silence.

I had a non-stress test on Monday morning. The baby is totally fine, as is my blood pressure. The right amount of amnionic fluid surrounds him. All is well within the womb. That’s probably why he’s in no hurry. I have another non-stress test tomorrow morning. Here is a picture I took while hooked up to the monitors.

I swear I’m not voguing. My left hand just didn’t know where to go. I’ve been suffering from that a lot lately—what does one do with their extremities?

“Yeah, but you gotta put the other arm somewhere. You can either lay on it or shove it between your bodies. The only other option is to stretch it above your head. But sometimes my arm pops out of socket when I’m sleeping like that. So I was constantly searching for someplace to keep my arm…” –Brody

The annoying part about the non-stress test is the nurse kept coming in and pointing out all the useless contractions I was having. She was excited. I was not. I’ve been having useless contractions for weeks and weeks. Practice contractions! Dress rehearsal! I know one name this kid won’t be given: Braxton. Braxton = non-commital pussy—a useless piece of shit.

(Y’all do know I’m joking, right? I am not really THAT angry. And to anyone named Braxton: I am kidding. You are not a useless piece of shit but you might be a non-commital pussy.)

I don’t know what to say. I’m in holding pattern, purgatory. I’m a host. I don’t even feel like I really exist right now. I’m just waiting. I can’t do much. I can’t go far from home. I’m a zombie. But I do have a cool cat.

This is how I spend most of my days and nights.

I have a creature taking comfort on the inside; I have a creature taking comfort on the outside. I’m a host, a giant, fat zombie host.

Mornings are most difficult because they punctuate a most restless sleep. Everything seems pointless come morning, which is strange for me because I have always been a morning person. I love morning. Not right now.

At this point, induction is looking more and more appealing to me. I’m exhausted. And my exhaustion leads to tears and tears lead to more mucous and snot and congestion and I’m sick of all this snot.

Something has got to give, like, yesterday.

40 Weeks! NO BABY. But We Do Have a Crib!

I had my 40-week appointment on Monday. My stubborn cervix hasn’t budged.

“You’re a tight 2 centimeters.”

“That’s a polite way of saying I’m still 1.5 centimeters, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Great. So, what can I do?:

So she “stripped the membrane” which is really just code for OMFG OUCH! She did this twice because the first time I instinctually backed away from her. You see, I didn’t want to kick her in the head. I really like my doctor and I was about to kick her in the head. So I backed away like a fat slug exposed to salt.

Y’all, that exam hurts. I know it’s not as painful as childbirth, but it hurts. Anyway, she went in for a second time because I asked her to. And I planted my hands at the end of the table near my ankles so I couldn’t move. The exam can, and often does, put a woman into labor. And while I did have contractions that night every hour from 1 AM until about 7:30 AM (among other stuff I won’t mention but other ladies probably know about), I didn’t go into labor. The contractions stopped first thing in the morning.

I’m still very pregnant and nothing is changing. Although, my hips ache more and more every day and my pelvis becomes more and more bruised. This kid is comfy, just like his brother was.

The good news is, my blood pressure is holding steady. That’s what forced me to be induced the first time around, a sudden spike in blood pressure. That’s not been the case this time. The baby is fine. I am fine, relatively speaking. So, I just wait. And I think I’m fine with that. I vowed to NOT be induced this time around and I’d like to stick to that plan. I want to go into labor this time. I want to let my body do its thing to some degree and then I’ll ask for the drugs and the epidural. :]

Culinary Leave

I am officially on leave from culinary school. This was a VERY difficult decision for me. But I realized that while I can still physically go, I am not getting what I should be getting out of it anymore. Couple the exhaustion with the shrinking brain and I felt like I was doing myself (as well as my teammates) a disservice when it comes to retaining any of the information. (Yeah, y’all. A pregnant woman’s brain actually shrinks during the 3rd trimester. And it doesn’t get back to normal for many months postpartum.)

So, I’m on leave for three months.

And my brain is smaller.

Huh? Whut?

The Crib!

We got a bassinet! Finally. It’s kind of a cross between a crib and a bassinet actually. But first I need to state that this post is NOT sponsored. I am not getting paid to write this. I genuinely think this crib is awesome. And I paid for it in lollipop sales.

Now that the caveat is out of the way, check this out. It’s called Alma Urban Crib. It even folds up for storage. It’s perfect for small apartments, and we have a small apartment. Check out how it folds up. Awesome, right?

This crib is the greatest thing ever.  It ran us more than we wanted to pay, but it will definitely fit our lifestyle the best. We have a very small master bedroom and I want to keep Cujo next to me for the first few months. I’m going to try and breastfeed again, so I figured the closer to me the better. Also: I don’t want him to wake up Em. We figured keeping him with us would be best.

Here it is all set up.

I set it up yesterday hoping that maybe the easy workout would send me into labor. No such luck. Not even a contraction.

Here’s how it fits within our room.

We’re really happy with it. We’re hoping our son is too, you know, whenever he decides to join us.

Oh, and if any of my NY friends are reading this and need a crib in about 6 months, let me know. We will gladly gift it to you.

The Mom Dates.

Remember the mom dates I wrote about? I wrote a post about how my therapist suggested I find an in-person support network? Things are going smashingly well there. I have quadrupled my mom friends. I am so stoked about this. I have worked my ass off to put my insecurities aside and just be more open to things and people. And it’s paid off. I’m really looking forward to these new relationships. I can’t even begin to tell you how proud I am of myself. I’m really grateful for these new women in my life.

The Weight Gain.

Y’all, I really could use my body back. I won’t lie. It’s getting really hard to get around. And I will never, ever let myself get this heavy ever again. It’s misery. As soon as I am physically able, I’m going for a jog. I’ve been dreaming about running for months now. I miss it so much. I miss being able to sleep on my stomach. And I miss being able to see my vagina.

I guess that’s it for now. If you want up-to-the-minute updates on laboring and whatnot, I highly suggest following me on Twitter. This is where we’ll likely be posting once things get going. Here’s TobyJoe’s Twitter account as well.

I love Twitter.