May 25, 2011

Birth story to come!

Oh, and Did I Mention?

Two, yes TWO girls who were due after me had their babies last night.

Stupid barometric pressure works for everyone else.

Sheesh.

Still waiting . . .

Full Moons, Book Clubs, and Barometric Pressure

There are only two days to go until my due date.

Two days.

Let's not get into all the ways this whole "labor/no labor" "VBAC/no VBAC" thing is starting to mind-fuck me.

Let's just say that I've been gradually exploring all of the fabled "labor-inducing" practices.

Earlier this week there was a full moon. The nurse said on Monday the influence of lunar cycles was legit, and they really do see an uptick in women going into labor during a full moon.

Here I sit. Still pregnant.

A local group of moms and I all participate in a book club. This particular club is famed for sending near- and at-term mommas into labor. I made the looong drive down south to join the ladies this month (I did actually read the book. It was amazing. I wasn't just using them for their labor-inducing powers.), actively participated, soaked in the book club vibes.

Here I sit. Still pregnant.

Finally yesterday, after nearly five months of drought, we had a fair bit of rain, with more forecast for today. God bless Mother Nature, dropping barometric pressure is also said to help bring on labor.

I'm hoping the rain today does it, because the piddly little drizzle we had all day yesterday didn't do squat.

I'm also walking a lot. Standing while working at my desk. Bouncing on my yoga ball at home. Having sex. Eating spicy food and eggplant parmesan. Getting foot massages.

I have not yet resorted to castor oil, nipple stimulation, and evening primrose oil.

When I started my motherhood journey nearly three years ago, the immediate and jarring lesson I learned is that, regardless of how goal oriented I am, some things are simply not within my control. It doesn't matter how "right" I do things . . . que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be, and there's not a damn lot I can do to change it.

So here we are. Full circle. What started with trying to get pregnant has now come back to trying to get my second baby to come on out. But the lesson remains the same.

Patience.

Acceptance of the level of control I actually have over things.

And the ability to keep things in perspective.

I am 39 weeks and 5 days pregnant.

And waiting, waiting, waiting.

Keeping My Head Up

39-week appointment today. After a week of feeling like someone had pounded on my vagina with a baseball bat and not feeling any more kicks in my lungs, I was hopeful that baby boy had dropped at least a bit and I'd have some exciting progress. Not confident . . . but hopeful.

Last week I was at 1 cm and 30%. This week I am at ( . . . drumroll . . . ) a whopping 1.5 cm and 40%.

I know.

I know where I am means jack as far as predicting labor.

I know there's still plenty of time for me to go into labor on my own.

I know that my body is doing what it's supposed to do--slowly and gradually getting ready to give birth rather than suddenly and chaotically.

I also know that I kind of felt like kicking things just a little bit on my way out.

Kicking the full moon. Stupid full moon. Why aren't you doing more??

Kicking my cervix. STUPID CERVIX. WHAT THE EFFFF?? LET MY CHILDREN OUT OF ME. It must be all those kegels I've done. I over-strengthened it. Damn.

Kicking the door to the waiting room. Just 'cause it's there.

TH asked me last night during our evening walk what kind of progress I was hoping for today. I told him I didn't want to make a prediction so that I wouldn't be disappointed if I didn't get the answer I was hoping for, but that I'd be fine with whatever unless I had suffered through a week of pain and discomfort and not sleeping only to be at like, a 1.5 and 35%.

When the doc announced where I was, I immediately felt my husband's hand on my arm. When I sat up, he rubbed the small of my back while we sat there and talked about next week with my doctor (you know, because he said his best bet is that he'll see me next Monday at my 40-wk appt. Resume kicking things.). While we talked about "how far we'd let things go."

You see, they won't induce me. All the risk factors for a VBAC increase with the introduction of labor-inducing or labor-augmenting drugs. And they really won't induce me if I'm overdue (apparently the risk goes up with each overdue day that ticks by). And they REALLY REALLY won't induce me if I'm overdue with a cervix that isn't doing shit.

So either I go into labor--on my own--in the next week, or we start talking about when I go under the knife again. And to be honest, I'm pretty over having major surgeries. Two in the last four years is plenty, thankyouverymuch.

I was really hoping I'd just go early with Dos and totally avoid the whole issue. Of having to worry about IF it was going to happen. Of going late and having to weigh everything all over again. Of not even being given the shot at all.

So anyways, as soon as we heard my "progress" my husband's hand didn't leave me. Sweet man. Damn if he doesn't know me so well. I'm sure he was looking around for things to clear out of my kicking zone.

The doc and nurse left the room and TH moved to wrap me in a huge hug . . . and I stopped him. I know myself well enough to know that sympathy at this point will only make me feel like there's something wrong, like there's something happening to me that I need sympathy for, and the truth is . . . there's really not.

I'm pregnant. (YAY!) With a healthy son. (YAY!) I'm due soon but not yet. (YAY!) I had a little progress over the last week. (YAY!) I am actually ahead of where I was with baby girl at 39 weeks and I went into labor on my own with her. (YAY!) In the meantime, I get a few last days of one-on-one time with my sweet baby girl. (YAY YAY YAY!) I get a few last days of feeling a baby move inside me, of having sweet Dos all to myself, all the time, safe and sound and well taken care of in there, without me having to worry about feedings and sleep deprivation and all the things that go along with a newborn. (YAYYYYYY!)

Yeah, my vagina hurt last week. It's in the process of separating. It's gonna hurt. I was being naive to think that the relatively minor discomfort I was feeling meant that something big was happening. If something big is going to happen, I'm going to feel it in a big way. I need to stop expecting this to be easy.

So yeah, I felt like kicking things. But it passed. I'm focusing instead on all the good things about where I am right now, today.

Keeping my head up, folks. That's pretty much all I can do.

A Letter to My Daughter

Sweet Baby Girl,

Tomorrow you turn 20 months old. And soon, baby brother will be making his way into our lives and you won't be our one and only anymore. I wanted to take a minute to write you a letter before this happens, to talk to you for a second, to commemorate and celebrate the girl you are right now, before your life changes forever.

You are my sweet sunshine. You are happy. And silly. And funny. And energetic. And opinionated. And strong and determined. And you are so, so smart.

The simplest things delight you. Our evening walks around the neighborhood, enjoying the pre-summer twilight temperatures, bring you pleasure to no end. You sit in your wagon with your container of blueberries and your cup of milk, and while your dad and I walk ahead, you prop both feet up on the side of the wagon, lean back, and soak it all in. Every time I look back at you, the wind blowing your gorgeous curls, you catch my gaze and break into a scrunched-nose, squinty-eyed look of sheer delight. You hunch your shoulders up and giggle at me and pop another blueberry into your mouth. I love that you are so delighted by the world around you. That you find so much pleasure in just experiencing it. I love that you share your delight with me.

You make my life delightful.

You love to laugh and you love to be amazed. Your favorite way to pass time at a restaurant while waiting on our food is to watch the "magic tricks" your dad and I perform, making rolled up pieces of straw wrappers disappear and reappear under our hands. You are the most social baby I've ever known. You say "Hi, people!" whenever you see anyone come around, and you are constantly grinning your grin at anyone and everyone who smiles at you . . . and baby girl, EVERYONE smiles at you. They just can't help it.

You are getting to be such a grown-up little girl. You know all your colors and shapes. You understand everything we tell you or ask you. You love to help us and play with us and snuggle with us, and you love to let us know exactly what you want and see how far you can push it. In other words, you are doing exactly what you're supposed to be doing as a toddler, and I'm so proud of how amazingly you are growing up.

I know, here pretty soon, a lot of big things are going to change. Baby brother is going to arrive, and you are going to suddenly have to share things you've never had to share before--our time and attention and laps and hugs and kisses and patience, just to name a few. Your dad and I are doing everything we can in these last few weeks and days to make sure that you know exactly how special you are to us. Your getting lots of park trips (your favorite thing right now!) and special treatment. This morning we went down to Zilker Park to play and ride the train. You had a blast running around and playing with all the other kids. You are so observant and love to interact with others, doing what they're doing and having them do what you do. Watching you play, it made me suddenly very happy to know that very soon we'd be giving you a lifetime playmate. You have so much fun with other kids, you are going to adore having a brother here to play with all the time.

So even though it may seem at first like you're losing something, I hope you know how much you're gaining as well. Someone new to love and play with. Someone new to love and adore you.

And know that these last 20 months with just you in my life, a single, perfect angel girl for me to love and dote on, have been the most amazing 20 months of my life. You have made me infinitely happier than I ever realized was possible before. You have made me laugh a million times. Your hugs and kisses make my heart melt, and I love nothing more in the world than to hear your sweet voice calling, "Mommy? Mommy?" or to hear you yell "Mommy!!!" and then run toward me, arms outstretched, when I pick you up from school.

You were and will forever be my first. You introduced me to motherhood. You taught me how to be a parent. You touched my life in a way no one has ever or will ever touch it again.

You are my sunshine and you will always and forever be my sunshine.

And you will always, always be my very special girl.

I love you,
Mom

I Dreamed a Dream of You

Last night, I dreamed a dream of you, sweet boy.

It wasn't a dream about the birth. I've had several of those and the birth always goes amazing and I wake up as you're being placed in my arms and I feel calm, knowing somehow deep down that everything will go okay.

This dream picked up after the birth. I had to go get you from the NICU. But I wasn't scared. Or nervous. I was just demanding that they let me have you. I knew in my dream it had been 24 hours since your birth and my arms ached for you.

(and then, in the funny way of dreams, there was some plot thickening where they couldn't find you. And then they did find you, in the daycare nursery, and you were already crawling. My strong baby.)

And then there you were. In my arms. Where you belong. And though crazy things kept happening around us in the dream (there was no car seat, so your dad had to leave us at the mall to go install one; your Uncle Brian kept trying to get your to wake up while you were napping, and so on), the chaos swirled around us and I stared down at you, smiling. You had dark hair and dark eyes and you looked back up at me, and we were calm. Nothing could touch us.

You were hungry and we laid down to nurse, and the milk flowed out of me on cue and you turned toward it, famished.

And I was swallowed in love and contentment.

Last night, I dreamed a dream of you, sweet boy. It wasn't a dream about your birth, it was a dream about what comes after.

It was a reminder that while it's true there's a bridge to cross, a bridge between my life with you inside me right now and our lives together on the other side, it isn't the crossing of that bridge that's important.

We will find each other. No matter the chaos that swirls around us, we will find each other and all will be right.

Every cell in my body tingles in yearning and anticipation. I can't wait to meet you.

New Post

That's what you click on to write a new post. New Post.

And that's what this is. I thought it particularly fitting considering my last post.

This is a new post. With a new attitude. A new outlook. And some new updates. And significantly less whining. Thank God. I wanted to kick my own ass, I can't imagine it was much fun to read.

I feel better. Sooo much better. I've slept really well the last two nights and feel rested and strong again. Not only physically strong (which I do--much of my discomfort, which was probably contributing to my sleeplessness, has subsided), but mentally strong, too. I no longer feel like I'm running on fumes. It's amazing what a difference that makes!

We had our 38-week appointment yesterday, and there's a TEENY TINY bit of PROGRESS! The last two appointments I've been just a fingertip dilated (read: not really dilated at all) with zero effacement. Not that I wanted early progress, but considering phase 1 of my plan dictates that I go into labor on my own, I was starting to get a little antsy. Yesterday I was 1 cm dilated and 30% effaced. Yeah, it's just a little progress, but it gives me hope that all that discomfort I've been feeling has actually been doing something. It also puts me about where I was with baby girl at 39 weeks, and I went into labor on my own with her, so it renews my hope and confidence that my body will do just what it is supposed to do, when it's supposed to do it. (In less-measurable progress, my boobs are once again filling up. They are warm to the touch and bouncy and I have cleavage again. Hello, milk!)

Our to-do list has slowly but surely been dominated. There are still a few lingering tasks (finish off organizing the nursery, pack our hospital bag), but the big things that were hanging over us (new pump parts, installing the carseat, etc.) have been done.

I only have one more week of work after this. The end is in sight.

I'm not swelling. My blood pressure is great.

And I'm once again reminded how thrilling this end game is. Yes, it's hard. It hurts. It's exhausting. It's emotionally unstable. But damn, how EXCITING to know that at any point between rightthissecond and two weeks from now, I'll start feeling contractions. I'll think for the second time in my life (for the first time), "Hmmm . . . is this it?"

And no matter what, within the next two weeks, Dos will be here in my arms.

A Whiny Post

One of the things I pride myself on is being a tough, positive person. I typically don't complain when others do. I try to look on the bright side of things, find the silver lining, appreciate experiences for what they are, when they are. I feel dragged down by complainers, by Debbie-Downers, by glum chums who just seem to want to bring others down with them. I strive to shake things off, answer with a smile, and keep all things in perspective.

With my first pregnancy, I was pregnant--through my third trimester--through the hottest summer Texas had ever had. Ever. By the end, I was huge and swollen and spent every evening with my feet up, trying to take it easy on my body. But even then, I was bewildered by all the bitching done by pregnant women all around me, by coworkers and strangers who seemed to expect nothing but misery from me. I got a lot of pity from everyone, and I enjoyed flashing a smile and responding with a chirpy, cheerful, "Actually, I feel great!" I liked bewildering everyone. I liked not joining the bitching masses.

But right now, all I want to do is become a card-carrying member.

I hurt. All the time. When I'm sitting, Dos is usually kicking my lungs or punching my bladder or stretching my belly sideways in ways that nature never intended. When I get up from sitting, my lower back shoots pillars of pain up, down, and sideways, making me hobble like an 80-yr-old. When I'm lying, my back hurts from lack of support AND Dos kicks, punches, and pushes.

Aside from the physical pain, I'm just gross right now. I leak and drip. I worry about standing up with a wet spot on the back of my clothes from the constant exodus of fluids and goo from my body. Lovely, eh?

I'm not sleeping. I'm awake every two hours or so all.night.long., either heaving myself out of my pillow nest to pee YET AGAIN, or trying to roll myself over to my other side to give my hips a break. If I lean too far forward, Dos protests the pressure with kicks and punches (and who could blame him? I wouldn't want to be laid on, either). If I lean too far back to try and support my back, my belly loses it's support and hurts from gravity pulling it down. When I balance just-so on my side, my hips take the brunt of the burden. Cue waking in two hours in pain.

I feel like crying pretty much all the time. This is a new development. Maybe it's the lack of sleep. Maybe it's my hormones gearing up for birth. Maybe I'm just tired of feeling like an invalid, like an 80-yr-old, like I can't do anything for myself anymore, like I'll never be comfortable again. I feel totally disconnected from my husband, which is no doubt the result of me being in a bad mood all the time. I mean really, who would be happy with a wife who's always upset? I try to be strong and happy, but I'm too busy at work. I'm too busy at home. I don't feel like we're ready, like our house is ready, like our to-do list is complete, like we've prepared ourselves for the birth, and the result is I feel like nothing is good enough and for someone who is used to having a prettydamngood grip on her life, this leaves me constantly frustrated. And I feel like he doesn't get it. Like he's not paying attention to what I'm going through. And that just makes me even more frustrated.

And all of this is only compounded by the fact that I REMEMBER not being so miserable 20 months ago. I REMEMBER being able to deal with it all, being happy, enjoying the last bits of my pregnancy. There are hazy, brief snippets--of working less, of swelling, of riding the electric carts at the store--that remind me that I was potentially actually doing less back then, actually maybe possibly even more unable to live life in a normal capacity than I am right now, working full time, not swelling, chasing around a toddler, doing it all. But even if I was doing less back then, I REMEMBER being happier.

I don't remember this feeling of being DONE.

I don't remember ever identifying with all of the whiny people of the world.

And that, of course, just makes me feel even worse.

So here I am. Joining the masses. I've officially become one of those whiny pregnant people. The self-loathing that comes with that is potent, but to add self-loathing to the slew of other dark and dirty emotions I'm dealing with right now just fits the bill, doesn't it?

Boo. Fucking. Hoo.

Phase 1

With that little full-term milestone behind me, there is really only one more milestone that lies ahead.

THE milestone. You know, the one that ends with a sweet, outside baby boy in my arms.

It's easy for me to gloss over labor and delivery, to think only of the end product. It's that mentality that helped me eventually get over the way my first experience went. It wasn't the process that was important, it was the outcome that mattered. So it's only natural for me to fall into that same, "it's all just details that lead to the goal: a healthy outside baby" mentality this time around. And in the grand scheme of things, that IS true. It really DOESN'T matter how he gets here this time. All that matters is that sometime in the next three weeks or so, he safely transitions from inside mommy's tummy to inside mommy's arms. The steps that happen between now and then are just details.

But it's equally true that there's a way I'd LIKE for this all to go down. I WANT to give birth vaginally. I want the experience of knowing that my body is doing what it was designed to do, of pushing, of crying while my baby is placed, howling, on my naked chest.

And knowing that, knowing how I WANT this experience to go, forces me to stop and think about the "details."

And as I see it, there's not just one milestone left. There are really three:

1. I have to go into labor on my own.
2. I have to dilate all the way to a 10.
3. I have to push the baby out.

I'll address the latter two later. Today all I can think about is the first one. The first step. The first test to pass.

Phase 1: I have to go into labor on my own.

The dangers of a VBAC begin to rise when you start to introduce labor-augmenting drugs. Things like pitocin, designed to force a woman's body to contract above and beyond what it would be doing naturally, only increase the chances of a uterine rupture in a VBAC attempt. It's not that I can't be induced, it's that actions like that change the safety/danger equation. So the first hurdle to overcome on the path to the birth I hope for is going into labor on my own.

I have no reason to fear that this might not happen (other than fearing that it just, simply, won't happen, for no reason whatsoever except that the universe likes to remind me that I can't control everything). I went into labor on my own with baby girl. I wasn't late. I didn't need any kind of jump-start until later, when things stopped moving forward on their own.

But even with no reason to fear it might not happen, still it's the first step, the first domino in the process, so it is on this step that all my attention is turned.

I can think about dilation later. I'll worry about pushing when the time comes. Right now, I just want to go into labor on my own.

I told TH last night that, with less than 20 days to go 'til my due date, 'til my doc starts getting concerned that I'm NOT going into labor on my own, it was time to start gradually doing things to help my body along.

And of course I have a plan.

I need long walks. Orgasms. And sperm. And they don't have to all happen at the same time.

Yep, I told my husband that. I'm so romantic.

It's not about connection at this point, it's about a biological process that I need his help with. The long walks and orgasms I can take care of myself, though it is admittedly way more fun when he's involved. The sperm I kinda need him to be around for.

I need my body to loosen up and for baby boy to drop (enter long walks). I need my uterus to contract (enter orgasms). And there's something in sperm that has been shown to help soften a cervix and prepare it for labor (enter . . . well . . . sperm).

Good thing my hubs is a champ and is willing to do whatever it takes to help me be successful. The green light for dispassionate sex where there are no stipulations for foreplay, taking things slow, making sure I feel loved and emotionally cared for? By golly he'll suck it up and do his part. What a team player.

So that's where we are. Eyes focused on phase 1. Plan in place.

Now if I can just maintain my sanity, my zen, while waiting for something to happen.

And so the adventure begins.

Full Term

Today I am 37 weeks pregnant. "Full term" in the medical world, which means Dos can come any time he wants to now and it will all be a-okay. You know. From a medical, developmental, health point of view.

And, I realized this morning, from a emotional, "mommy is ready to meet him" point of view, too.

It's true. With baby girl, I couldn't wait to meet her. I couldn't wait to smell her and stroke her sweet baby cheeks and snuggle her. But the idea of having a baby, of going from the life of two TH and I had always known to a life of three, still terrified me. I was stuck in this swirl of conflicting emotions--worry over her there at the end, desire to see her and hold her, and fear of leaving behind for good the only life I'd ever known.

And now? When I think about going into labor, when I think about the chaos it will undoubtedly throw our sweet little lives into, when I think about the permanent changes that will be wrought with that moment . . . I feel . . . ready. Far from the back-and-forth yes/no doubt, it's more of a "let's get this show on the road" feeling.

His room is still a wreck. His car seat is not installed yet. His bed isn't set up. Our hospital bags aren't packed. But my heart is ready. My mind is ready.

Maybe it's just the realization from having done this now once before that we really aren't ever going to be more ready than we are right now. Waiting another three or four weeks vs having him come sooner really isn't going to make anything any easier or harder. It's all going to be a hard adjustment no matter when it happens. It's all going to be the most incredible adjustment no matter when it happens.

So, it can happen.

Whenever.

I'm not doing anything special to get the show on the road. I'm not impatient. Not antsy. Just ready for him, whenever he decides he wants to come meet us. What a nice place to be.

One thing that has changed in the last few days: Dos now has a name. That's right! A name! After nearly 80 weeks of total pregnancy in my life, my husband and I have finally, FINALLY agreed on a boy's name.

No, I'm not sharing it just yet. We've done the whole, "everybody knows the name way early" thing. Now we're going to try the "everyone will just have to wait and be surprised when he arrives" thing. Exciting, no? :-)

But anyway, back to the name. With baby girl's name, when we said it, the clouds parted, the heavens sang, and we just knew. And that's what we both had kept waiting for with Dos's name. Where was the heavenly chorus?? We threw around hundreds of perfectly fine boy names, but not a single one of them felt right. They just felt . . . fine. Eventually we realized we may have to be okay with just fine. The heavens might not sing for us this time around. So we waited. And kept throwing out names. And kept seeing how they felt. And then last Thursday, as we went for a family walk around the neighborhood, we threw out another name. And something clicked.

We hadn't just decided on a name for our son. We had simply finally figured out what our son's name was. It was a moment where I finally thought, "oh! That's what your name is! Hi in there!"

And in that moment, he became one breath less mine and one breath more his own little man. He was no longer just the nameless mystery baby inside me. He was no longer just mine, with no identity of his own. He was now a distinct person unto himself. With his own, distinct name. He had his own identity, separate from me.

Such is parenthood, eh? A series of moments in which your child becomes more their own person, less yours. It made me feel sad and proud at the same time. Sad to lose forever that window we'd had where we were inseparable, but proud to have known this little man from his very first moment of self. Proud to bear witness to what he'll do in his life.

So here we are. Full term. Ready to meet our son, who now, finally, has a name, whenever he decides that he is ready to come meet us.

It is true I am approaching his birth with a feeling of much more calmness than I did with his sister. But it is equally true that there is not one ounce less excitement. Every cell inside me longs to hold him in my arms, wrapped tightly in a blanket, to stare in rapture at his sweet newborn face. To meet him. To kiss him. To never let him out of my arms. To sleep with his heart beating in time with mine.

And that's how I really know I'm ready. Because I've done the newborn thing once, and holyshitballs was it the hardest thing I've ever done. It took my breath away, left me gasping for air and mindless with worry and confusion and doubt.

And I can't wait to jump back into that sweet water and do it all again.