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.

I think I'm Finally Losing It

My mind that is.

They say that people who suffer from dehydration start seeing things, hallucinating about cool, delicious water.

I think I'm finally suffering from dechocolation. The lack of chocolate. Yes, I gave it up willingly. No, I don't regret it. But I'm sitting here at my desk and I can literally taste the cold, sweet, hard bite of chocolate in my mouth. It's like in some alternate universe very close to this one, I'm sitting there eating slightly chilled, dark chocolate chips. I can feel it.

25(ish) days to go, my sweet, sweet friend.

Why Extreme Jugglers Don't Blog

I miss this. Sitting down to chronicle my life. Document my experiences. Hell, I miss having a single, coherent thought to sit down and chronicle. But such is not my life right now. I am busy, running around trying desperately to keep up with a crazy work schedule, a thrillingly, awesomely energetic and inquisitive toddler, a house that needs upkeep, laundry that needs washing lest we all go naked or unfashionable, and a to-do list that sometimes seems to grow rather than shrink. All with a body that just seems to be getting larger, slower, and more protesting (protestant??) with each passing day. I'm proud of the fact that so far I HAVE been able to keep up fairly well, but some things have had to give. Blogging being one of them. Coherent self-reflection being another.

Which is a damn shame, because I really wish I had time to sit and just reflect right now. So many things are about to change. So many times I've had a fleeting thought and made a mental note, "I should do a post about that." Only to have that thought drowned in the next second by the 33,534,61 other things that sprint through my mind these days.

A letter to myself, for me to read during the newborn crazies, reminding myself of all the sane things that I would have liked to be reminded of last time.

A letter to my son, before he's born, capturing all of our dreams of him in the brief window before we actually get to meet.

An update on the pregnancy, the nursery progress, the showers and labor preparation we've done and all the excitement that I can feel building within me about the next 3.5 weeks.

And not to be forgotten, an update on my sweet baby girl, who delights me every second of every day. She is brilliant. She astounds me with what she knows, what she says, what she understands, what she can do. At 19 months, her vocabulary is probably approaching 250 words? More? She knows all her colors . . . even the obscure ones like grey. She makes up stories. She picks out her own clothes. She tells us what games she wants to play. She rationalizes. She compromises. She is the most incredible thing I've ever witnessed.

But alas. There is no time for it all. No mental capacity. I work overtime. At nights and on weekends. TH and I make spluttering attempts to keep up with our birth preparations, our relaxation exercises, our Dos to-do list that was hoped to have been completed by 30 weeks. I go to my doctor's appointments (I'm already at my weekly appointments! Can you believe THAT?!?! As of today, a fingertip dilated. eep.) and the elation I feel at seeing Dos again, at being told everything looks right on track, is soon covered with thick layers of the rest of my daily life. Even this entry, now, is only because I finished my work for the evening and my husband is at the office late. Otherwise we'd be spending time together.

How amusing that my life will actually slow down once I have a newborn.

And now I check the clock and see that it's after 9. And I know that it's bed time if I have any hope of getting up in the morning and continuing my juggling show with any hope of keeping the balls in the air rather than crashing down all around me.

G'night, Ned.

35 and 35

Yesterday I reached a fun little pregnancy milestone: 35 weeks pregnant and only 35 days to go!

Funnily enough, the last time I wrote a 35/35 post, I actually had a baby exactly 35 days later, an accuracy that is highly improbable, especially two times in a row. So now it's time to place bets: do I have longer or shorter than 35 days to go until we get to meet sweet Dos?

This time around, the 35-week threshold seems more momentous than it did the first time (or maybe I just don't remember so vividly this feeling of going to sleep one night with still "plenty of time" and waking up the next morning thinking, "holy crap, it's coming soon!"). 34 weeks pregnant? That's still in the early-30's. 35 weeks pregnant? EEK!

Other differences: this time around, I'm tired. Like, really tired. The first time, I was only working 4-day weeks by this point, taking off every Monday so that I had a day to recuperate from the weekend and have doctor's appointments and what not. This time, I am still working a full work week AND chasing around my rambunctious little toddler to boot. No wonder I'm more tired, more achy, more crampy, more emotional. I miss the luxuries I had my first time around, but my work schedule and new company rules regarding vacation days and maternity leave just don't allow me to take the time off like I did two years ago.

Eh. C'est la vie.

35 days 'til due date. Or fewer. (or more, but please god don't let there be more.) 35 days left of our brief little stint as a ridiculously happy family of three. I had a momentary breakdown last night, crying as I thought of us turning the page on this chapter of our lives. We are so very happy right now. So happy. And relative to what our lives are about to become, everything right now is so fun and easy. I love having us both be able to devote all of our attention to our little girl. I love one of us being able to steal away for some alone time, or sleep in, while the other takes her on solo. I love the attention she gets, the focus, the love, the games, the time, the conversations we have with her. Soon (35 days or fewer, right?), she won't be our one and only. Soon she'll have to share us for the rest of her life. And that breaks a small part of my heart.

TH, amazing and perfect and just what I need, as usual, reminded me that I don't miss life with just him and me anymore, and the same will hold true for our new family of four. Dos will come and we will adjust and soon we will be even happier than we are now, as hard as that is to imagine.  And we will be giving baby girl something even greater than she has now, someone new to love. Someone new to love her.

And I know he's right.

So, 35 days to go. Before the end of this era and the beginning of a new one. Before the end of "only child" and the beginning of "big sister." Before the end of three and the beginning of four. 35 days left to savor what we have now and to prepare ourselves, and look forward to, what's to come.

What an amazing little window in my life.

It's My Blog, and I'll Whine If I Want To

Because I'm sparing the FB universe of my incessant thoughts about my week off, you get it here. My mental dumping ground. That's what this blog was started for, afterall, isn't it?

Baby girl is spending the week with my parents. Three hours away.

This arrangement was initially planned months ago, when we realized TH would be taking one last international business trip while I was very pregnant. I thought it would be a great way for me to get one last little break before my life becomes exponentially busier and more tiring again. And then on his last international business trip (just two weeks ago. Boo on his work right now!!), I had crazy braxton hicks contractions every night. Like, so bad I sometimes had to get on my hands and knees to get through them. It was just me trying to do it all, trying to do too much. I wasn't resting enough, wasn't drinking enough, wasn't sleeping enough. And my body paid the price.

So anyway, this break turned out to be not only a luxury but a smart move in the long run. My body gets a break. My baby girl gets a vacation to spend with her favorite G-Mommy and Granddad and Aunt Kaybee.

So there's the context. And here's the whine.

Day two of her being gone is way harder than day one. On day one, I got up and relished getting ready with the radio on, the lights on, me singing and dancing my way through my morning routine, with only my cats around to be disturbed and think that I've gone crazy. I got to work early with a full, healthy lunch packed. I was able to work late and even get a little ahead of a deadline I've got this week. I got to eat exactly what I wanted for dinner and not have to worry about if anyone else would like it. I made some food for a friend of mine, dropped it by her house, spent some time on the interwebz, and still had time to watch a full hour of Grey's Anatomy before going to bed. Yes, I missed her. Yes, I still measured my day according to her schedule (it's 8 a.m.! I wonder what she's eating for breakfast. It's 12:47. I hope she went down for her nap okay. It's 4:30--usually I'd be rushing out of the office to go pick her up. It's 5:50--I hope she had a great dinner and is charming the socks off of her great-grandparents!). And yes, I demanded my mom and sister send me pictures throughout the day of their activities so that I could soak up her adorable smile and see how much fun she was having. But I still was able to take a deep breath and enjoy my solitude.

And then today I woke up, and the first picture my mom sent me of her made me ache. Like, physically ache. Eff getting ready with the radio on. Healthy lunches are stupid. Who cares if I'm at work on time. I miss my baby. I haven't heard her laugh in like . . . 36 hours. I want to hold her pudgy little hand, chase her around the house, kiss her squishy cheek, and have long, delightful conversations with her.

So yeah. Day two is harder than day one. If things continue like this, by the time Friday rolls around, I'm going to be an incoherent, gibbering mess, clicking through pictures of her, reading my old blog entries for all her cute anecdotes, watching videos, and clutching one of her dirty socks to my breast.

Thought for April 1

Holy shit, I'm having a baby next month.