Nesting

(some of us more willingly than others :-P)

He's so handsome when I'm putting him to work...

My nesting has gotten almost out of control. In the past month I must have washed our bed sheets sixteen times. I hate washing bed sheets. I don’t know why I keep doing it.

And it isn’t just washing things. It isn’t that I’ve taken apart every piece of baby equipment and run every piece of fabric the kid should come in contact with through the two-hour sanitizing deep clean cycle of the wash and it’s not that I’ve actually hand washed things for the first time in my life, and it’s not even that I’ve taken the batteries out of toys and disinfected the crevices of their battery packs with Green Works and cotton swabs. No, it’s not only that I spent SIX HOURS yesterday alone spraying and wiping and folding and reassembling and lint-rolling and Fabreezing. Cleaning is the easiest of it.

It’s that I’m actually losing sleep over not being prepared for this baby. I wake up in the night because of dreams that we’re discharged from the hospital without an infant seat. Or that suddenly I realize we accidentally bought a new van without enough seating space to fit another car seat. Oh my God, I wake up thinking, we don’t have room in our cabinets to store the baby’s bottles and breast milk storage containers. I’ll have to get up early to reorganize the kitchen cabinets in the morning. Let’s see, how many do I need to make room for? Did I even buy enough storage containers? Ugh! I still need breast pads! No I don’t. I got a huge container of disposable ones… Didn’t I? Or did I just consider buying them. I better get up and check now.

I have re-checked and re-counted everything that I own for this child at least two-dozen times. And every time I do, I remember something else that I really, really need. A Boppy pillow. A car seat. A nursing glider. More diapers. A hamper! An musical lullaby toy to attach to her crib! Toys in general. She has no toys! More blankets. She doesn’t even have a real comforter yet. When am I going to find the time to buy all of this stuff, let alone sew her a comforter to match that bumper?? And the bumper still has a tear in it. I’ll never remember to mend that before she comes. I could go into labor next week! I’ll be full term in less than ten days! What am I doing??

To make my anxiety even worse, there are too many other expenses to focus on. For instance, we’ve been waiting on the chance to buy a new vacuum for years and now that it’s finally made it’s way to the top of the priority list with all of the new carpet in the house, it kills me to think that two-hundred and sixty some dollars of potential baby supplies will have to go un-purchased for yet another week.

And even better?? The transmission on my van is gone. Entirely. Until Spencer orders a two hundred dollar part, some kind of control center thingy for the transmission is sitting in our garage, rendering our transportation un-transportable. So before the baby comes, we need to buy a new van, entirely.

But more than anything, I’m getting nervous about labor. I’m getting nervous that Spencer not being there for a good portion of it is a real possibility. I’m getting nervous that we won’t find someone to take the dog for his morning walks while I’m in the hospital. I’m getting nervous that I won’t know how to make it through the pain because I waited too long to take a Lamaze class and I can’t justify spending fifty-some dollars ordering an instructional DVD.

So today I am making a list of things I have to buy within the next two weeks; a list that will probably make my husband want to divorce me. Kind of like the list he laughed at me for making of questions for my doctor -- except worse, because this one involves money and an entire array of things he can physically point to and say “how can we possibly NEED this thing when I don’t even know what it is.”

Planning a Natural Childbirth

35 Weeks Today

Nine Months and Counting...

About mid-way through my first trimester I started making a mental checklist of things I’d like to do differently with this second pregnancy than I did with my first. I’d eat healthier, I thought. I’d resist the urge to buy anything until we knew the sex, I’d keep a more organized journal of this pregnancy, I wouldn’t drag Spencer to every single doctor’s appointment, I’d take way, way more pictures, we’d gradually buy the first 6-8 month supply of diapers and wipes before the end of the pregnancy… The list got pretty long, pretty quick.

With this being a second pregnancy I had a lot of anxiety in the first few months over this experience not turning out to be as meaningful as my pregnancy with Matthew was. I couldn’t shake the compulsion to compare every upcoming aspect of these special times to my first experience with them, and I couldn’t help concluding every time that this poor child was doomed to be overshadowed by her older brother before she was even born. To make matters worse, Spencer had the same anxieties that I had and not many of my close friends have a single child - much less reassuring advice to give about succeeding ones. So being able to use my previous experience as a jumping point toward making this pregnancy even better helped me to see the fact that I’ve done this all once before in a new light.

And so it came that I eventually starting thinking about delivery and made the decision that I was going to commit to having Scarlett naturally. I brought it up to Spencer (kind of expecting him to laugh at me), and was surprised when he actually loved the idea. A few months later, he even offered to take some birthing classes with me if I wanted.

My thoughts on having Matthew three years ago were that birth plans were fucking retarded. The books and articles all preach about how important it is to write up a birthing plan to give to your doctor, detailing the way that you want each step of your delivery process to go down. They say that it’s important partially because this is such a special day for you, and after all - you don’t want to be disappointed. Well, first of all, I was well aware that I had no idea what delivering a child was all about and I felt much safer in the hands of doctors and nurses whose lives have been dedicated to safely delivering children for years before I ever got pregnant. I also knew that natural processes like that of having a child are just unpredictable… who the hell am I to write up a list of wishes and expectations for my doctor and then to tell him “Now, this is how I envision my perfect birthing experience -- Let’s stick to the script here. After all, this is an important day for me.” He was there to deliver me a healthy child, not plan me a party.

So before you mistake me for one of those hippy moms, I want to clear the air. It’s really not about me needing to be in control or about me distrusting modern medicine. I don’t even have any regrets about the way that Matthew was born, epidural and all… In fact, if I had to describe my laboring process with him in a single word, it would probably be “fun.” I was able to go from falling to my knees in unimaginable pain to resting peacefully all night long while my body did work I was blissfully unaware of. Minutes before I started pushing I was laughing with my husband like it was any other day.

I will admit though, that being able to kind of “shape” my pregnancy this time around in a way that I wasn’t able to do with Matthew because he was my first and I had no idea what I was doing - has been nice. I’ve also really relished all of the differences that this pregnancy has brought to my repertoire of experiences. It hasn’t felt at all like just a repeat of something special that’s already run it’s course. Every different experience has been like a first of it’s own and that’s helped me to feel a special bond with this child instead of just thinking of it as “another” child of mine -- which has been my biggest fear all along.

Even though I’ve never been big on needing to control things, I realized after I had Matthew that every time I think back on it, my favorite part of the whole experience was being able to feel myself needing to push. Even more than I liked being able to cruise through otherwise mindfuckingly excruciating contractions. I liked that Spencer always kind of gives me kudos for coming out of my shell enough to argue with the nurse about needing to push before she mistakenly thought I was ready. My epidural had worn off just enough to allow me to feel the urge myself without having to be told by a monitor. I liked the feeling of being involved as apposed to just being instructed through the process like I was only a middle-man.

And, of course, there’s the ever-present reminder that this is my last chance to experience it, and to have a real story to tell. To have my husband coach me through til the triumphant end, instead of just ‘til the medication kicks in and I don’t really need him anymore. There are also some other factors that, as my mom puts it, makes me a perfect candidate for a good natural childbirth experience (taking into consideration, of course, that you can never 100% know what to expect): Like the fact that this is my second perfectly healthy pregnancy and second births tend to already be shorter and usually significantly less painful. And the fact that Matthew was already a very easy baby to deliver; I already knew how to push so effectively that even my first child was out in only a handful of pushes - after the nurse had warned me that first timers can expect to bear down repeatedly for around an hour and a half before seeing their babies.

The unfortunate part of this whole decision is that I am already at week THIRTY-FIVE (!!!!!) and haven’t been able to find any classes on natural childbirth for Spencer and I to take. I’ve tried looking for other methods of education on preparing myself for it, but haven’t had any luck. My mom (who’s lived through it twice before) and Spencer (whose opinion really doesn’t count for much) both tell me that I don’t need all that. But I know that I’m the kind of person who a placebo effect can really work on. Even if you give me a bunch of mumbo jumbo about “visualizing the baby peacefully descending painlessly down the birth canal” while my insides are ripping open like those airy doulas do on TLC, I’ll eat it up and swear it worked. But with there only being a few weeks left until D day and Spencer and I both working a lot before I start maternity leave, I’m kind of accepting that I might be on my own a little here.

I’m doing what I can to prepare my body the best that I can. I’m trying to read up as much as possible so that I at least know what to expect, and even though I feel stupid doing it - I’m writing up a list of questions to take to my doctor today for what will be the first of my now weekly appointments. (He already knows that I’m planning a natural delivery and he’s given me a little bit of information of what to expect will be different, but I still have some questions about how long to labor at home and how much free roam I’ll have in the hospital once I am admitted…stuff like that.) I’ve also finally picked up the pregnancy workout DVD that my friend gave to me in my first trimester, and I’ve kept at it every single day. I’ve read in a number of places that being physically fit especially in the last months of pregnancy can supposedly help your body to work more effectively through the birthing process so that both your body’s contractions and the effort you put into your pushes accomplish more in less time.

I don’t know… I guess we’ll just have to see how it goes. Feel free to wish me A LOT of luck.

What Brought Her Here

34 Weeks Along

Having a newborn around the house should be a breeze. I figure the hardest part of that is the whole waking up every two and a half hours through the night -- and unfortunately I already have that schedule down.
Effing Leg cramps. And back cramps. And practice contractions that feel like stomach cramps.
Like clockwork, every two hours. Sometimes I just have to lift or stretch my leg until it snaps then turn over and try to fall back to sleep on the other side. And sometimes I actually have to get up and stand flatfooted on the floor beside the bed to relieve a Charlie Horse. By the time I wake up in the morning, I’m popping my joints in and out of place like they’re bubble gum. Not one of the more enjoyable aspects of being pregnant, let me tell you.

I don’t want to say that this trimester has been miserable, because that couldn’t be farther from the truth. In fact, if anything - as much as I can’t wait to have her here - I’m still hanging on to these last few weeks with a slightly heavy heart. The idea of never being pregnant again, even though I don’t want to have anymore children, can still be a hard one to swallow some days. But just because I’m not dreading every second of my third-trimester symptoms doesn’t mean that they can’t be a REAL pain in the ass.

Matthew wasn’t so tough to carry. I’m thinking that maybe some of that can be attributed to it being a winter pregnancy, but I guess there’s no real way to know. In my last trimester with Matthew, I didn’t feel much, if at all, different from the way I felt in my second. My hands and feet weren’t swollen or itchy, my back wasn’t tight, and bending down to gather a pile off the floor with the dustpan didn’t involve gasping for air on the way back up like I’d just been kicked in the gut. If I had Braxton hicks contractions I never felt them and getting winded just didn’t happen unless I did something that justified feeling at least a little strained under normal conditions.

These days? These days I can’t drive to work without wanting to collapse in a heap on the doormat and fall asleep at the door. Bending down is a task that I dread like end of days. And every muscle under my skin is prone to some kind of cramp. I waddle when I walk (usually because I’m toting around - among other things - an everlasting gallon and a half of urine) and I can’t seem to maneuver sitting down without looking like Al Bundy. This baby established early on just how much space she requires to stretch out comfortably. Any attempt on my part to sit up straight - much less lean forward a little, usually results in a punctured lung and loss of oxygen. I’m exhausted beyond comprehension and, believe me, my patience is NOT what it used to be. I haven’t slept for more than three hours at a stretch in over two months, and it’s impossible to get comfortable even at my most relaxed.

My best attempt at looking even remotely femenine

while sitting down at the neighborhood park.

A heaping pile of complaints, I know. But it’s got nothing on how much I still love being pregnant. Even with all of the aches and pains and sleepless, uncomfortable nights strung together by irritable, uncomfortable days, I still fall apart every time she squirms around in there. I still love that if I must be uncomfortable, that it’s for her that I’m enduring it. I still love saying her name and wondering what beautiful meaning she’ll put to it someday. There’s just no way to look at a child the way that I look at my Matthew and hate any part of what brought them here.

Always my baby.