Monday, November 16, 2009
Induction Day
I’m trying to relax and just enjoy the day before my 7pm hospital check-in time, but there’s a dude power-washing our deck and sidewalk, as per our September request so that nobody would slip and fall on the moss and algae this season, especially while carrying the baby. It’s nice that one more thing is getting checked off the list, but damn is that noise irritating. At this rate, the hospital will actually seem relaxing. As will that blessed epidural.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Friday the Thirteenth
One week overdue. One day past the “most likely to give birth sometime in this range” window articulated by my obstetrician weeks ago.
I myself was born five days late—as my mom keeps reminding me—so it feels semi-fair in a cosmic sense that my baby would be five days late. But six?! And, at the rate this day is passing by with nary a uterine twinge, it will soon be seven. Seven! Days! Late! At least!
My mom was supposed to come for a five-day visit tomorrow, but when I told her there might not be a baby by the time her return flight left on Tuesday morning she said, “Well, I certainly don’t want to do that,” thereby shattering my illusion that while she was coming in part to meet the baby, she was mostly coming to entertain me and make me soup.
Apparently once this baby arrives I’m going to have to make my own damn soup.
I myself was born five days late—as my mom keeps reminding me—so it feels semi-fair in a cosmic sense that my baby would be five days late. But six?! And, at the rate this day is passing by with nary a uterine twinge, it will soon be seven. Seven! Days! Late! At least!
My mom was supposed to come for a five-day visit tomorrow, but when I told her there might not be a baby by the time her return flight left on Tuesday morning she said, “Well, I certainly don’t want to do that,” thereby shattering my illusion that while she was coming in part to meet the baby, she was mostly coming to entertain me and make me soup.
Apparently once this baby arrives I’m going to have to make my own damn soup.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
When Life Imitates TV
Dr. Husband and I finally got around to watching the Happiest Baby on the Block video, at the urging of every person with children we’ve ever met. Which leads me to wonder, if every parent in America is following Dr. Karp’s famed baby-calming techniques, then every baby in America is the happiest baby on their block, and how is that possible? I mean, statistically speaking?
We’d been putting off watching partly because the prospect of watching a bunch babies scream seemed like a tedious—and overly foreshadowy—way to spend an evening and partly because I’d read on the back of the box that the DVD was 128 minutes long. Two hours of screaming babies getting swaddled and shushed and held on their side and swung and given pacifiers to suck on? Thankfully it was some kind of typo—or maybe there are some really long bonus features on the DVD or something because the main feature was more like 28 minutes long—long enough to make us feel like we have a fighting chance at successful swaddling and not so long that we were driven to drink. (Well, at least not more than a few sips.)
As regards the swaddling, Dr. Husband said, “They really do become burritos, don’t they?”
Yes, they do. So much so that when I was standing in line today at a Mexican fast-food chain watching the employees make other peoples’ lunches as I waited to order mine, I kept thinking, “Wow, those burritos are like little swaddled babies, aren’t they?”
We’d been putting off watching partly because the prospect of watching a bunch babies scream seemed like a tedious—and overly foreshadowy—way to spend an evening and partly because I’d read on the back of the box that the DVD was 128 minutes long. Two hours of screaming babies getting swaddled and shushed and held on their side and swung and given pacifiers to suck on? Thankfully it was some kind of typo—or maybe there are some really long bonus features on the DVD or something because the main feature was more like 28 minutes long—long enough to make us feel like we have a fighting chance at successful swaddling and not so long that we were driven to drink. (Well, at least not more than a few sips.)
As regards the swaddling, Dr. Husband said, “They really do become burritos, don’t they?”
Yes, they do. So much so that when I was standing in line today at a Mexican fast-food chain watching the employees make other peoples’ lunches as I waited to order mine, I kept thinking, “Wow, those burritos are like little swaddled babies, aren’t they?”
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Talk to the Cervix
So the baby scooted down another centimeter in the past week, which is all lovely and good, progress-wise (it’s less lovely and good bladder-wise and varicose-vein-wise), but since I’m not at all dilated or effaced or any of those other labor-related delights, the baby has nowhere to go. Apparently my cervix needs to “ripen,” which makes me think I need to put it in a paper lunch sack with a banana to speed up the process.
I worried out loud that maybe my cervix is, as the books say, “incompetent”—a phrase I remembered only for its supreme offensiveness, not so much for its meaning.
“Uh, that means that your cervix can’t hold the baby in,” Dr. Husband explained. “Not that it’s holding the baby in too well.”
My cervix, it would seem, is hyper-competent.
I told Dr. Husband that we need to stop harassing the baby to come out because the wee one is doing its part. “If you have any requests or complaints,” I told him, “address them to the cervix.”
Dr. Husband protested that talking to my cervix is not nearly as much fun as talking to the baby, but I was all, “How do you know? Have you ever talked to a cervix before?”
Happily, the answer to that was No.
I worried out loud that maybe my cervix is, as the books say, “incompetent”—a phrase I remembered only for its supreme offensiveness, not so much for its meaning.
“Uh, that means that your cervix can’t hold the baby in,” Dr. Husband explained. “Not that it’s holding the baby in too well.”
My cervix, it would seem, is hyper-competent.
I told Dr. Husband that we need to stop harassing the baby to come out because the wee one is doing its part. “If you have any requests or complaints,” I told him, “address them to the cervix.”
Dr. Husband protested that talking to my cervix is not nearly as much fun as talking to the baby, but I was all, “How do you know? Have you ever talked to a cervix before?”
Happily, the answer to that was No.
Monday, November 09, 2009
Deadlines, Revisited
Okay, Baby No-Name. You have a deadline now: 7pm, Tuesday, November 16th. If you aren’t out by then, they'll give me some drugs to start getting you out. A week ago this date seemed impossibly far away, but now it's a huge relief to know the pregnancy won't be infinite.
If you’re at all like your dad or me, having this deadline will be very motivating—maybe downright inspiring.
And, just so you know, your dad and I often finish things early... and it would be okay with us both if you did, too.
If you’re at all like your dad or me, having this deadline will be very motivating—maybe downright inspiring.
And, just so you know, your dad and I often finish things early... and it would be okay with us both if you did, too.
Oh. My. God.
Well… my due date has come and gone, and here I am: still pregnant. Dr. Husband did his best to keep my spirits up throughout the weekend—cooking me lots of meals, taking me out to a movie, joining me on walks, bringing me flowers from the grocery store—but none of this did much to lessen my crankiness.Like so many aspects of pregnancy, this last, insomnia-laden, too-huge-to-move stage was so oppressive at first that all I could think was, “I’m not going to make it.” This was my thought when I was massively nauseous and barfing all the time and when my indigestion kicked in in earnest and when I got varicose veins in intimate places and when I injured my knees falling on the gravel driveway and when it became clear I’d never be able to wear an attractive bra again.
But somehow, against all odds, I did make it through the nausea and the barfing and am still making it through the indigestion, the varicose veins, the knee injury, and the unattractive bra-wearing—and chances are I’ll make it though this last stage, too—I just wish with every sore, achy, tired muscle in my body that this stage would end already. Because a life spent lounging about in yoga pants, propped up by pillows on the couch, more or less immobile is not the life for me. At the very least I’d like to be wearing jeans.
Friday, November 06, 2009
Seattle Nice
It’s no secret that Seattleites are, as a whole, a passive-aggressive people. We give panhandlers money and then get offended if they don’t smile or say “Thank you.” Or, if we’re a panhandler, we carry a sign that says, “What if I starved tomorrow—would you care?” We are too wary of conflict to confront people directly but too petty and self-righteous to just let stuff go—which leads to the leaving of lots of notes, mostly under peoples’ windshield wipers, often sealed in a Ziploc baggy to protect the seethingly polite contents from the rain.
I have received windshield notes from neighbors asking me not to park on the strip of public street in front of their house, notes from fellow drivers asking me not to parallel park my “fancy German car” so close to theirs, and notes from garbage collectors asking me not to park my own car on my own street on trash day. As a joke, I once left a note on a friend’s car when I saw that she’d parked behind me, exhorting her to check the city statutes on the minimum distance allowable between two parked cars. To make it totally over the top I included a legend indicating the length of one inch [__________] for her reference. She had no idea it was a prank until I confessed, so similar was my note to ones she’d received in the past.
The approach is annoying and lame—and a hell of a lot easier than actually talking to people directly about something that’s bothering you. And so it was that I came to park in the truck of the construction dude who’s been working on the next-door neighbor’s house since mid-summer. For months now the dude and his helpers have been leaving their trucks in the alley, thereby parking in me and Dr. Husband. When we want to leave the house via automobile, we have to go next door and coax someone down off a ladder or off the roof to come move the truck out of our way. This is obviously exasperating, but we’ve tried to be patient. We’ve tried to be reasonable. We’ve tried to be accommodating—and this, of course, is how passive-aggressive behavior is born. Did we flat out tell them not to park us in? Did we talk to the owners of the house and ask them to ask their workers to park on the street instead of the alley?
Um. No. Each time the workers moved the truck and apologized for blocking us in, we would say something along the lines of, “That’s okay.”
Until today.
I’d been out doing errands and when I returned discovered the truck blocking the path to our garage. It was raining out. I had two bags of groceries in tow. I’m 39-weeks-and-six-days pregnant.
I very quietly snapped and decided to just park them in. Fuck it. If they wanted to leave, they knew where to find me.
Sure enough, an hour or so later the contractor knocked in the door, all hangdog and contrite. “I’m so sorry,” he said. I managed to keep myself from saying, “That’s okay,” and instead came up with, “It’s just that my due date is tomorrow—”
“And the last thing you need is the fucking contractor blocking you in!” the contractor finished for me.
“Well, yeah,” I agreed, not quite being able to make eye contact with him as I lumbered towards the car to move it for him.
“You’re pregnant! You get to say whatever you want!” he pointed out. “You should have told us to fuck off a while ago!”
“I’m working on it,” I muttered.
He repeated his apology and promised it wouldn’t happen again.
And that, my friends, is how it’s done here in Seattle.
I have received windshield notes from neighbors asking me not to park on the strip of public street in front of their house, notes from fellow drivers asking me not to parallel park my “fancy German car” so close to theirs, and notes from garbage collectors asking me not to park my own car on my own street on trash day. As a joke, I once left a note on a friend’s car when I saw that she’d parked behind me, exhorting her to check the city statutes on the minimum distance allowable between two parked cars. To make it totally over the top I included a legend indicating the length of one inch [__________] for her reference. She had no idea it was a prank until I confessed, so similar was my note to ones she’d received in the past.
The approach is annoying and lame—and a hell of a lot easier than actually talking to people directly about something that’s bothering you. And so it was that I came to park in the truck of the construction dude who’s been working on the next-door neighbor’s house since mid-summer. For months now the dude and his helpers have been leaving their trucks in the alley, thereby parking in me and Dr. Husband. When we want to leave the house via automobile, we have to go next door and coax someone down off a ladder or off the roof to come move the truck out of our way. This is obviously exasperating, but we’ve tried to be patient. We’ve tried to be reasonable. We’ve tried to be accommodating—and this, of course, is how passive-aggressive behavior is born. Did we flat out tell them not to park us in? Did we talk to the owners of the house and ask them to ask their workers to park on the street instead of the alley?
Um. No. Each time the workers moved the truck and apologized for blocking us in, we would say something along the lines of, “That’s okay.”
Until today.
I’d been out doing errands and when I returned discovered the truck blocking the path to our garage. It was raining out. I had two bags of groceries in tow. I’m 39-weeks-and-six-days pregnant.
I very quietly snapped and decided to just park them in. Fuck it. If they wanted to leave, they knew where to find me.
Sure enough, an hour or so later the contractor knocked in the door, all hangdog and contrite. “I’m so sorry,” he said. I managed to keep myself from saying, “That’s okay,” and instead came up with, “It’s just that my due date is tomorrow—”
“And the last thing you need is the fucking contractor blocking you in!” the contractor finished for me.
“Well, yeah,” I agreed, not quite being able to make eye contact with him as I lumbered towards the car to move it for him.
“You’re pregnant! You get to say whatever you want!” he pointed out. “You should have told us to fuck off a while ago!”
“I’m working on it,” I muttered.
He repeated his apology and promised it wouldn’t happen again.
And that, my friends, is how it’s done here in Seattle.
Thursday, November 05, 2009
Sew What?
What’s wrong with me? Every time I’ve set out recently to purchase any flat, textile-based item (i.e. table runners for the wedding or curtains for the baby’s room), I’ve come home not with the item in question but with a vast swath of fabric and a nagging feeling of resentment towards myself. Because, the thing is, I don’t like sewing. I like things to be pretty, and I like things to be homemade, and I like making things, and I like having made something, and I like being surrounded by things I’ve made. I also like fabrics and textures and colors and patterns and often get turned-on just by being in a fabric store—even a giant chain with dirty linoleum floors and harsh fluorescent lighting. You might think that all this, combined with the fact that I’ve been sewing various projects since I was in junior high would add up to “this woman likes to sew”—but you would be wrong. Very, very wrong.
I hate to sew.
I also hate to knit and, to a large extent, I hate stringing tiny beads onto wire, even though I’ve made most of my own jewelry and a significant number of wooly scarves.
Something about these endeavors leave me feeling like Beth March in Little Women—cooped up and sickly and destined to die a virgin.
So why is it that I, 39-weeks-and-five-and-a-half days pregnant woman, came home from Ikea this afternoon not with a pair of curtains for the guest bedroom but with a piece of fabric—a piece of fabric that will require washing and ironing and cutting and measuring and more ironing and sewing and, gah, my head hurts just thinking about it.
One answer—the one I gave my husband—is that the curtain options were all ugly and not as inexpensive as I’d hoped and would have required hemming anyway whereas the fabrics were interesting and vibrant and downright hip—not to mention less than ten dollars.
But the real answer, clearly, is that I’m a masochist. And a slave to aesthetics. I’m all, I’ll be damned if the tables at our wedding reception are decorated with shiny, tasseled crap made in China. And, For the love of all that is holy, I will not purchase one more pale green or yellow item for my gender-not-yet-determined baby’s room. And today, Oooh! Lookit that pretty, pretty fabric! Must have!
So I’m sitting here hoping I’ll go into labor right now not just because I’m tired of not being able to properly digest food or walk up the stairs without getting lightheaded or see my own private bits without the assistance of a mirror but because going into labor right now would be just the excuse I need to not have to sew those motherfucking curtains.
I hate to sew.
I also hate to knit and, to a large extent, I hate stringing tiny beads onto wire, even though I’ve made most of my own jewelry and a significant number of wooly scarves.
Something about these endeavors leave me feeling like Beth March in Little Women—cooped up and sickly and destined to die a virgin.
So why is it that I, 39-weeks-and-five-and-a-half days pregnant woman, came home from Ikea this afternoon not with a pair of curtains for the guest bedroom but with a piece of fabric—a piece of fabric that will require washing and ironing and cutting and measuring and more ironing and sewing and, gah, my head hurts just thinking about it.
One answer—the one I gave my husband—is that the curtain options were all ugly and not as inexpensive as I’d hoped and would have required hemming anyway whereas the fabrics were interesting and vibrant and downright hip—not to mention less than ten dollars.
But the real answer, clearly, is that I’m a masochist. And a slave to aesthetics. I’m all, I’ll be damned if the tables at our wedding reception are decorated with shiny, tasseled crap made in China. And, For the love of all that is holy, I will not purchase one more pale green or yellow item for my gender-not-yet-determined baby’s room. And today, Oooh! Lookit that pretty, pretty fabric! Must have!
So I’m sitting here hoping I’ll go into labor right now not just because I’m tired of not being able to properly digest food or walk up the stairs without getting lightheaded or see my own private bits without the assistance of a mirror but because going into labor right now would be just the excuse I need to not have to sew those motherfucking curtains.
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
Patience, Grasshopper
I called my mom yesterday after my trip to the obstetrician, but she wasn’t home. My dad was. Now, I love my dad, but when it comes to whining about pregnancy, my mom is a far better audience. However, my dad is too eager to try to connect to let me off with a simple, “I’ll have your mom call you when she gets home.” No, he likes to keep me on the line for long stretches of time asking things like, “So, after this last doctor’s appointment, do we know anything more about the baby?”
I struggled to come up with whatever tiny bits of grandfather-appropriate information I’d gleaned from my most recent five minutes with the OB. “Well, it’s still positioned head-down, which is g—” Then it hit me. My dad was asking yet again whether the baby is a boy or girl! Thirty-nine weeks and two days in, and he still can’t just wait until I deliver!
I know how he feels. Beyond the challenges of finding gender-neutral nursery décor and clothing—particularly newborn socks, about which there is apparently a law that dictates they can only can be manufactured in pink or blue—and coming up with twice as many name options (this morning Dr. Husband came up with Sergio, and I had to ask him to think a little harder about whether he was actually suggesting a name before he ran it by me)—beyond all that, I’m dying to know whether my future is more likely to be filled with tea parties and jewelry-making tutorials or trips to the garbage transfer station and the Washington Serpentarium.
But nine months of not knowing has been good practice at being mindful that knowing the sex of this kid won’t answer all our questions about who they are and what they’ll like as they grow up. Having a girl child won’t guarantee that all my old dollhouse furniture will be put to good use any more than having a boy will guarantee that it won’t, as I keep reminding Dr. Husband each time he intimates that one of the benefits of having a boy will be not having to move my beloved but unwieldy (and to Dr. Husband, somewhat creepy) dollhouse inside from the garage.
So, Dad, you have my sympathies, but you’ve waiting this long—I think you’ll make it another few days. Try to savor the thrill of not knowing, the deliciousness of anticipation.
And if you can’t do that, just try to distract yourself and have Mom call me when she gets home.
I struggled to come up with whatever tiny bits of grandfather-appropriate information I’d gleaned from my most recent five minutes with the OB. “Well, it’s still positioned head-down, which is g—” Then it hit me. My dad was asking yet again whether the baby is a boy or girl! Thirty-nine weeks and two days in, and he still can’t just wait until I deliver!
I know how he feels. Beyond the challenges of finding gender-neutral nursery décor and clothing—particularly newborn socks, about which there is apparently a law that dictates they can only can be manufactured in pink or blue—and coming up with twice as many name options (this morning Dr. Husband came up with Sergio, and I had to ask him to think a little harder about whether he was actually suggesting a name before he ran it by me)—beyond all that, I’m dying to know whether my future is more likely to be filled with tea parties and jewelry-making tutorials or trips to the garbage transfer station and the Washington Serpentarium.
But nine months of not knowing has been good practice at being mindful that knowing the sex of this kid won’t answer all our questions about who they are and what they’ll like as they grow up. Having a girl child won’t guarantee that all my old dollhouse furniture will be put to good use any more than having a boy will guarantee that it won’t, as I keep reminding Dr. Husband each time he intimates that one of the benefits of having a boy will be not having to move my beloved but unwieldy (and to Dr. Husband, somewhat creepy) dollhouse inside from the garage.
So, Dad, you have my sympathies, but you’ve waiting this long—I think you’ll make it another few days. Try to savor the thrill of not knowing, the deliciousness of anticipation.
And if you can’t do that, just try to distract yourself and have Mom call me when she gets home.
Monday, November 02, 2009
Deadlines
I just returned from the obstetrician who, upon walking into the exam room cheerfully announced, “Any time between now and November 17th!”
November 17th? Is she out of her fucking mind? I will have to be hospitalized for hysteria loooong before November 17th. Fifteen days from now? And where did she even come up with that number? Take your due date, add the age of your husband’s half brother, subtract the age of a child of a friend born in November and voila!?
Pregnant women absolutely, positively should not be given due dates. I’ll take a window—even a large, gaping, leaky, poorly insulated five-week-long window—any day over a date that everyone and their mother will inquire about even though I’ll have only a 5% chance of delivering on that date. Throughout my entire 20-year career as a student, I only asked for an extension on an assignment once. To me, a due date is a due date. If I haven’t had this baby by November 7th, it will feel late to me, even if statistics indicate I’m more likely to deliver after the 7th than before.
In fact, I’m so prepared for this particular assignment that I would like to turn it in early. I would like to stop fretting about the margins and spacing and alignment and the title and the contents and just be done already.
November 17th, my (slowly but surely widening) ass.
November 17th? Is she out of her fucking mind? I will have to be hospitalized for hysteria loooong before November 17th. Fifteen days from now? And where did she even come up with that number? Take your due date, add the age of your husband’s half brother, subtract the age of a child of a friend born in November and voila!?
Pregnant women absolutely, positively should not be given due dates. I’ll take a window—even a large, gaping, leaky, poorly insulated five-week-long window—any day over a date that everyone and their mother will inquire about even though I’ll have only a 5% chance of delivering on that date. Throughout my entire 20-year career as a student, I only asked for an extension on an assignment once. To me, a due date is a due date. If I haven’t had this baby by November 7th, it will feel late to me, even if statistics indicate I’m more likely to deliver after the 7th than before.
In fact, I’m so prepared for this particular assignment that I would like to turn it in early. I would like to stop fretting about the margins and spacing and alignment and the title and the contents and just be done already.
November 17th, my (slowly but surely widening) ass.
Sunday, November 01, 2009
Things They Don’t Tell You About Pregnancy #101,482
Your friends, colleagues, family, and neighbors will feel inexplicably free to say rude things about your body—things they would never say to you if you were, oh, fat rather than pregnant, and you’re not supposed to get upset or offended. In fact, it seems you are supposed to reassure them in some way. Some examples:
“Oh my god! Do you ever just feel fat?”
“Oh my god! You’re still pregnant? When I saw you two months ago I didn’t think you could get any bigger!”
“Oh my god! You look like you need to be popped!”
“You remind me of my mother these days.”*
And my favorite: “Oh my god! You’re enormous! Are you sure there’s only one in there? Not, like, a whole litter of puppies?”
*Said to me by my father—which is plenty trippy—not my husband—which would have been much worse, Freudian-wise.
“Oh my god! Do you ever just feel fat?”
“Oh my god! You’re still pregnant? When I saw you two months ago I didn’t think you could get any bigger!”
“Oh my god! You look like you need to be popped!”
“You remind me of my mother these days.”*
And my favorite: “Oh my god! You’re enormous! Are you sure there’s only one in there? Not, like, a whole litter of puppies?”
*Said to me by my father—which is plenty trippy—not my husband—which would have been much worse, Freudian-wise.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
More Public Assistance
After waiting semi-patiently for six months, trying to stay calm as I read every New York Times article about the dangers of swine flu in pregnant women, I got vaccinated today—a week before my due date. When Dr. Husband and I arrived in the little town of Snohomish at 8am, an hour before the clinic opened, we were maybe 150th in line. Everyone was in good spirits, in part because it wasn’t raining, in part because it feels really good to cross something off your to-do list that’s been languishing there for half a year, and in part because we were 150th in line, not 3,000th. The woman in line in front of us who was holding a spot for her 3 and 4 year-olds offered me her portable chair and didn’t shun us when I confessed we’d snuck in from Seattle. It was like a little taste of Iowa right here in chilly, grey Western Washington.
The event was the most well-organized government-sponsored activity I’ve ever witnessed. “Hey, is that guy handing out barbecue?” I asked, only slightly surprised when I saw a man in a black t-shirt with a pig’s face on the front working the line.
It turns out he was part of the Swine Flu Brigade handing out consent forms—not an employee of the BBQ Shack down the street handing out snacks—but still, no other county in the state has gotten swine flu vaccine to the public, and this place had their shit so together they’d made matching t-shirts!
When the man in the pig shirt came to our section of the line, someone asked whether there was a charge for the vaccine. The questioner was assured that the vaccine was free, whereupon the man behind me deadpanned, “That sounds like Socialism. I insist on paying someone.”
The scene had an air of festivity, from the take-a-number carnival tickets they handed out to the huge box of cheapo toy prizes for the kids. Often when someone’s number was called, they would cry out “Bingo!” and the whole crowd would chuckle. Every single time.
It was American Socialism at its very best.
The event was the most well-organized government-sponsored activity I’ve ever witnessed. “Hey, is that guy handing out barbecue?” I asked, only slightly surprised when I saw a man in a black t-shirt with a pig’s face on the front working the line.
It turns out he was part of the Swine Flu Brigade handing out consent forms—not an employee of the BBQ Shack down the street handing out snacks—but still, no other county in the state has gotten swine flu vaccine to the public, and this place had their shit so together they’d made matching t-shirts!
When the man in the pig shirt came to our section of the line, someone asked whether there was a charge for the vaccine. The questioner was assured that the vaccine was free, whereupon the man behind me deadpanned, “That sounds like Socialism. I insist on paying someone.”
The scene had an air of festivity, from the take-a-number carnival tickets they handed out to the huge box of cheapo toy prizes for the kids. Often when someone’s number was called, they would cry out “Bingo!” and the whole crowd would chuckle. Every single time.
It was American Socialism at its very best.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Public Assistance
I finally got around to canceling my state-sponsored health insurance with the Department of Social and Health Services, sending in a form letting them know that I’m married now and no longer qualify for their assistance.
A nice lady from home office called me to make sure I know that just because I’m married doesn’t mean I get kicked off their program—even if I live in a fancy neighborhood in a house with three porches. “You could win the lottery and you’d still be covered,” she assured me.
“Um. Interesting.” I replied. “I just don’t think I’d feel right staying on when I have insurance from my husband’s work.” And when our yearly income is in the 6 figures.
After verifying that, yes, the baby will also be covered by Dr. Husband’s job, the nice lady said, half-cheerfully, half-forebodingly, “Well, if anything in your situation changes, just let us know and we can get you back on.”
It’s nice to feel so loved by the state, but it does beg a few questions about the American health care system's finances.
A nice lady from home office called me to make sure I know that just because I’m married doesn’t mean I get kicked off their program—even if I live in a fancy neighborhood in a house with three porches. “You could win the lottery and you’d still be covered,” she assured me.
“Um. Interesting.” I replied. “I just don’t think I’d feel right staying on when I have insurance from my husband’s work.” And when our yearly income is in the 6 figures.
After verifying that, yes, the baby will also be covered by Dr. Husband’s job, the nice lady said, half-cheerfully, half-forebodingly, “Well, if anything in your situation changes, just let us know and we can get you back on.”
It’s nice to feel so loved by the state, but it does beg a few questions about the American health care system's finances.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Rural American Values
Even though I’m not on any kind of enforced bedrest, I’m finding myself spending a lot of time in a semi-reclined position on the couch. Reading, writing, napping, and watching Grey’s Anatomy (I close my eyes during the gross surgical parts) are the only activities I can sustain for longer than a half hour these days. I’m a little bored and cabin-feverish, but every time I venture out into the world for too long, my head starts to spin and my knees sort of buckle, and all I want to do is hurry home to read or write or nap or watch Grey’s Anatomy on the couch.
At the moment I’m reading Rhoda Janzen’s Mennonite in a Little Black Dress, the memoir of a 43 year-old woman who returns to the land of the Mennonites (i.e. her parents’ house) after she has a hysterectomy, gets in a really bad car accident, and her husband leaves her for a man he met on Gay.com. It’s completely hilarious and has me reminiscing about the many Mennonite moments of my own childhood, what with that Mennonite minister’s daughter best friend of mine. I’d forgotten how glorious the dichotomies are… The girl with the tightly braided hair and hand-sewn blouse and calf-length skirt showing off her enviable-sized Smurf collection. The mom with the sensible sandals and daily homemade cookie-making habit ensuring the permanency of the household stash of high-quality candy bars, never once running out of Snickers or Milky Ways.
The Mennonites of my youth were pretty progressive—for Mennonites. No bun-covers or outright bans on dancing or secular music. My best friend’s dad was not so much scornful as curious about a record I’d brought over one junior high day—an album that featured a stubbly shirtless man in a black leather jacket and large cross earring with the title Faith. I frantically grabbed it out of his hands before he could read that the roster of songs included one called, “I Want Your Sex.”
Our family hairdresser—a recommendation from the Mennonite best friend—even did the hair for a movie cast once. Granted, it was a movie about Amish people, but still, it was a pretty worldly endeavor, and the hairdresser herself is sufficiently worldly that she suggested yesterday to my mom that one way to go about getting a swine flu shot (something my mom has been worrying about for many months on my behalf) is to find a neighboring county—a rural one without any giant hospitals full of vaccine-hogging medical personnel—and get one there.
Mennonite or not, hairdressers know their shit!
And because the idea came from a Mennonite, I feel confident that I won’t burn in hell for crossing county lines to get a vaccine this weekend. I’m sure the good people of rural Washington would not want me or my offspring to die of something named after pigs. Even if I once encouraged a young Mennonite girl to partake of the music of George Michael.
At the moment I’m reading Rhoda Janzen’s Mennonite in a Little Black Dress, the memoir of a 43 year-old woman who returns to the land of the Mennonites (i.e. her parents’ house) after she has a hysterectomy, gets in a really bad car accident, and her husband leaves her for a man he met on Gay.com. It’s completely hilarious and has me reminiscing about the many Mennonite moments of my own childhood, what with that Mennonite minister’s daughter best friend of mine. I’d forgotten how glorious the dichotomies are… The girl with the tightly braided hair and hand-sewn blouse and calf-length skirt showing off her enviable-sized Smurf collection. The mom with the sensible sandals and daily homemade cookie-making habit ensuring the permanency of the household stash of high-quality candy bars, never once running out of Snickers or Milky Ways.
The Mennonites of my youth were pretty progressive—for Mennonites. No bun-covers or outright bans on dancing or secular music. My best friend’s dad was not so much scornful as curious about a record I’d brought over one junior high day—an album that featured a stubbly shirtless man in a black leather jacket and large cross earring with the title Faith. I frantically grabbed it out of his hands before he could read that the roster of songs included one called, “I Want Your Sex.”
Our family hairdresser—a recommendation from the Mennonite best friend—even did the hair for a movie cast once. Granted, it was a movie about Amish people, but still, it was a pretty worldly endeavor, and the hairdresser herself is sufficiently worldly that she suggested yesterday to my mom that one way to go about getting a swine flu shot (something my mom has been worrying about for many months on my behalf) is to find a neighboring county—a rural one without any giant hospitals full of vaccine-hogging medical personnel—and get one there.
Mennonite or not, hairdressers know their shit!
And because the idea came from a Mennonite, I feel confident that I won’t burn in hell for crossing county lines to get a vaccine this weekend. I’m sure the good people of rural Washington would not want me or my offspring to die of something named after pigs. Even if I once encouraged a young Mennonite girl to partake of the music of George Michael.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
A Toehold on Sanity
You’d think that one of the perks of having a doctor for a partner would be that when bad, gross, or alarming things happen to your body, you have someone right there to check things out without having to bother with making an appointment with your Internist or G.P. or whomever. The problem is, not all of us want our partner looking at our various grody bits, even if they are a trained medical professional who claims they will not think any less of us or find us any less sexy just because, oh, say, our toenail fell off.
Seriously? I’m nine months pregnant and my body thinks that now would be a good time to remove the protective covering from one of my toes? Why? Why now? I had long ago come to a détente with the fungus that’s been living in my big toenail for the past seven years. My doctor (who I was not romantically involved with) informed me when it first appeared that it wasn’t hurting anything and that these types of things are notoriously hard to get rid of, so the best thing to do would be just learn to live with it. So I did. And now it’s betrayed me. Stupid toenail.
Dr. Husband says that no doctor will be able to do anything to help sort out what’s left of my toe while I’m pregnant—so I can add it to my post-partum self-care to-do list: learn how to nurse, find nursing bras that fit once my milk comes in, make friends with my hemorrhoid pillow and stash of Preparation H, be on the lookout for post-partum depression, and have toenail situation cleaned up for proper—and hopefully fungus-free—healing. Lovely.
Seriously? I’m nine months pregnant and my body thinks that now would be a good time to remove the protective covering from one of my toes? Why? Why now? I had long ago come to a détente with the fungus that’s been living in my big toenail for the past seven years. My doctor (who I was not romantically involved with) informed me when it first appeared that it wasn’t hurting anything and that these types of things are notoriously hard to get rid of, so the best thing to do would be just learn to live with it. So I did. And now it’s betrayed me. Stupid toenail.
Dr. Husband says that no doctor will be able to do anything to help sort out what’s left of my toe while I’m pregnant—so I can add it to my post-partum self-care to-do list: learn how to nurse, find nursing bras that fit once my milk comes in, make friends with my hemorrhoid pillow and stash of Preparation H, be on the lookout for post-partum depression, and have toenail situation cleaned up for proper—and hopefully fungus-free—healing. Lovely.
When Kids Take the Backseat
We all carry images in our mind of the kind of parent we don’t want to become: the minivan-driving soccer mom in yoga pants and a designer hoodie popping a forehead vein as she screams at her kindergartener to show a little life out there! The distracted father who forgets his kid’s birthday and tries to make up for it by bringing home a kitten the next day, having also forgotten that his child is allergic to everything that sheds. For me it’s being one of those moms who rides in the backseat of the car with her kid while the dad drives around like a chauffer or like a single dad with two kids with a 34-year age span.
Growing up in my family, the front seat was decidedly for grown-ups and the backseat was for kids. This was not negotiated or argued or questioned, it just was. When we visited grandparents or they visited us and two adults sat in back with one kid while the other kid rode in the “front middle,” it was a special treat and the source of much giggling—particularly the time my dad scolded a backseat rider for making that horrible squeaking noise with their straw in the lid of their take-out cup, and the squeaker turned out to be my great-grandmother.
In my best friend’s family, the Mennonite minister dad and little brother rode in front while the mom, big sister, and I rode in back devising a plot to overthrow the patriarchy. Or maybe that was just me.
So it was with alternating waves of dismay and denial that I received the news, after 5 months of research, that the only way to fit an infant seat in my car would be to move the passenger seat all the way up until it practically touches the dashboard—leaving no room for a passenger—and put the car seat behind it. “It’s the only way,” insisted the National Child Passenger Safety Board-certified sales clerk at a nearby suburban children’s boutique where I’d gone in hopes of finding something more compact than the sprawlingly large American child restraints they hawk at big-box stores.
It’s not like my car is some teensy, sporty, child-unfriendly thing. It’s a VW station wagon, for christsake. Surely someone has found a way to transport their baby in a Jetta wagon without having to first become a Mennonite minister’s wife.
“Oh, you won’t be able to use the front passenger seat for a few years now, so you might as well get used to riding in the back while your husband drives. Or you could get a new car,” quipped the NCPSB lady.
She wasn’t kidding.
“Okay, thanks, sounds good, will do,” I muttered as I shooed her out of my car and headed back to Babies-backwards-R-Us to buy the car seat that had sort of fit in the middle, so long the handle was kept upright—which, according to the instructions one wasn’t supposed to do while driving—and so long as it’s okay for the car seat to rub heavily against the front seats—which, according to all safety information, it’s not.
I bought the sort-of-fitting seat, then went to Target to check out yet another brand of seat to see if it fit any better. Unfortunately, the seat from Target wasn’t sold individually. It was only sold as a package deal with a giant, unwieldy stroller that we have no use for, having already purchased a giant, unwieldy European (and therefore beautiful) stroller off Craigslist. I figured I could buy the car seat-stroller combo and test the seat out in the parking lot. If the seat fit I would return the whole combo right then and there, go home, and order the car seat solo off the internet.
So there I am, lugging a 127-pound travel system out to the parking lot, finagling the car seat out of its giant plastic baggie and away from its stroller friend without dropping either part onto the wet, muddy (it’s autumn in Seattle) pavement, and sticking it in the middle of the backseat to see whether it—Nope. Not a chance.
I wrestle the car seat back into its baggie, somehow reunite it with Mr. Stroller, which is still mostly inside the box, which is perched precariously on a shopping cart, which is rolling every which way, which no one is offering to help with (God, I miss Iowa)—and I wheel the whole thing to the customer service counter. I explain the situation, how I bought the thing not ten minutes ago, just wanted to see whether it would fit, but it doesn’t, blah, blah. The teenage customer servant looks at my receipt and immediately calls her supervisor over.
“I’m sorry,” the also-teenage supervisor says gravely. “Once the box has been opened, we can’t take these back.”
Let me take a moment here to say that throughout this entire pregnancy, I have been very well-behaved. I have not bored sandwich shop personnel with overly long explanations about the threat of listeria looming in lunchmeat or soft cheese. I have not regaled salesclerks or other people who aren’t my mother, husband, close friends, or readers with tales of my aches and pains and splotches, and I have never broken down into hysterical tears over some bureaucratic nightmare.
Until this day.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I wailed. “That was the whole point of buying this thing! If I’d known I never would have come here! That’s just totally, totally insane! I bought it five minutes ago!”
“I’m sorry, but the seal’s been broken. We can’t—”
“The seal?! The seal!? It’s packing tape! Get me some packing tape and I’ll fix it up so no one will ever know it’s been opened!”
“It’s our policy that once the seal has—”
“Oh. My. God. It’s. A. Stroller! Not a sterilized piece of medical equipment! A. Stroller!”
“It’s our pol—”
“I don’t care if it’s your policy! I want to talk to your manager’s manager’s manager. The president of the company. I don’t care who, but there is absolutely no way I am giving this store 120 dollars for a car seat that doesn’t fit in my car and a stroller I can’t use. I will never shop here again!”—then I brought out the big guns. “I will tell EVERYONE I KNOW never to shop here!”
Which really ought to have gotten him scared because I know, like, fifty or so people.
The female customer servant just stared at me, clearly thinking the second I get home I’m making an appointment to get my tubes tied.
The manager guy started to seem sympathetic. Or maybe just tired. In any case, he eventually instructed his underling to process the return as “defective merchandise” and then made sure I knew he was breaking the rules.
I thanked him through my sniffles and then inanely tried to explain that I don’t usually cry to get my way—well, maybe just when I’m pulled over for speeding. But usually I cry because I’m mad at myself for not being assertive, so in a weird way my breakdown was a triumph. Not exactly how I would have scripted it had I had more time to prepare, but what’s the fun of being pregnant if you don’t get to scream at a pair of teenagers in red polyester vests and plastic nametags at least once?
After I got home from the Evil Store I Will Never Again Frequent—except to buy those cheese crackers nobody else seems to sell, I broke down and called The Car Seat Lady—yet another National Child Passenger Safety Board-certified volunteer car seat inspector—but one who understood (or at least accepted) my refusal to give up the use of my front passenger seat for the next two years. She promised over the phone that she had “just the car seat” for me. Seven minutes later she magically appeared at my front door, an enormous woman bearing two car seats and a four-and-a-half pound preemie-sized doll named Fremont.
(A brief aside: I normally wouldn’t mention someone’s girth as it seems rather rude and sizeist, but it’s sort of important for the visuals here—nine-months pregnant lady, twice-her-size other lady, two infant car seats and a four-and-a-half pound doll all fitting into the space that one goddamned car seat from Target refused to be wedged into.)
The Car Seat Lady demonstrates how one of the car seats I’d previously thought wouldn’t fit actually does fit, so long as you keep the handle in the upright position, which is okay in this particular model (unlike the other one) because this one has been safety tested—and approved—in this configuration. Who knew? The Car Seat Lady, that’s who!
I go back to Babies-backwards-R-Us to exchange the seat that can’t be used with the handle in the upright position for the one that can, and I am proud to say that now, a full five months after I began the process of outfitting my car with an infant seat, we are in business—no religious conversion required.
Growing up in my family, the front seat was decidedly for grown-ups and the backseat was for kids. This was not negotiated or argued or questioned, it just was. When we visited grandparents or they visited us and two adults sat in back with one kid while the other kid rode in the “front middle,” it was a special treat and the source of much giggling—particularly the time my dad scolded a backseat rider for making that horrible squeaking noise with their straw in the lid of their take-out cup, and the squeaker turned out to be my great-grandmother.
In my best friend’s family, the Mennonite minister dad and little brother rode in front while the mom, big sister, and I rode in back devising a plot to overthrow the patriarchy. Or maybe that was just me.
So it was with alternating waves of dismay and denial that I received the news, after 5 months of research, that the only way to fit an infant seat in my car would be to move the passenger seat all the way up until it practically touches the dashboard—leaving no room for a passenger—and put the car seat behind it. “It’s the only way,” insisted the National Child Passenger Safety Board-certified sales clerk at a nearby suburban children’s boutique where I’d gone in hopes of finding something more compact than the sprawlingly large American child restraints they hawk at big-box stores.
It’s not like my car is some teensy, sporty, child-unfriendly thing. It’s a VW station wagon, for christsake. Surely someone has found a way to transport their baby in a Jetta wagon without having to first become a Mennonite minister’s wife.
“Oh, you won’t be able to use the front passenger seat for a few years now, so you might as well get used to riding in the back while your husband drives. Or you could get a new car,” quipped the NCPSB lady.
She wasn’t kidding.
“Okay, thanks, sounds good, will do,” I muttered as I shooed her out of my car and headed back to Babies-backwards-R-Us to buy the car seat that had sort of fit in the middle, so long the handle was kept upright—which, according to the instructions one wasn’t supposed to do while driving—and so long as it’s okay for the car seat to rub heavily against the front seats—which, according to all safety information, it’s not.
I bought the sort-of-fitting seat, then went to Target to check out yet another brand of seat to see if it fit any better. Unfortunately, the seat from Target wasn’t sold individually. It was only sold as a package deal with a giant, unwieldy stroller that we have no use for, having already purchased a giant, unwieldy European (and therefore beautiful) stroller off Craigslist. I figured I could buy the car seat-stroller combo and test the seat out in the parking lot. If the seat fit I would return the whole combo right then and there, go home, and order the car seat solo off the internet.
So there I am, lugging a 127-pound travel system out to the parking lot, finagling the car seat out of its giant plastic baggie and away from its stroller friend without dropping either part onto the wet, muddy (it’s autumn in Seattle) pavement, and sticking it in the middle of the backseat to see whether it—Nope. Not a chance.
I wrestle the car seat back into its baggie, somehow reunite it with Mr. Stroller, which is still mostly inside the box, which is perched precariously on a shopping cart, which is rolling every which way, which no one is offering to help with (God, I miss Iowa)—and I wheel the whole thing to the customer service counter. I explain the situation, how I bought the thing not ten minutes ago, just wanted to see whether it would fit, but it doesn’t, blah, blah. The teenage customer servant looks at my receipt and immediately calls her supervisor over.
“I’m sorry,” the also-teenage supervisor says gravely. “Once the box has been opened, we can’t take these back.”
Let me take a moment here to say that throughout this entire pregnancy, I have been very well-behaved. I have not bored sandwich shop personnel with overly long explanations about the threat of listeria looming in lunchmeat or soft cheese. I have not regaled salesclerks or other people who aren’t my mother, husband, close friends, or readers with tales of my aches and pains and splotches, and I have never broken down into hysterical tears over some bureaucratic nightmare.
Until this day.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I wailed. “That was the whole point of buying this thing! If I’d known I never would have come here! That’s just totally, totally insane! I bought it five minutes ago!”
“I’m sorry, but the seal’s been broken. We can’t—”
“The seal?! The seal!? It’s packing tape! Get me some packing tape and I’ll fix it up so no one will ever know it’s been opened!”
“It’s our policy that once the seal has—”
“Oh. My. God. It’s. A. Stroller! Not a sterilized piece of medical equipment! A. Stroller!”
“It’s our pol—”
“I don’t care if it’s your policy! I want to talk to your manager’s manager’s manager. The president of the company. I don’t care who, but there is absolutely no way I am giving this store 120 dollars for a car seat that doesn’t fit in my car and a stroller I can’t use. I will never shop here again!”—then I brought out the big guns. “I will tell EVERYONE I KNOW never to shop here!”
Which really ought to have gotten him scared because I know, like, fifty or so people.
The female customer servant just stared at me, clearly thinking the second I get home I’m making an appointment to get my tubes tied.
The manager guy started to seem sympathetic. Or maybe just tired. In any case, he eventually instructed his underling to process the return as “defective merchandise” and then made sure I knew he was breaking the rules.
I thanked him through my sniffles and then inanely tried to explain that I don’t usually cry to get my way—well, maybe just when I’m pulled over for speeding. But usually I cry because I’m mad at myself for not being assertive, so in a weird way my breakdown was a triumph. Not exactly how I would have scripted it had I had more time to prepare, but what’s the fun of being pregnant if you don’t get to scream at a pair of teenagers in red polyester vests and plastic nametags at least once?
After I got home from the Evil Store I Will Never Again Frequent—except to buy those cheese crackers nobody else seems to sell, I broke down and called The Car Seat Lady—yet another National Child Passenger Safety Board-certified volunteer car seat inspector—but one who understood (or at least accepted) my refusal to give up the use of my front passenger seat for the next two years. She promised over the phone that she had “just the car seat” for me. Seven minutes later she magically appeared at my front door, an enormous woman bearing two car seats and a four-and-a-half pound preemie-sized doll named Fremont.
(A brief aside: I normally wouldn’t mention someone’s girth as it seems rather rude and sizeist, but it’s sort of important for the visuals here—nine-months pregnant lady, twice-her-size other lady, two infant car seats and a four-and-a-half pound doll all fitting into the space that one goddamned car seat from Target refused to be wedged into.)
The Car Seat Lady demonstrates how one of the car seats I’d previously thought wouldn’t fit actually does fit, so long as you keep the handle in the upright position, which is okay in this particular model (unlike the other one) because this one has been safety tested—and approved—in this configuration. Who knew? The Car Seat Lady, that’s who!
I go back to Babies-backwards-R-Us to exchange the seat that can’t be used with the handle in the upright position for the one that can, and I am proud to say that now, a full five months after I began the process of outfitting my car with an infant seat, we are in business—no religious conversion required.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Supplemental Health Care
One of the many things I’m looking forward to about not being pregnant—I mean, besides not having a person taking up the space where my intestines rightfully belong, not not having sex, and not feeling like a beached whale with varicose veins—is not having to pop quite so many pills every day. My current daily regimen consists of 19 pills: 2 prenatal vitamins, 1 vitamin D (to make up for the lack of sun in Seattle), 3 ferrous gluconate (to make up for the lack of liver in my diet), 3 ferrous sulfate (to make up for the lack of iron shavings in my diet), 2 stool softeners (to help out with the issue caused by ingesting 276 mg of iron every day (for reference, a 3 oz steak contains 3 mg)), 1 vitamin C to help out with iron absorption, 4 Zantac for indigestion, and 3 Acyclovir for cooties given to me by a boy seven years ago right before he got deported back to Canada. It wouldn’t be so bad if I could just stuff all 19 pills down my gullet at once, but the Acyclovir, Zantac, and iron supplements have to be spaced out throughout the day—and the iron can’t be taken with the Zantac or the prenatals or any dairy products or on an empty stomach, unless I want to see the iron pills again and in a less, shall we say, compact form.
If I don’t start popping pills the second I wake up (first a Zantac, then wait an hour for the Zantac to kick in so I can properly digest some non-dairy-containing foodstuff with which to take the first of the iron doses), I can’t fit all the pills into the day. And I have to say, planning my day around a bunch of dietary supplements is pretty damn boring. As you can see.
If I don’t start popping pills the second I wake up (first a Zantac, then wait an hour for the Zantac to kick in so I can properly digest some non-dairy-containing foodstuff with which to take the first of the iron doses), I can’t fit all the pills into the day. And I have to say, planning my day around a bunch of dietary supplements is pretty damn boring. As you can see.
Monday, October 26, 2009
One Day at a Time
I had my 60th or so visit to the obstetrician today. She said the most likely window for delivery of this baby is between November 5th and 12th—two whole weeks from now! She then guessed the 10th as my delivery date—based on what, I do not know, but she was looking at my chart and wearing scrubs when she said it, so it seemed credible, even though I'm pretty sure these things can't be predicted. Otherwise, shouldn't she be running some sort of psychic network rather than peering into cervixes all day?
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Deep Thoughts by a Random Pregnancy Website
“Whether it's your first or fourth baby, labor is quite possibly one of the most anticipated aspects of pregnancy.”
Quite possibly, indeed.
Quite possibly, indeed.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Soothsayer
Tomorrow is the day I’ve been telling everyone (or everyone who will still listen to me when I talk about my pregnancy) that I plan to give birth. I’m not having a C-section or induction or anything, I just like the sound of “October 24th” and randomly chose it many months ago as my baby’s birthday. I realize that by doing this I have likely jinxed myself into having the baby on November 14th—the first day of the standard, week-long overdue-baby induction window—a date that is appallingly far in the future.
I share this tidbit in case I turn out to be psychic. I mean, it would have been a shame if I were and nobody knew.
I share this tidbit in case I turn out to be psychic. I mean, it would have been a shame if I were and nobody knew.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
We Go Way Back
A baby present arrived in the mail yesterday from one of my mom’s elementary school friends. Let me say that again: someone my mom used to sew matching outfits with in sixth grade sent a Baby Bjorn-type infant carrier contraption to the soon-to-be-born child of her childhood friend’s child.
That would be like one of the girls I used to play Cabbage Patch Kids with (Emily? Katie? Are you out there?) sending an umbrella stroller or something to the baby that this person hanging out in my uterus might have one day. It’s inconceivable on so many levels, not the least of which is that before that can happen, the person in my uterus has to come shooting out my vagina.
We’re just weeks—possibly even days—away, and it is just, after nine long, uncomfortable months, starting to feel real. Really real. Like, I need to stop accidentally whacking the top of the car seat with my elbow when I crane my body around to look out the rear window of my car because there will be a baby inside real. And, at my weekly appointment my therapist said I can bring the baby along next week real. And, if the construction workers next door don’t pick up the pace and finish the re-roofing project they started in July before the baby’s born, I’m going to have to buy a gun real.
I’ve wanted to have a baby for so long—pretty much since March 9, 1975 when I myself was born. It’s hard to believe I’m on the threshold, crossing over from wishing and longing and pining and being wildly jealous of other people and their babies to having one of my very own for other people to be wildly jealous of. Especially if he or she turns out cute. And sleeps a lot. And has the world's coolest, most enviable name. And gives good presents.
That would be like one of the girls I used to play Cabbage Patch Kids with (Emily? Katie? Are you out there?) sending an umbrella stroller or something to the baby that this person hanging out in my uterus might have one day. It’s inconceivable on so many levels, not the least of which is that before that can happen, the person in my uterus has to come shooting out my vagina.
We’re just weeks—possibly even days—away, and it is just, after nine long, uncomfortable months, starting to feel real. Really real. Like, I need to stop accidentally whacking the top of the car seat with my elbow when I crane my body around to look out the rear window of my car because there will be a baby inside real. And, at my weekly appointment my therapist said I can bring the baby along next week real. And, if the construction workers next door don’t pick up the pace and finish the re-roofing project they started in July before the baby’s born, I’m going to have to buy a gun real.
I’ve wanted to have a baby for so long—pretty much since March 9, 1975 when I myself was born. It’s hard to believe I’m on the threshold, crossing over from wishing and longing and pining and being wildly jealous of other people and their babies to having one of my very own for other people to be wildly jealous of. Especially if he or she turns out cute. And sleeps a lot. And has the world's coolest, most enviable name. And gives good presents.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
One Centimeter at a Time
He (or she) is not even born yet, but already my baby is a genius! Due to the popularity of my obstetrician (who, by the way, I love again. It turns out she was having a bad day that one time) and the realities of modern American health care, my last two “weekly” check-ups were only 3 days apart. And in that small amount of time the baby dropped a full centimeter! Without any contractions! My first- (and given the discomforts of pregnancy possibly only-)born scooted him- or herself one centimeter closer to the outside world, where he or she can cause a beautiful, extra-utero ruckus—and, more importantly, no longer cause his or her mother indigestion, GERD-cough, shortness of breath, constipation, or varicose veins in unmentionable places!
I’d been getting a little worried about the baby’s exact level of genius, given his or her inability to grasp the concept of keeping still when it’s night-night time or uncurling his or her toes from my ribcage upon request, but clearly my concerns were misguided. He or she understands biology, physics, medicine, linearity, and basic human decency. Go, baby!
I’d been getting a little worried about the baby’s exact level of genius, given his or her inability to grasp the concept of keeping still when it’s night-night time or uncurling his or her toes from my ribcage upon request, but clearly my concerns were misguided. He or she understands biology, physics, medicine, linearity, and basic human decency. Go, baby!
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Things They Don't Tell You About Pregnancy, #38,792
While some foods will taste like glue for the duration of a pregnancy (rice crackers, pumpkin seed butter, peanut M&Ms, saltines), other foods will taste like delicious treats one day and like glue the next. Even in your third trimester, even when the bun in your oven is, pardon the technical term, fully baked.
Yesterday: Coca-cola = a delicious and delightful treat that soothed the savage and massively deprived caffeine beast.
Today: Coca-cola = glue.
Yesterday: Fiesta Lime Rice Chips = a delicious and delightful treat that almost made me forget that wheat-containing foodstuffs exacerbate my indigestion and formerly delicious corn chips haven’t tasted right for, oh, about nine months.
Today: Fiesta Lime Rice Chips = glue.
Yesterday: Apples = a delicious and delightful treat that provided some much-needed fiber in a format far more appealing that Metamucil—which, by the way, tastes like glue.
Today: Apples = glue.
I’ve already warned Dr. Husband that the instant I’ve given birth and regained my senses (all five of them), I’m going to be demanding an espresso beverage—not from the hospital cafeteria, a butter croissant, and an entire log of the freshest, most unpasteurized chèvre money can buy.
And, as long as I live, I never want to see another saltine again.
Yesterday: Coca-cola = a delicious and delightful treat that soothed the savage and massively deprived caffeine beast.
Today: Coca-cola = glue.
Yesterday: Fiesta Lime Rice Chips = a delicious and delightful treat that almost made me forget that wheat-containing foodstuffs exacerbate my indigestion and formerly delicious corn chips haven’t tasted right for, oh, about nine months.
Today: Fiesta Lime Rice Chips = glue.
Yesterday: Apples = a delicious and delightful treat that provided some much-needed fiber in a format far more appealing that Metamucil—which, by the way, tastes like glue.
Today: Apples = glue.
I’ve already warned Dr. Husband that the instant I’ve given birth and regained my senses (all five of them), I’m going to be demanding an espresso beverage—not from the hospital cafeteria, a butter croissant, and an entire log of the freshest, most unpasteurized chèvre money can buy.
And, as long as I live, I never want to see another saltine again.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Game of the Name
Dr. Husband and I still don’t have any agreed-upon boy names for the wee one, and I’m getting slightly panicky about it. Yes, we could be having a girl, rendering the issue irrelevant, but the only thing getting me through this 5-week window of “any minute now you’re going to start the most excruciatingly painful/gloriously magical experience of your life” is by being prepared as a way of deluding myself into thinking I’m in control. Baby clothes and blankets washed? Check. Burp cloths personalized with poorly executed DIY alterations? Check. Diaper delivery ordered? Check. Freezer stocked with labor-friendly popsicles? Check. Pediatrician met, interviewed, and approved? Check, check, check.
If this critter curling its toes around my ribcage does turn out to be a boy, we know what we’re doing with the foreskin on his penis—we just don’t know what his name might be.
Every few days I come up with a new name that I love—Issac, Oliver, Grover—and every few days Dr. Husband makes the same horrified face at me that I make at him when he reasserts his inexplicable love of Conrad, Casey, and Percival.
“We’re not going to find the perfect name,” he warns. “We need to focus on ones we can both live with.”
Has this man not met me?
I’m a writer. Words are my life. Of course my child needs the perfect name—one that’s not too popular or trendy but not totally weird or obscure, something dignified that doesn’t scream I’m destined for private school! (especially since he probably is), a name that’s classic but not so old-fashioned that people will assume we chose it from a tombstone in a local graveyard.
If our baby is a girl, we’re all set with two solid options and a third likely contender if neither of the first two options seem to suit her.
If it’s a boy, Dr. Husband and I will likely be leaving the hospital with a blank birth certificate and a renewed need for couples’ counseling. How else to reconcile his insistence on something manly like Conrad (!) with my desire for something sweet like Robin?
Last night during the second of two hours-long bouts of infamous third-trimester insomnia my mind decided it would be delightful to present a roster of bad, evil, and otherwise nefarious men with the various names on Dr. Husband’s and my “don’t totally love it but are willing to consider it for the sake of our child not being nameless for the rest of his life” compromise list. In no time at all, my exhausted but wide-awake mind came up with a child molester, a mass murderer, and an assassin. Do normal people just block out these associations? Do I just need to get out of the house more?
Okay, the answer to that is clearly Yes. But where can I go that doesn’t require standing, sitting on any hard surfaces, smelling any strong smells, staying awake, or wearing a properly-fitting bra?
Is it wrong to think that because the baby will have my husband’s surname and because I’m the one growing this creature inside me that my vote should hold more weight than his? Perhaps, oh, thirty pounds more?
If this critter curling its toes around my ribcage does turn out to be a boy, we know what we’re doing with the foreskin on his penis—we just don’t know what his name might be.
Every few days I come up with a new name that I love—Issac, Oliver, Grover—and every few days Dr. Husband makes the same horrified face at me that I make at him when he reasserts his inexplicable love of Conrad, Casey, and Percival.
“We’re not going to find the perfect name,” he warns. “We need to focus on ones we can both live with.”
Has this man not met me?
I’m a writer. Words are my life. Of course my child needs the perfect name—one that’s not too popular or trendy but not totally weird or obscure, something dignified that doesn’t scream I’m destined for private school! (especially since he probably is), a name that’s classic but not so old-fashioned that people will assume we chose it from a tombstone in a local graveyard.
If our baby is a girl, we’re all set with two solid options and a third likely contender if neither of the first two options seem to suit her.
If it’s a boy, Dr. Husband and I will likely be leaving the hospital with a blank birth certificate and a renewed need for couples’ counseling. How else to reconcile his insistence on something manly like Conrad (!) with my desire for something sweet like Robin?
Last night during the second of two hours-long bouts of infamous third-trimester insomnia my mind decided it would be delightful to present a roster of bad, evil, and otherwise nefarious men with the various names on Dr. Husband’s and my “don’t totally love it but are willing to consider it for the sake of our child not being nameless for the rest of his life” compromise list. In no time at all, my exhausted but wide-awake mind came up with a child molester, a mass murderer, and an assassin. Do normal people just block out these associations? Do I just need to get out of the house more?
Okay, the answer to that is clearly Yes. But where can I go that doesn’t require standing, sitting on any hard surfaces, smelling any strong smells, staying awake, or wearing a properly-fitting bra?
Is it wrong to think that because the baby will have my husband’s surname and because I’m the one growing this creature inside me that my vote should hold more weight than his? Perhaps, oh, thirty pounds more?
Thursday, October 08, 2009
Braless in Seattle
My baby is due in a month (give or take 3 weeks, as due dates are apparently wildly non-predictive), and guess what that means: it’s bra-shopping season all over again!
According to my calculations, I’ve spent more time shopping for bras during the past 8 months than the rest of my life combined.
There’s nothing quite like not fitting into any of the nursing bras (or, an even worse fit: those nursing tank tops with the feeding holes everyone but me loves) suggested by every well-meaning friend and random-mom-on-the-street to make a pregnant girl feel like a circus freak—not to mention totally frustrated and braless.
I do my fair share of complaining about the internet, but in this particular case, I say: God Bless! Similarly: God Bless credit cards, despite the havoc you have been known to wreak, and God Bless generous return policies, and God Bless UPS and the United States Postal Service. Without all of you I would be forced to spend another 6–12 months in frumpy, self-conscious, maternal discomfort.
God Bless, also, the woman at the local maternity bra manufacturer’s design shop (God Bless big cities!) for figuring out my size and complimenting my hair as it kept getting tangled in the bra straps and paying more attention to my breasts than they’ve seen in a good, long time. I apologize for using the information you gave me to send money down the information superhighway instead of putting it directly in your capable, amiable hands.
According to my calculations, I’ve spent more time shopping for bras during the past 8 months than the rest of my life combined.
There’s nothing quite like not fitting into any of the nursing bras (or, an even worse fit: those nursing tank tops with the feeding holes everyone but me loves) suggested by every well-meaning friend and random-mom-on-the-street to make a pregnant girl feel like a circus freak—not to mention totally frustrated and braless.
I do my fair share of complaining about the internet, but in this particular case, I say: God Bless! Similarly: God Bless credit cards, despite the havoc you have been known to wreak, and God Bless generous return policies, and God Bless UPS and the United States Postal Service. Without all of you I would be forced to spend another 6–12 months in frumpy, self-conscious, maternal discomfort.
God Bless, also, the woman at the local maternity bra manufacturer’s design shop (God Bless big cities!) for figuring out my size and complimenting my hair as it kept getting tangled in the bra straps and paying more attention to my breasts than they’ve seen in a good, long time. I apologize for using the information you gave me to send money down the information superhighway instead of putting it directly in your capable, amiable hands.
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
Some Special Activity
I was organizing my bookshelves today (because the house won’t truly be ready for a new baby until all my books are in alphabetical order) and came across a book called Our Sex Life from 1946 that I’d forgotten about. I opened it randomly and came across this gem on “The Unsatisfied Woman”: “Because they remain unsatisfied at home and at night, these women very often seek a substitute for the unenjoyed pleasures during the day and attract public attention by some special activity. The catastrophe of their sex life stands at the beginning of the artistic, social, or professional careers of many women.”
God help me.
God help me.
Thursday, October 01, 2009
A Little Black Rain Cloud
Yesterday when Dr. Husband and I were out on our daily walk we talked a bit about my fears of childbirth—specifically my fear that he’ll get annoyed with me when I ask for a different flavor of popsicle than the one he’s handing me or when I ask him to retrieve the soft toilet paper from the stash in my overnight bag because the hospital’s toilet paper is too sharp or when I tell him the smell of his hair gel is making my nausea unbearable and can he please go wash his hair? or whatever crazy demands I make in the throes of labor.
“I’m not attacking you,” I gingerly explained, “I’m just saying that we have a bit of a history of my needs causing you irritation, and I’m nervous about that happening when I’m giving birth.”
My emergency room doctor husband reminded me that he’s really good in emergencies (duh) and figures that childbirth qualifies as such. When I reminded him that childbirth is a rather prolonged “emergency” scenario and I just wanted to make sure that he could handle the popsicle/toilet paper/hair washing demands of hour eleven or nineteen or whatever, he said, “Oh, don’t worry. I know it’s not going to go quickly. You’re kind of a black-cloud patient.”
A black-cloud patient? I was trying to assess what this could possibly mean and whether I should be offended when Dr. Husband added, “That’s mean, I shouldn’t have said that.”
Okay, then. That cleared up whether I should be offended.
I asked him what he meant and he said that in residency there are residents for whom everything seems to go right—the “white cloud” residents—and those for whom everything seems to go wrong. “You know, a patient who seems totally fine suddenly dies,” he cheerfully explained—and then hastened to add that it was through no doing of their own. “It’s like a curse, a lore.”
“But the ones who see more bad stuff get a better education,” I observed, always rooting for the underdog.
Dr. Husband nodded—perhaps somewhat dismissively?—and then continued to tell me about some study that was done that showed that the “black cloud” residents were less efficient than the white cloudies and that somehow contributed to their seeming bad luck.
“So you’re saying is their fault?”
“That’s why it was a mean thing to say.”
Notice the man did not say he didn’t mean it—just that he shouldn’t have said it.
“But not everything. Has gone wrong. With my pregnancy!” I protested, huffing heavily after every few words so I wouldn’t get one of the crippling side cramps I’ve been prone to on our walks the past few months. “I mean. So many. Things. That could have. Gone wrong. Haven’t! I haven’t. Had any. Complications. At all. I’m just. Really sensitive. To the stuff. That does happen!”
Dr. Husband nodded enigmatically and held his tongue.
“I don’t. Have a black cloud. Over my head!” I insisted as we turned the corner to head up the alleyway behind our house. I then proceeded to slip on a loose patch of gravel and fall on my knees so hard I was pretty sure I broke them.
I can no longer put weight on the right one when I go up stairs, and both sitting down and standing up are excruciating—especially from a low seat, such as a toilet. And I don’t know if you’ve heard, but pregnant ladies tend to have to pee with some frequency, what with a giant uterus full of blood and water and baby squishing down on our bladders.
Also, the right knee bled all night long, soaking through the band-aids and making our bed look like a murder scene, albeit a small one—maybe a squirrel murder scene?—this morning. Dr. Husband had originally offered to give me stitches, but by the time I overcame my wimpiness and agreed, he had chickened out. “Stitches hurt pretty bad,” he explained.
Then I asked him if he could pick me up some pistachio ice cream from the grocery store and he said, “But we have lots of gingersnap in the freezer.”
“I’m not attacking you,” I gingerly explained, “I’m just saying that we have a bit of a history of my needs causing you irritation, and I’m nervous about that happening when I’m giving birth.”
My emergency room doctor husband reminded me that he’s really good in emergencies (duh) and figures that childbirth qualifies as such. When I reminded him that childbirth is a rather prolonged “emergency” scenario and I just wanted to make sure that he could handle the popsicle/toilet paper/hair washing demands of hour eleven or nineteen or whatever, he said, “Oh, don’t worry. I know it’s not going to go quickly. You’re kind of a black-cloud patient.”
A black-cloud patient? I was trying to assess what this could possibly mean and whether I should be offended when Dr. Husband added, “That’s mean, I shouldn’t have said that.”
Okay, then. That cleared up whether I should be offended.
I asked him what he meant and he said that in residency there are residents for whom everything seems to go right—the “white cloud” residents—and those for whom everything seems to go wrong. “You know, a patient who seems totally fine suddenly dies,” he cheerfully explained—and then hastened to add that it was through no doing of their own. “It’s like a curse, a lore.”
“But the ones who see more bad stuff get a better education,” I observed, always rooting for the underdog.
Dr. Husband nodded—perhaps somewhat dismissively?—and then continued to tell me about some study that was done that showed that the “black cloud” residents were less efficient than the white cloudies and that somehow contributed to their seeming bad luck.
“So you’re saying is their fault?”
“That’s why it was a mean thing to say.”
Notice the man did not say he didn’t mean it—just that he shouldn’t have said it.
“But not everything. Has gone wrong. With my pregnancy!” I protested, huffing heavily after every few words so I wouldn’t get one of the crippling side cramps I’ve been prone to on our walks the past few months. “I mean. So many. Things. That could have. Gone wrong. Haven’t! I haven’t. Had any. Complications. At all. I’m just. Really sensitive. To the stuff. That does happen!”
Dr. Husband nodded enigmatically and held his tongue.
“I don’t. Have a black cloud. Over my head!” I insisted as we turned the corner to head up the alleyway behind our house. I then proceeded to slip on a loose patch of gravel and fall on my knees so hard I was pretty sure I broke them.
I can no longer put weight on the right one when I go up stairs, and both sitting down and standing up are excruciating—especially from a low seat, such as a toilet. And I don’t know if you’ve heard, but pregnant ladies tend to have to pee with some frequency, what with a giant uterus full of blood and water and baby squishing down on our bladders.
Also, the right knee bled all night long, soaking through the band-aids and making our bed look like a murder scene, albeit a small one—maybe a squirrel murder scene?—this morning. Dr. Husband had originally offered to give me stitches, but by the time I overcame my wimpiness and agreed, he had chickened out. “Stitches hurt pretty bad,” he explained.
Then I asked him if he could pick me up some pistachio ice cream from the grocery store and he said, “But we have lots of gingersnap in the freezer.”
Friday, September 25, 2009
Hippocrates
In all the hubbub over the past two years of meeting Dr. Husband and falling in love and getting engaged and moving in together and getting pregnant and getting married (and getting nauseous and getting fat and getting varicose veins) I neglected to remember one thing: doctors don’t like me. Or maybe it’s that I don’t like them. In either case, I’m the type of person with a note on file at one doctor’s office that reads, “Patient is very [emphasis theirs] skeptical of Western medicine”—all because I declined their offer of Prozac samples to treat my lifelong habit of crying when I'm sad.
I just had my first bad OB trip, one of those visits where everything everyone says is wrong—so much so that you have to wonder, is it just me? Am I being overly sensitive? Should I have taken some free Prozac this morning?
The crimes of the nurse and doctor are too numerous (and boring and inane) to chronicle here, so I’ll just give you a sampler, like a box of Whitman’s.
One
Nurse [suddenly interested—on my, like seventeenth visit—in my professional life]: Oh, you’re a writer! Are you published?
Need I say more? That question is like asking a doctor, “Have you killed any one?”
Okay, it’s not really the same—but neither is it the end of our disheartening exchange!
Me: Uh…yeah…in some literary magazines and Seattle Metropolitan and—
Nurse: No books, though?
Me: I’m working on that.
Nurse: Do you write baby books?
Me [taking a moment to parse what she means]: Um…no…not really…my stuff has pretty much been for grownups so far.
Nurse: Oh. Well if you write a baby book, you’ll have to let us know! You’ll be the first writer I know!
Two
Me: I’ve have this excruciating pain in my pelvis [and some other even more personal regions I’ll refrain from naming here] the past few days that I finally self-diagnosed as varicose veins.
Formerly Beloved Doctor [slipping on a pair of latex gloves]: Let’s have a look.
Me: Um… I’m actually latex-sensitive… not that it’s a big deal, but apparently it’s better if I don’t have a lot of exposure to—
Formerly Beloved Doctor: What are your symptoms?
Me: Well, itchiness.
Formerly Beloved Doctor: An allergy would be highly unusual.
Me [trying my hardest not to slip into apology mode]: Oh. Yeah. Um. Well… my last gynecologist told me it was better not to be exposed to latex if I’m sensitive to it because it could develop into an allerg—
Formerly Beloved Doctor [slipping on a pair of non-latex gloves]: Be sure to remind me at each visit. It’s habit to reach for the latex ones.
Me [in my head]: Right! Because that exchange went so well! And isn’t there a place somewhere on my chart for such tidbits?
Me [out loud]: Okay.
Formerly Beloved Doctor [peering between my legs]: Yep. You’re right. Varicose veins.
Me: Any suggestions?
Formerly Beloved Doctor: I’ve seen worse.
Me: But any suggestions for making this case less painful?
Formerly Beloved Doctor: Oh, they usually go away when you give birth.
Me [in my head]: Usually! Usually! I don’t even recognize my nether-regions anymore but that’s okay—these things usually clear up eventually?
Me [out loud]: So I just need to toughen up?
Formerly Beloved Doctor: …
The problem with being married to a doctor is when you have a doctor’s office visit like this one, he takes the mean doctor’s side! “She was probably just having a bad day” indeed!
I want apologies! I want do-overs! I want suggestions for how to make my crotch stop killing me! I want a nice, soft, squishy midwife!
But, yes, I still want an epidural.
Dammit.
I just had my first bad OB trip, one of those visits where everything everyone says is wrong—so much so that you have to wonder, is it just me? Am I being overly sensitive? Should I have taken some free Prozac this morning?
The crimes of the nurse and doctor are too numerous (and boring and inane) to chronicle here, so I’ll just give you a sampler, like a box of Whitman’s.
One
Nurse [suddenly interested—on my, like seventeenth visit—in my professional life]: Oh, you’re a writer! Are you published?
Need I say more? That question is like asking a doctor, “Have you killed any one?”
Okay, it’s not really the same—but neither is it the end of our disheartening exchange!
Me: Uh…yeah…in some literary magazines and Seattle Metropolitan and—
Nurse: No books, though?
Me: I’m working on that.
Nurse: Do you write baby books?
Me [taking a moment to parse what she means]: Um…no…not really…my stuff has pretty much been for grownups so far.
Nurse: Oh. Well if you write a baby book, you’ll have to let us know! You’ll be the first writer I know!
Two
Me: I’ve have this excruciating pain in my pelvis [and some other even more personal regions I’ll refrain from naming here] the past few days that I finally self-diagnosed as varicose veins.
Formerly Beloved Doctor [slipping on a pair of latex gloves]: Let’s have a look.
Me: Um… I’m actually latex-sensitive… not that it’s a big deal, but apparently it’s better if I don’t have a lot of exposure to—
Formerly Beloved Doctor: What are your symptoms?
Me: Well, itchiness.
Formerly Beloved Doctor: An allergy would be highly unusual.
Me [trying my hardest not to slip into apology mode]: Oh. Yeah. Um. Well… my last gynecologist told me it was better not to be exposed to latex if I’m sensitive to it because it could develop into an allerg—
Formerly Beloved Doctor [slipping on a pair of non-latex gloves]: Be sure to remind me at each visit. It’s habit to reach for the latex ones.
Me [in my head]: Right! Because that exchange went so well! And isn’t there a place somewhere on my chart for such tidbits?
Me [out loud]: Okay.
Formerly Beloved Doctor [peering between my legs]: Yep. You’re right. Varicose veins.
Me: Any suggestions?
Formerly Beloved Doctor: I’ve seen worse.
Me: But any suggestions for making this case less painful?
Formerly Beloved Doctor: Oh, they usually go away when you give birth.
Me [in my head]: Usually! Usually! I don’t even recognize my nether-regions anymore but that’s okay—these things usually clear up eventually?
Me [out loud]: So I just need to toughen up?
Formerly Beloved Doctor: …
The problem with being married to a doctor is when you have a doctor’s office visit like this one, he takes the mean doctor’s side! “She was probably just having a bad day” indeed!
I want apologies! I want do-overs! I want suggestions for how to make my crotch stop killing me! I want a nice, soft, squishy midwife!
But, yes, I still want an epidural.
Dammit.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Neither Snow Nor Rain
The mailman just came to the kitchen door and waved at the exact moment I was standing in front of the freezer, lifting up my dress and applying an ice pack to my crotch. (See “Things They Don’t Tell You About Pregnancy #927” or, as my mother refers to it, “Your latest problem.”) That will teach me to order cute baby clothes off the internet. Or maybe he was delivering my hemorrhoid doughnut pillow—which I naively thought I wouldn’t need until after I gave birth.
I suppose, as a mom-to-be it’s just the first of many semi-clothed encounters with the postal carrier, so I might as well get used to it.
I suppose, as a mom-to-be it’s just the first of many semi-clothed encounters with the postal carrier, so I might as well get used to it.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Common Scents Revisited
This past weekend, Dr. Husband and I finally got around to tackling the issue of the mildewy bed. We took off the mattress and box springs and swabbed the frame down with heavily vinegared water. At some point early in the process Dr. Husband stuck his nose right up to the edge of the headboard and took a big whiff. “Oh. Yeah,” he said. “It smells like feet.”
You say “feet,” I say “mildew,” who cares what we call it—we’re finally in this thing together! This is what marriage is about, I thought to myself as Dr. Husband, washrag in hand, declared, “I’ll take care of everything on this half—you take care of everything over there.” What a thrill that my olfactorily skeptical husband was on my side, helping me eradicate the evil mildewy feet stench!
It was all so exciting that I neglected to observe that the vinegar seemed to be making the smell worse.
“Huh,” Dr. Husband began, his nose pressed against the headboard once again. “Vinegar kind of smells like feet.” And a little later: “Is it just me, or is the smell getting stronger?”
We decided to give the frame a few days to dry to see if that improves things, scent-wise, and set up a make-shift bed in the corner, which has been sort of fun—like we’re in our early-to-mid twenties all over again.
This morning I gave the next line of attack a try—swabbing the frame down with a water-and baking soda solution. I was a little worried about what the concoction would do to the finish on the wood, but there’s no longer time to care! I’m giving birth sometime in the next six-and-a-half weeks (fingers crossed), and there’s no way I’m putting up with that stink when I’m in labor—when one’s sense of smell apparently gets even stronger! And there’s no way I’m putting up with that stink while I lounge about in bed recovering from shooting a baby out my vagina, either. It’s unlikely to the point of statistically impossible that Dr. Husband or I will have the energy or wherewithal to shop for a new bed frame during our first months as parents. And we can’t just leave the mattress on the floor because I spent many, many hours on Craigstlist finding the perfect non-hideous co-sleeper so the baby could sleep at the same height as our bed so I could just roll him over onto me come feeding time. I’m not going to have all that work thwarted by the smell of feet!
It turns out that baking soda, like vinegar, has some sort of magical property that makes it bring out an object’s olfactory layers, as if it’s exorcising them one by one—or as if it’s a connoisseur of fine wine. I had barely gotten the wet washcloth near the bed frame when it started to reek of cigarettes. After one baking soda-y coat the bed smelled like it was on fire. Soon thereafter it smelled—literally—like ass. What trials has this poor bed been through? It’s not that old, and supposedly the person we bought it from had purchased it new—and seldom used it… Perhaps because it smelled like a burning monkey cage.
Once the solution dried, the bed did start to smell better—nearly neutral, even. Of course, now there are these layers of baking soda that won’t seem to entirely vanish, even after multiple swabs with a clean, wet cloth—nothing that a vinegar sponge bath won’t cure, I’m sure.
You say “feet,” I say “mildew,” who cares what we call it—we’re finally in this thing together! This is what marriage is about, I thought to myself as Dr. Husband, washrag in hand, declared, “I’ll take care of everything on this half—you take care of everything over there.” What a thrill that my olfactorily skeptical husband was on my side, helping me eradicate the evil mildewy feet stench!
It was all so exciting that I neglected to observe that the vinegar seemed to be making the smell worse.
“Huh,” Dr. Husband began, his nose pressed against the headboard once again. “Vinegar kind of smells like feet.” And a little later: “Is it just me, or is the smell getting stronger?”
We decided to give the frame a few days to dry to see if that improves things, scent-wise, and set up a make-shift bed in the corner, which has been sort of fun—like we’re in our early-to-mid twenties all over again.
This morning I gave the next line of attack a try—swabbing the frame down with a water-and baking soda solution. I was a little worried about what the concoction would do to the finish on the wood, but there’s no longer time to care! I’m giving birth sometime in the next six-and-a-half weeks (fingers crossed), and there’s no way I’m putting up with that stink when I’m in labor—when one’s sense of smell apparently gets even stronger! And there’s no way I’m putting up with that stink while I lounge about in bed recovering from shooting a baby out my vagina, either. It’s unlikely to the point of statistically impossible that Dr. Husband or I will have the energy or wherewithal to shop for a new bed frame during our first months as parents. And we can’t just leave the mattress on the floor because I spent many, many hours on Craigstlist finding the perfect non-hideous co-sleeper so the baby could sleep at the same height as our bed so I could just roll him over onto me come feeding time. I’m not going to have all that work thwarted by the smell of feet!
It turns out that baking soda, like vinegar, has some sort of magical property that makes it bring out an object’s olfactory layers, as if it’s exorcising them one by one—or as if it’s a connoisseur of fine wine. I had barely gotten the wet washcloth near the bed frame when it started to reek of cigarettes. After one baking soda-y coat the bed smelled like it was on fire. Soon thereafter it smelled—literally—like ass. What trials has this poor bed been through? It’s not that old, and supposedly the person we bought it from had purchased it new—and seldom used it… Perhaps because it smelled like a burning monkey cage.
Once the solution dried, the bed did start to smell better—nearly neutral, even. Of course, now there are these layers of baking soda that won’t seem to entirely vanish, even after multiple swabs with a clean, wet cloth—nothing that a vinegar sponge bath won’t cure, I’m sure.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
A Toast!
Last night I dreamed that I was suddenly in charge of a family of seven—not me and Dr. Husband and five kids but me and Dr. Husband and three kids and those kids’ mom and dad. I had to get breakfast together for everyone, including the mom and dad who seemed quite pleased to be able to kick back and chill in the backyard while I slaved away over the toaster.That’s what I made for everyone: toast. And it was exceptionally challenging. For starters, there weren’t more than three slices of any one kind of bread, and I’d never really thought about this before because I’ve seldom had to cook for seven, but it’s a lot more difficult to toast 14 slices of multiple sizes and shapes and colors and types of bread than it is to toast 14 slices from one loaf. Why? I’m not sure, but in my dream it was very, very challenging.
I was still in the toasting phase—I hadn’t even moved on to the buttering stage or the finding out what kind of topping everyone likes on their toast (Nutella? Jam? Peanut butter?) stage when it dawned on me I’d have to make them all lunch, too. How to do all this and get them to school (and in the case of the parents, work) on time? In the end, everyone was late and I forgot to write a note to the attendance lady so no one would get in trouble.
If I have this much difficulty making toast, how will I possibly make it as a Mom?
Monday, September 21, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
All Knocked Up and Nowhere to Go
What is it with men and pregnancy and sex aversions? I have a news flash for you: THE BABY CAN’T SEE YOUR PENIS! And even if the baby could see your penis, what’s the big deal? The baby doesn’t know what a penis is or what it represents or where it’s been or what it does in its spare time.
Furthermore, the Madonna/Whore complex is so last millennium. We’ve moved on to MILFs! We’ve moved on to Weeds’s uber-hot Nancy Botwin. We’ve moved onto “Stacy’s Mom!” She’s got it going on!
It’s not like I wish my husband were more attracted to me now that I’m rotund. It’s not a comfortable or sustainable state. I just wish he were attracted enough to overcome the oft-cited “weirdness” factor of having a baby nearby while trying to get it on. God knows we pregnant ladies have to overcome a lot more than that and still many of us would really, really to get some.
Furthermore, the Madonna/Whore complex is so last millennium. We’ve moved on to MILFs! We’ve moved on to Weeds’s uber-hot Nancy Botwin. We’ve moved onto “Stacy’s Mom!” She’s got it going on!
It’s not like I wish my husband were more attracted to me now that I’m rotund. It’s not a comfortable or sustainable state. I just wish he were attracted enough to overcome the oft-cited “weirdness” factor of having a baby nearby while trying to get it on. God knows we pregnant ladies have to overcome a lot more than that and still many of us would really, really to get some.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Things They Don't Tell You About Pregnancy #816
If anyone ever tells you that once you're done with your first trimester of pregnancy you're in the clear, barfing-wise, they're lying.
That's all I'll say.
That's all I'll say.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Scents to a Woman
Apparently my used furniture karma has taken a turn for the better. I bought yet another dresser for the nursery last week—a cute little minty green one—after assuring myself that it passed the sniff test and the aesthetics test and the “not the same colors as my junior high PE uniform” test. When I mentioned my previous ill-advised dresser to the super nice young couple who sold me the new, cute one they told me they might be able to take it off my hands, as they make a living fixing up old furniture and selling it on Craigslist. I sent them a photo and innumerated the dresser’s flaws and told them I was more than willing to take a loss it just to not have to deal with trying to sell it myself—or letting it sit in the attic until Dr. Husband and I die and our child has to return home to sort through our effects. Holy crap, what’s the deal with this ugly dresser that matches Mom’s junior high P.E. uniform? And why did she save her junior high P.E. uniform? Hopeless.This afternoon the super nice young couple came and bought it! For more than the lowest price I’d mentioned being willing to settle for! And they gave me tips on getting rid of the mildew smell on our bed—which the female half of the couple described as “like mildew and feet” and the male half described first as nonexistent then conceded was “like the smell on a boat.” “Right,” I agreed, “which is pretty much the smell of mildew and feet.” They suggested trying vinegar, and if that doesn't work try some sort of fire-be-gone stuff you spray on furniture that’s been in a fire, and if that doesn't work try polyurethane, and if that doesn't work, sell it on Craigslist. “It’s a really nice bed,” they both said. “Maybe you can sell it to a gay couple since guys apparently can’t smell,” the woman suggested.
I am now the proud owner of not two but one nursery dresser—and the stash of twenties in my wallet has been blessedly replenished and I no longer feel like such a regretful moron. Now, off to sort out the changing table situation as the Febreze-stinky leather ottoman taunts me from the corner.
Monday, September 14, 2009
In Good Hands
What is it with life insurance guys? Why must they always live up to their reputation? We had one—I’ll call him Bill because that’s his name and yet it doesn’t exactly give away his identity—visit us yesterday since apparently he needed to meet the missus before moving forward with our new policy.
He showed up at our house a HALF HOUR early and called from his cell phone and was all, “I’m sitting here in my car trying to do paperwork, but it’s really difficult here in my car. Where I’m sitting. Outside your house. Doing paperwork.” I was all, “Well, Dr. Husband just worked the overnight shift and I’m a pregnant stay-at-home writer, so NEITHER OF US IS SHOWERED OR DRESSED YET, YOU MORON, so hows about waiting until the time you were supposed to show up before letting the slimefest that is life insurance sales commence?” Or something vaguely like that.
Once we’d put on clothes and let Bill into our home, he was very impressed to learn that Dr. Husband is an emergency medicine doctor and very happy to share his every harrowing emergency room story with us… The time his son had a bad prescription drug interaction, the time his other son fell out of a tree, the time the son who he no longer speaks to because he’s “too much of a nonconformist” went off his meds—or something like that, I wasn’t really listening, I was just trying to sign my name as quickly as possible so he would leave our house so I could take a shower and start my day like a typical nonconformist—i.e. without a life insurance agent at my dining room table.
Bill stayed for half an hour—the amount of time it takes a life insurance agent to collect four signatures and two drivers license numbers and two Social Security numbers.
Oh, also in that time he managed to squeeze in lots of fawning over Dr. Husband (You’re a doctor! An emergency doctor?! That’s great! That’s so exciting! How interesting!) and to finally turn to me to ask, “So, you’re a homemaker?”
A homemaker.
I’d forgotten that word existed. I thought it had gone the way of the dodo, the laserdisc, and menstrual pads with belts.
I explained, tight-lipped, that I’m a writer. There’s a big difference! Sure writers stay home during the day and putter about the house halfheartedly wiping down countertops and absentmindedly making grocery lists—but we also write! We digest experiences and render them entertaining and enlightening. We’re like the stomach of the masses—or maybe the kidneys, or perhaps we’re more like—
Bill interrupted my internal monologue to ask, “So what's your annual salary?”
He wasn’t being mean, he needed an answer for his paperwork.
I grimaced and told him the answer.
He was kind enough to reply, “Well, that’s something!” and, more importantly, he was kind enough not to laugh.
Thank you, Bill the Life Insurance Guy.
But please don’t ever come back to my house. Even if you're on-time.
He showed up at our house a HALF HOUR early and called from his cell phone and was all, “I’m sitting here in my car trying to do paperwork, but it’s really difficult here in my car. Where I’m sitting. Outside your house. Doing paperwork.” I was all, “Well, Dr. Husband just worked the overnight shift and I’m a pregnant stay-at-home writer, so NEITHER OF US IS SHOWERED OR DRESSED YET, YOU MORON, so hows about waiting until the time you were supposed to show up before letting the slimefest that is life insurance sales commence?” Or something vaguely like that.
Once we’d put on clothes and let Bill into our home, he was very impressed to learn that Dr. Husband is an emergency medicine doctor and very happy to share his every harrowing emergency room story with us… The time his son had a bad prescription drug interaction, the time his other son fell out of a tree, the time the son who he no longer speaks to because he’s “too much of a nonconformist” went off his meds—or something like that, I wasn’t really listening, I was just trying to sign my name as quickly as possible so he would leave our house so I could take a shower and start my day like a typical nonconformist—i.e. without a life insurance agent at my dining room table.
Bill stayed for half an hour—the amount of time it takes a life insurance agent to collect four signatures and two drivers license numbers and two Social Security numbers.
Oh, also in that time he managed to squeeze in lots of fawning over Dr. Husband (You’re a doctor! An emergency doctor?! That’s great! That’s so exciting! How interesting!) and to finally turn to me to ask, “So, you’re a homemaker?”
A homemaker.
I’d forgotten that word existed. I thought it had gone the way of the dodo, the laserdisc, and menstrual pads with belts.
I explained, tight-lipped, that I’m a writer. There’s a big difference! Sure writers stay home during the day and putter about the house halfheartedly wiping down countertops and absentmindedly making grocery lists—but we also write! We digest experiences and render them entertaining and enlightening. We’re like the stomach of the masses—or maybe the kidneys, or perhaps we’re more like—
Bill interrupted my internal monologue to ask, “So what's your annual salary?”
He wasn’t being mean, he needed an answer for his paperwork.
I grimaced and told him the answer.
He was kind enough to reply, “Well, that’s something!” and, more importantly, he was kind enough not to laugh.
Thank you, Bill the Life Insurance Guy.
But please don’t ever come back to my house. Even if you're on-time.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Dog Daze
I searched the web today for the “best daycare in Seattle.” All that popped up were places that will take “loving care” in a “home away from home” environment for my “kid in a fur coat.”
When I searched for the best playgrounds in town I discovered all the hot spots for “tiny four-legged tots.”
I never thought I’d say this, but apparently it's too bad I’m not gestating a canine.
When I searched for the best playgrounds in town I discovered all the hot spots for “tiny four-legged tots.”
I never thought I’d say this, but apparently it's too bad I’m not gestating a canine.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Nosocomephobia: Who Knew?
Today we toured the hospital where I will be giving birth sometime in the next two months. Like so many other aspects of this whole pregnancy adventure, educating myself on exactly what I can expect from my hospital experience was not exactly the calming, empowering, anxiety-reducing experience all the books promise it will be. It was, instead, terrifying.
Yes, it’s helpful to know where to park and which button to push in the elevator, but aside from those educational gems, the tour merely served to remind me how much I hat hospitals. I mean, I reminded Dr. Husband as we approached the entrance that I know hospitals are no big deal for him but I hate them—I’d just forgotten how visceral my hatred is. And “hatred” probably isn’t even the right word. It’s more fear than loathing—as evidenced by the tears that sprang to my eyes the instant I saw a very unhappy-looking woman being wheeled down the hall on a gurney by a lone nurse. She wasn’t screaming or writhing or behaving in any way like a laboring woman in a movie or television show, she just looked like she would rather be anywhere else in the world doing anything else in the world wearing anything else than what she had on.
I simultaneously wanted to crawl up onto the gurney to snuggle her and to run away shouting, “Sign me up for a home birth!”
If only midwives could administer epidurals.
Fear of pain, fear of dying, fear of needles, fear of scalpels, fear of forceps, fear of anesthesia, fear of episiotomies, fear of nurses, fear of tubes, fear of beeping noises, fear of antiseptic, fear of hospital gowns, fear of hospital food, fear of bedpans. For as long as I can remember I’ve been plagued, too, by the fear of my slippery, slimy newborn being dropped on the hard hospital floor. I mean, I suppose the doctors have had plenty of practice catching babies, but would it kill them to put down a few towels?
It would probably be good for me to visit the labor & delivery wing a few more times before I have to go there for real, to desensitize myself a little. I’ve heard that fear slows down the labor process, and the last thing I want is to be there any longer than I have to. But I have a suspicion that exposure therapy won’t work all that well if I just stand there thinking, “I hate it here, I hate it here. What’s that smell? I hate it here.”
Yes, it’s helpful to know where to park and which button to push in the elevator, but aside from those educational gems, the tour merely served to remind me how much I hat hospitals. I mean, I reminded Dr. Husband as we approached the entrance that I know hospitals are no big deal for him but I hate them—I’d just forgotten how visceral my hatred is. And “hatred” probably isn’t even the right word. It’s more fear than loathing—as evidenced by the tears that sprang to my eyes the instant I saw a very unhappy-looking woman being wheeled down the hall on a gurney by a lone nurse. She wasn’t screaming or writhing or behaving in any way like a laboring woman in a movie or television show, she just looked like she would rather be anywhere else in the world doing anything else in the world wearing anything else than what she had on.
I simultaneously wanted to crawl up onto the gurney to snuggle her and to run away shouting, “Sign me up for a home birth!”
If only midwives could administer epidurals.
Fear of pain, fear of dying, fear of needles, fear of scalpels, fear of forceps, fear of anesthesia, fear of episiotomies, fear of nurses, fear of tubes, fear of beeping noises, fear of antiseptic, fear of hospital gowns, fear of hospital food, fear of bedpans. For as long as I can remember I’ve been plagued, too, by the fear of my slippery, slimy newborn being dropped on the hard hospital floor. I mean, I suppose the doctors have had plenty of practice catching babies, but would it kill them to put down a few towels?
It would probably be good for me to visit the labor & delivery wing a few more times before I have to go there for real, to desensitize myself a little. I’ve heard that fear slows down the labor process, and the last thing I want is to be there any longer than I have to. But I have a suspicion that exposure therapy won’t work all that well if I just stand there thinking, “I hate it here, I hate it here. What’s that smell? I hate it here.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
