Women braver than me: the homebirthers

There was an interesting article today in The Washington Post about unassisted home births.  Apparently the trendy name for this is “freebirth” but I prefer not to use that because it makes me think of Free Bird.  And, although one of the women in the article does admit to having candles lit during her birth, that is a far cry from waving around cigarette lighters during the crowning.  (That is a nice visual, though, eh?)

The article is here and the follow-up online discussion is here.  I think the article is slanted against homebirth but the discussion is definitely pro-homebirth so it all evens out.

What do I think about unassisted homebirth?  I think to each their own.  I agree that the medical community can be extremely interfering during labor and delivery, sometimes to the detriment of the mother and child.  I can’t see how there can be any other explanation for this country’s skyrocketing C-section rates.  But I personally won’t be participating in homebirth, unassisted or otherwise.  My husband, the Alias Father*, would not be the most helpful partner.  He has actually asked if they can drape off my lower half during the birth because he’s afraid of passing out. 

And there is an actual danger of that.  We have reason to ground that fear in reality.

So, yeah, I’m going to need some help.

Of course, I happen to love my mellow, alternative-medicine friendly doctor and have heard from others that she is very respectful of delivery-room wishes.

*It just occurred to me to call him that.  I’ve been unhappy with all of the “my husband”s appearing all over the place here**, but not once did I realize that he could have a nickname, too.  I? Am an idiot.

**I was starting to feel like the woman in ”The Dingo Ate Your Baby” Seinfeld episode.  “Have you seen my fiance?  I can’t find my fiance?  Where could my fiance have gone?”

Oversensitive? Who? Me?

Me: Hey, thanks for the [really boring work-related thing].

My boss’ boss: No problem.  How are you feeling these days? Is the heat bothering you?

Me: Not really, but I am noticing that I feel it more than I did last summer.  Last year I was cold in the AC and now I feel warm all day.

Her: Yeah, it’s all that extra padding.  I went to a wedding this weekend and there was a pregnant woman there who looked fantastic.

Me: Oh?

Her: Yeah, she looked like she was right out of the pages of Vogue.  Just radiant and gorgeous.  Seriously, she was the single, best-looking pregnant woman ever.  I’ve never seen anyone look that good while pregnant.

*awkward silence while I stand there feeling hideous, well-padded, and sweaty*

Her: My point was that she looked flushed from the heat.

Me: Of course.

Friday Terror Watch: Unpleasant post-childbirth possibilities

I think I’m going to start a new regular feature.  Which will be my only regular feature.  Which all depends on whether or not I can remember to make it regular.  Which seems unlikely given my current inability to dedicate myself to anything for more than 20 minutes straight (usually because then I need to pee again).

Anyway, welcome to Friday Terrorwatch.  Here I will try to find the scariest things lying ahead of me in motherhood.  The blog entries that make me fear for my future.  The products that make my hands go numb in horror.  The teenage trends that make me start building a cage in the basement.  You know.  That stuff.

And this first one is a doozy.  If you want to know what really, truly horrible things can happen to a woman’s body during and after labor, go here.  But not while you are eating.  Or intending to eat.  Or thinking about cookies in any fashion.

The kind of realization that happens at 9:02 AM.

I just ran into one of my favorite colleagues at the coffee pot, one just a few (okay, seven) years younger than myself.

Me: I’m so freakin’ tired.

Her: Me too.

Me: Yeah, why? 

Her: The heat and gossip.  I didn’t get any sleep.

Me: There’s good gossip?

Her: No.  Gossip is a punk band.

Me: … Oh.

It was then that I realized that I am 32, pregnant, wearing white (!) capri pants with an elastic (!) waist, and a pink shirt.  I’d recently cut my long hair off for a “more practical” style and am wearing sensible shoes in case I get swollen ankles because of the heat.

Good god.  I’m old.

Caftans: perhaps their time has come

Once again I have been foiled by maternity fashion.  Those garments that look so reasonable online, yet so terrifying on my body, are a continual mystery.  But I keep trying because every day I outgrow something else and therefore come slightly closer to potentially showing up at work naked.

For example: it seems like everyone is wearing cute little empire waist shirts and dresses that should be perfect for pregnancy.  It’s like the fashion demi-gods decided that 2007 was the year of the Big Belly and hurray!  Because I have one of those now! 

In fact, when this look first started coming into fashion I got very excited.  Maybe I wouldn’t even need to buy maternity shirts!  I could sidle through pregnancy fashionable and adorable and not once touching those scary rayon floral tunics that I got as maternity hand-me-downs.

Um, no.  I couldn’t wear these things before I was pregnant (small shoulders + broad hips = big tent) and I can’t wear them now.   I can’t wear the non-maternity version and I can’t wear the (kinder, gentler) maternity ones either.

How do I know I can’t wear it? Am I sure? Yes, I’m sure.  Because I just tried on my one thousandth variation of this particular look.  And I still look like an oncoming bus.

It doesn’t get better as the belly gets bigger.  I just look like a closer, oncoming bus.

It’s back to the stretchy shirts for me.  As long as they keep stretchin’ I can remain clothed.

Taking a step back from the cranky and a leap forward into the panic

I’m feeling much better today.  My hair is still doing something disturbing but we can’t win ‘em all, eh?

Besides, I’ve discovered something horrible enough that it’s made even my burgeoning varicose veins seem like a nonissue.

The daycare that we had hoped to use–the one that’s half a mile down the street and that has successfully managed two children we know without any kind of scandal or noticeable damage–cannot take our kidlet.  There’s no more room at the inn.  It done full up with them infant types.  We, to put it briefly, are on our own.

We have some other options to check out, but none so convenient nor so well-explored.  This has started me down the well-worn working mother crisis path.

I don’t think it’s a bad thing for kids to be in daycare.  In fact, I think it can be great.  Every kid (with the exception of one) that I’ve known that has gone through it has seen big time benefits in terms of socialization and communication skills.  The one exception ended up in a place with a bad provider and her parents watched her personality change overnight.  But now she’s in a good place and has bloomed again.

Therefore, it’s safe to say that I don’t subscribe to the Bad Working Parent Tsk Tsk philosophy.  I think working is good.  In fact, if you look back at human history, we’ve pretty much been working with kids all along.  Those who glorify the Days of Motherhood Gone By aren’t real good students of history.  They also are ignoring some significant economic realities of our country, but I digress.

So, despite my belief that working is just fine, thanks, and is probably best for me I can’t help but fret…isn’t three months awfully young to go into daycare?

Man, that just seems really little.

And then I start thinking: maybe I shouldn’t work the first year.

And THEN I  think: oh, duh. I have to work because who do I think we are? Fancy upper class America? Also, I am the benefits provider to our little family and as all Americans know no health insurance = sign over the house and all other possessions right now because it ain’t far between a cut finger and owing a million dollars to a doctor somewhere.  So not working is not an option.

Then I start the mad mind rush down the ski slope of working from home options or flex hours or to-hell-with-it we’ll just eat Ramen for the next year and I’ll just stay home.  Because isn’t that what I keep hearing the good mothers do? They stay home?

But you know what?  I’m not going down that road.  I feel like all the endless mommy blather out there want me to go that way, down the path of guilt and recrimination and searching for the perfect solution.

But there is no perfect solution.  There never has been a perfect solution.  There never will be.  There’s just getting through it the best you can.

So I’m making the conscious choice to not go there.  I’ve got some more daycare providers to call.

In earlier times I would have blamed PMS

I’m tired as hell and want to crawl under my desk and sleep.

My hair is doing something weird.

I want the perfectly nice houseguests that have been here for four days to get out of my house.  Now.

I have a headache.

It’s raining outside.  AGAIN.

My to-do list makes me want to weep loudly and incessantly.

I’m pretty sure that everyone hates me, including my husband because he knew that I was folding laundry last night and he didn’t offer to help.  Not even once.  Bastard.

All my clothes suck and I think people are pointing and laughing at me in public.

In other words, I seem to be in a bit of a mood right now.  May I suggest trying again tomorrow for whatever you require?

Kids are so unappreciative

When I used to live in a city and take the subway everyday, I was endlessly amused by watching kids treat their parents like living jungle gyms.  They’d hang off hands, climb up legs, and launch across laps completely heedless to the fact that their parents were living, breathing human beings.  They were just trying to entertain themselves during a boring trainride using the most accessible toy they had.   

Recently I’ve noticed that I’m not only getting kicked and poked, but I’m getting kicked and poked in opposite sides at the same time.  Which means that the kid is stretching out in there, like my uterus is her own personal hammock. 

Apparently, this abuse of parental good humor starts early.

One more beating for the dead weight horse

Look out.  This is a long post.  And it revisits an old, old, old topic.  Feel free to skim.  Or skip.

I’m still working to regain my equilibrium around the whole “weight issue.”  I included quotes there because if I were telling you this in person, I would tilt my head to the side, raise my left eyebrow, and make air quotes with my fingers when I said it.  Because I am self-consciously ridiculous about this.

When I went to the doctor last time I learned that I’d gained 10 pounds between visits.  Those two visits happened to be 5 weeks apart.  That means I’ve put on two pounds per week.

Um, yikes. 

If I continue to gain two pounds a week, with 16 weeks to go until I hit the 40 weeks of a typical pregnancy…sigh.  That’s a lot of weight and puts me well over 50 pounds in pregnancy gain, which I don’t think anyone would argue is healthy for an average-sized woman. 

Plus, I am noticing that I’m gaining weight in areas that have nothing to do with the kid.  Chunky calves, anyone?

For a while I told myself that I was eating healthfully and that this was just what my body wanted to gain.  But….I have started to suspect that I maybe am not being quite as healthy as I’d like to be. 

So I’ve put my amateur nutritionist alter ego on the case and had her take a good, hard look at my diet.  I have one of those you know.  I thought for a while about actually becoming a nutritionist, but I’m scared of going back to school for all the chemistry stuff.  And who can blame me?  I just want people eat more greens.

Where was I? Oh, yes, the exhaustive, hideously boring detailing of my diet.  Right-o.

I figure that I can attribute about a pound a week directly to the baby–growing uterus, blood volume, giant inflatable boobs, what have you. 

It’s the second pound per week that I’m eyeing.

It takes 3500 calories to equal one pound of weight.  General medical advice recommends that you take in an extra 300 calories a day when pregnant.  To gain two pounds per week, I am intaking an average of 700 calories per week over what is recommended (Quick! Basic math time: 2 lbs. X 3500 calories = 7000 calories; 7000 calories/7 days= 1000 calories/day; 1000 calories – 300 good calories=700 bad, bad calories).

How does one take in 700 extra calories a day?  It’s easier than you might think.

I suspect three main culprits: juice, milk, and ice cream.

I never used to drink juice. But back about a month ago I had a serious juice jones and I got in the habit of drinking a big, ol’ pint glass every morning.  That is easily 400 calories.  I’m cutting it out of my diet, or, at minimum, cutting the amount in half. Calories saved from reducing amount: 200-400.

Then there’s milk.  I’ve started drinking a big ol’ pint glass of milk with dinner every night (I can see that our treasured pint glass collection [stolen from the finest bars in America!] is a major issue here).  I don’t want to skimp on the calcium, but given that I am also eating yogurt and ice cream daily, I think I can cut back to a more reasonable portion.  Milk is about 150 calories per cup. Calories saved: 150.

And, the ice cream.  Oh mercy, I love ice cream.  Back in the good ol’, pre-pregnancy days I practiced a little discipline known as portion control so that I might enjoy this nectar of the gods.  Ice cream is roughly 250 calories per half-cup serving.  So I used to eat half a cup.  Easy, peasy.

That lil’ portion has been creeping up over the last few months and I’m now up to about a one cup serving.  Bring it back down to normal size and calories saved: 250.

I think we just found my 700 calories a day.

I don’t want to be one of those crazy pregnant ladies that is obsessed about the weight gain.  But if I can end this thing with a 35-40 pound gain instead of a 50-60 pound gain then won’t that just be better than everyone?

And for sticking with this post, you get a gold star.  And perhaps a handful of high-in-antioxidents blueberries.

The walking! It hurts!

I’ve reached the point where I am starting to notice the difference carrying a kid around inside myself is making in my everyday life.

My back is hurting.  Yoga helps, but I’ve gotta remember to do it (my biggest problem with yoga.  When I do it regularly I feel fantastic, yet I never seem to manage “regular” for more than three days in a row). 

My feet are hurting, even though I have now sadly foresaken all high-heeled shoes.

My face is filling out and my cheekbones are beginning to go missing.

Um, varicose veins? Anyone? Anyone? Sigh.

But the real problem is the walking.  I’m a big walker, and it’s starting to lose its appeal.  Hauling myself around at a brisk, or even not-so-brisk, clip is clearly a thing of the past.  I’m moving slower and finding myself less annoyed when the dog wants to stop every three feet to sniff a bunch of grass.  Sniff away, little doggie.  I’ll just stand here and wheeze for a while.

And hiking–my favorite summer pasttime–has become challenging to the point of ridiculousness.  Not only am I moving like a scared old lady because I don’t want to slip and fall but the reduced lung capacity makes it feel like I’m hiking in high altitude all the time.  This past weekend a little 500 foot “mountain” felt like about 9,000 by the time I got to the top.

Feet hurt.  Lungs hurt.  Back hurts.  Ankles and knees starting to feel it. 

It’s like I’ve aged 30 years in 24 weeks.  What’s the situation going to be by 40 weeks?  Will I be puttering around town in a Rascal Scooter?