Really, Not That You Asked (2)

4:00 AM: Someone comes and gives me narcotics.  I immediately feel a little high.

4:30 AM: I get into the tub to hang out.  My contractions slow down.  A lot.  I can't be bothered to care.

5:45 AM: The narcotics start wearing off.  I can't have more yet.  Back to sobbing and pain.  We call the nurse and talk about epidurals. "I feel so bad!" I weep.  "About the epidural?  Oh, honey, you don't need to feel bad," she says.  "No I just feel awful," I say. I get out.  Every three fucking minutes again.

6:00 AM: Anesthesia shows up.  I've drawn a resident and her attending.  She hits something the first time and tries again.  Even in my haze, I think, sweetie, you get ONE more try and then so help me that ATTENDING is sticking me in the spine.  She gets it the second time.

6:45 AM: The epidural finally kicks in.  Bliss!  I can still move, but I'm not in excruciating pain any more.  I fall asleep.

7:00 AM: A hammer drill, a circular saw, and a drill start simultaneously outside my window.

Really, Not That You Asked (1)

When Bug was born, I was at a birth center with a couple midwives and a tub and one (1) ibuprofen.  I don't know why I feel the need to share Baby Bug's birth with you, but I do.  So here we go:

Sunday, 1 AM: I am woken up by contractions every ten minutes.

Monday: Repeat above. Walking around makes it worse, which only makes me want to lay down.

Tuesday: More of same. 40 weeks.  The midwives do a stretch-and-sweep; I am 2 cm dilated, i.e. HA HA HA.

Wednesday: Nothing is changing. I am exhausted.

Thursday, 11 AM: My water breaks in an entirely undramatic, dribbly fashion.  I go for a sulky 90-minute walk.  Every five minutes.  

Thursday, 7 PM: Every five minutes, lasting almost a minute.  Still sulky.  If I lay on the couch, I can pretend this is happening to someone else.

Thursday, 1 AM: Every three minutes for a minute.  Instead of being afraid of giving birth in a hospital, I actually want to go.  I call the midwife again and decide to meet her at L&D triage.

1:45 AM: Every three minutes and I am doubled over with pain.  Back labor!  Again!  The midwife examines me, but thinks my water has not broken.  2 cm.  I am in intense pain and clearly, it is doing NOTHING.  What the hell? She suggests that I walk around for a while. 

We see a young`couple come in.  "I just don't like this leaking, it's so gross!" she says cheerfully.  A first child, I think: if you think a little clear fluid is gross, wait for childbirth!  And after!  Also, she is waaay too cheerful to be in labor enough to be admitted.

2:30 AM:  I hear them sending the cheerful lady home with polite instructions to come back when she is in real labor.

2:45 AM: I am walking up and down the corridor, doubled over and sobbing my eyes out every time I have a contraction (every three minutes).  "Should I call the midwife?" the nurse asks.  "No, [SOB SOB SOB], I'll just keep walking [SOB SOB SOB noisy nose-blowing]", I say.  "Er... I think I'll give her a call,"  the nurse says.

3:15 AM:  The midwife examines me again.  3 cm.  Again, what the hell?  She looks at me having a nervous breakdown and vanishes.  Five minutes later, she comes back and says, "Your water definitely broke!  Let's admit you." I wonder if she has written "Reason for admission: 3 cm, ROM, completely losing it."

(More to come.)

Skeptical Baby

Well, thank heavens THAT'S over. (I was in labor for almost six days.)

Birth Stories

I have just been traumatized by hearing yet another birth story from a woman in her seventies.  All the ones in my vicinity feel the need to share about giving birth in the fifties and sixties.  Oy!  I barely know you people!  We make polite conversation about the weather, and then this?  (Though tonight, the husband said "And he was nine pounds, six ounces!"  The wife:  "Nine pounds, SEVEN ounces!  And I still remember all the havoc he wreaked on my parts!"  Me: "...ow.")

It reminds me of Dr. S's female relatives telling me about all their reproductive difficulties at our second wedding reception.  Look, I am all for shining a light on the facts of life, but I had met them all, for the very first time ever, not five minutes previously. 

My Mother Says:

Capybaras:

look just like Rodents Of Unusual Size.

Right Now

I am 39 weeks and 2 days pregnant.  I have no attention span and my everything hurts.  I wish to offer violence to persons who mention my whale-like proportions. 

If you want to know how I feel, use your imagination and then add a lot of swearing.

A Helpful Hint

Last week, when I got to the midwives' office, the two check-in kiosks were down.  To accommodate this, there was one (1) extra registrar. 

Since humans read aloud slower than they read a screen, the line was 30 people long.  It took 15 minutes; most people had planned to check in at the kiosks, so I, for example, was there 2 minutes before my appointment.  The building houses 22 different clinics, seeing hundreds of people per hour.  Every single one of them was running 15 minutes late.... at 9 AM.

Hint to the clinic: Your operational planning needs work.

Unanswered Questions

Q: Am I nauseous, in pain, and miserable because BABY is imminent, or... not, waaaah?

Q: Why is my toddler suddenly peeing in his pants all the time?

Q: Are we going to survive this?

Q: What was I thinking?


A: Who knows.

Not A Toddler

Sometimes- well, often, actually- I worry that my dear spouse will be unhappy with how little control he has over what goes on at home.  What's for dinner?  Whatever I say.  What is our toddler doing all day?  Whatever I say.  Are there carrots today?  No.  Need new clothes?  I buy them.  Will he please put up my coat rack?  Now?  Thank you. 

As I write it out, I realize that although these seem momentous to me- what the hell is for dinner tonight, anyways?- in an adult's life they're fairly insignificant.  He goes off to work all day to do whatever he wants.  As he frequently tells me, he couldn't care less what's for dinner, he loathes shopping, he thinks it's lovely that I cook, and besides, likes everything except shredded coconut, and Bug seems quite happy.  

I worry that he will feel infantilized, removed from control, treated like a two-year-old and told what to eat.  What I need is the ability to accept my spouse's sincere assurances that I am making his life more convenient and that if something is important, he will tell me.  But I can't help but feel that if our positions were reversed, it would all drive me a little crazy.

And this is why we marry people who aren't exactly like us, right?

I would just like to say

... I want my MOMMY.

(She'll be here in seven days.)

How Others See You

A mom-friend recently said to me, "You always dress so modestly!"  I was taken aback, because after that unfortunate frum period, it hasn't been something I often consider.  Yes, I always wear an undershirt; I don't want my stomach hanging out in public.  Yes, I own a slip; I prefer skirts to be opaque.  Aside from that, my wardrobe has a timeless un-stylishness springing from both indifference and poverty. 

And then I went to shul this week and a 14-year-old girl was wearing... a really short, tight skirt.  I was scandalized.  Great she's at shul, but inappropriate!  And a ten-year-old (boy) was wearing a t-shirt and shorts... with a blazer.  Also inappropriate! 

My assumptions, examined, seem to be that, during religious services where "jeans and a flannel shirt and a guitar" are not the norm, persons of the female persuasion should wear garments which at least reach towards the knee, and nobody should wear shorts, t-shirts, or garments through which underwear can be seen.  Nor do I wish to examine anyone's collarbones and clavicles in their entirety.  There's a woman who wears a nice, tailored suit every week*: very appropriate.  The Mrs. Rabbi** wears lovely fitted dresses sometimes, and they're very flattering, but not club attire.  The small tots wear whatever was in the closet and hork-free: also fine.

Anyhow, the whole exchange made me wonder how I look to others.  That weird chick who makes her own apple butter and is always wearing a knee-length skirt?  (In summer.  It's cooler.)  That person with a messy house and crumbs everywhere?  Tired frumpy mom chasing a toddler?  Barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen?  Who knows.

So what does it take to outrage your sensibilities?

*At first I couldn't decipher her gender, because I hadn't ever heard her talk, but she was called up for an aliyah: Rachael bat Sarah v'Malka [not her real name].  (Translation: she is a very butch lady, who also has two moms.)  Kind of cool.  Now I want to know what she does for a living.

** The rabbi is male, and his wife is also a rabbi. They are Mr. Rabbi J. Smith and Mrs. Rabbi L. Smith. (No, their names aren't really Smith.)

Religious Education

Since we've finally begun dragging ourselves to shul, Bug goes to the tot service on a fairly regular basis.  And he loves it.  I, on the other hand, find it just a tiny bit disturbing how deeply the lessons have sunk in.

The messages being conveyed are hardly offensive: be kind to others, respect the Earth, help your parents, take good care of animals.  But we had to make hamotzi on Friday night (bad Jews: we weren't planning to have any bread) because after I said kiddush, Bug started singing the camp song that we do ("We give thanks to God for bread..").  Today he requested that I sing the "Hallelujah song" in the car.  He regularly gives us a somewhat mangled rendition of Ma Tovu.  Yesterday he told Dr. S that something was a mitzvah (being nice to your friends, or something like that). Every time we drive down a certain road, he says "We're going to shul!!!"

I said all this to the spouse, who replied, "What did you think was going to happen?"

(Dr. S is a Presbyterian, but he's the one who told me it was time Bug got him some religion.  I'd been a bit lazy about it.)

Crazy Nesting Pregnant Lady

Today: I pulled up half the garden (the dead half) and finally put up all our mezuzot, while Dr. S made the third custom threshold (router! table saw! MORE router!), vacuumed out the car, and raked.  Then we went and got wood for a bookcase, installed the second carseat, and made dinner. In a little while we are going to fold six loads of laundry.

I am due in two weeks.  I think 'nesting' with one's second child is closer to "blind panic about not getting anything done for months."