Is everyone on the edge of their seats yet?

I didn’t mean to make it that dramatic!  The hospital has wireless, but it didn’t work in my room and I wasn’t about to wander the halls.  I had a few other things going on.

The short version of the story:

I’m thrilled to announce that at 8 o’clock on Monday night, I gave birth to a (brace yourself) 10 pound 5 ounce, 22 inch baby girl.  She’s tremendously fat with big Baby Buddha cheeks, thighs that every nurse described as “meaty,” a funny little squeak that lets you know she’s awake, and giant basketball player feet.  She’s my favorite thing ever, and that’s not just the hormones talking.

Around here I’ll probably keep calling her The Kid, but just this once–just because it’s Thanksgiving and not only am I thankful that I have a little Buddha Baby but also that I get to sneak a teensie glass of wine with dinner–I’ll let you know that we named her Annabel.

The full birth story will follow and it’s a doozy.  It’s got the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat, and a surprise twist ending.  But for right now, I just wanted to share the news.

And also let you know that despite the fact that I have lost over 20 pounds in three days, my boobs are now truly gigantic.  (What? You want sentimental?  You’ll have to go somewhere else.)

41 Weeks, 2 days: Talkin about my innnnduction

That was supposed to be a reference to the “Talkin’ about my generation” song. You got that, right? No? Too obscure? Well, it was funny in my head.

I realized after reading some of the comments to the last post that I never really explained why I changed my mind on induction. I sound unexcited about it, I know. I’m not thrilled. I feel, frankly, like a failure. A broken failure of a woman. And it’s not what I planned. But whose labor is what they planned? Things happen. And things did happen. Here’s a rundown of our basic concerns that drove our decision:

1) My doctor is going away for Thanksgiving. I know, I know. If you had told me a few weeks ago that I would consider a “convenience” induction, I would have sneered. But that’s not strictly what this is. Yep, my doctor’s going away. So is the midwife of the practice, who I’ve met. The covering doctor is one that I’ve never met and who, by reputation, has a much more medicalized approach to childbirth. So my options were to be induced and go with someone I know, like, and trust, or head off into the unknown–which might still include induction–with someone I’m uncomfortable with. Remember, I live in a very small town. My practioner options are limited. Very limited. I made the best decision I could in the absence of a crystal ball.

2) My c-section risk is low. I know that the nationwide c-section rate is between 30-40%, depending on the source of your stats. I know that up to 50% of inductions end in c-section nationwide. But those are not the stats of my hospital. The c-section rate here is 15%. Induction c-section rate is 20%. I know. I asked. It made me much more comfortable.

3) The risk to the baby is growing daily and it’s personal. I am now 9 days past my due date. I’m not high-risk yet, but I’m headed there. Once again, I am in a small hospital in a small town with limited staff. Should anything go wrong, really wrong, I would need to be transported–by helicopter–to the nearest big hospital. And we might not make it in time. We know this because it happened to friends two years ago. They went 2 weeks and 1 day past their due date. The placenta had already begun to degrade and, because they waited until very late in labor to go to the hospital, the distress of the baby wasn’t caught until late in the game.

Their baby didn’t make it.

Yes, what happened to them is rare. But I assure you that once you see someone lose a baby like that, it sticks with you. The further and further we went down the overdue path, the more our concern grew. Finally I decided that my stress over whether to have an induction paled in comparison to the stress I was having over whether the baby was okay in there. No matter what the non-stress test told me.

These are our reasons. It wouldn’t be enough for everyone, but it was enough for us.

Anyway. I just returned from the hospital where I was given the prostoglandin gel and my membranes were stripped (which hurt a lot, for the record). I was dilated one centimeter, which means it took me five days to go from “fingertip” to one centimeter. Also, my blood pressure is starting to rise. After the gel was inserted, The Kid threw the biggest temper tantrum that it’s possible to have in the womb.

I’m not progressing. She’s not willing to leave. I think I made the right decision.

I had to be monitored for an hour before leaving, during which time I had four minor contractions. I am continuing to have them, though they are mild. Let’s all cross our fingers that this is the start of something big and that the Pitocin won’t even be needed.

41 Weeks and not so perky

This has been one of my most frustrating weeks in history.  Instead of feeling connected to my body, which I thought would be one of the benefits of pregnancy, I’ve never felt so disconnected.  I have no control over what is going on here. 

I keep feeling like there is something I should be doing.  Whenever I sit down I think I should be standing up.  If I’m standing up, I feel like I should be moving.  If I’m moving, I feel like I should be moving faster.  But, then again, I’m absolutely exhausted so I think what I should be doing is relaxing.  Because when am I going to have the chance to relax again?

I’ve tried it all, folks.  Every trick in every book.  Except for the castor oil because that’s just frightening.

But deep down I know that it doesn’t matter what I do.  It doesn’t matter if I’m walking or sitting or guzzling castor oil.  I cannot control this body at all.  This kid is going to arrive when she wants to arrive regardless of what I try.  When my body is ready to go into labor, it will go.  Which makes me even more nervous for Monday’s looming induction. 

Because what if it doesn’t want to go even then?

Fabulous! A distraction!

Today is my last day of work.  I decided that since I wouldn’t be back on Monday, I at least deserved a long weekend before giving birth (aaaaand I just guaranteed that I will go into labor tonight.  Hooray!).  For the record, my boss just walked down to my cube, looked over the wall, and said, “For god’s sake.   Enough is enough.”  So, yes, it is definitely time to go.

Before I do, however, I just noticed that the lovely and funny Caley tagged me. I’ve cleaned off my entire desk for the first time in two years and am totally at loose ends but it’s still a smidge early to justify going home, so here goes:

What I was doing 10 years ago: Breaking up with Alias Father.  We’d gotten together as a “summer fling” and had both proven completely incapable of flinging.  However, I’d just moved to a city far away from him, I didn’t want him to join me, and we were in very, very different places.  I don’t remember much about the conversation except that there was much dramatic crying and many stupid, angsty 22-year-old comments like, “I need to find out who I am before I can be with anyone else!”  He showed up a week later and nearly gave me a heart attack by banging on my window at 2AM in a desperate, romantic attempt to win me back.  It didn’t work. (Potential stalkers, please note: do not do as he did.  He was exceptionally cute and could get away with it.  You would be arrested.)  Also at this time I was thoroughly enjoying happy hours, bar scenes, and trying to dress professionally on a salary of $23,000/year.  Yes.  IN A CITY.

What I was doing 5 years ago: Trying to settle back in my home state, five years after I left swearing that I would not again live in such a cold, podunk-y place ever again.  Turns out that cities? Not so much my thing either.  Also, I was working on building a five year, on-off “thing” with Alias Father into an actual relationship despite still living several hours apart.  This is the year that I learned that being completely independent and unbeholden to any other human being was fun and all, but it was also nice to have someone to talk to at the end of the day.  AF would propose six months later.

I was also rediscovering the joys of hiking, homemade soup, and spending Sunday afternoons reading.  I consider this time of my life to be a time of “softening” all my sharp edges.

One year ago: We moved into our home, a place so throughly under construction that we referred to our life as “glorified camping.”  We spent much time drywalling, sawing things, and screaming at each other out of sheer frustration.  It was miserable, uncomfortable, vaguely terrifying, and some of the best fun ever.  It was also during this time when we thought life wasn’t quite complicated enough and that we should start thinking about trying for a kid after the new year.

Yesterday: Much fuss and discussion at the doctor’s while we tried to figure out how to handle this uncooperative, refusing to budge child.  Finally we scheduled an induction for Monday, a decision that I immediately began sceond-guessing.  Then I went home and tried to call every I knew out of pure anxiety, but no one was answering their phone.  So I left about 50 messages like this: ”Hi.  It’s me.  I’m just checking in to let you know that I’m still pregnant.  Yep.  Still pregnant.  Me.  Pregnant.  That’s all.  Bye.”

Also, I had pizza for dinner.

5 snacks I enjoy:  Mmmm.  Snacks.  Fruit of any kind, tortilla chips, raw red peppers, really buttery popcorn, and (I’m embarrassed to admit this) Pringles.  God, I love Pringles.  What do they put in those things, crack?

5 things I would do if I had $100 Million: Pay off everything we owe because I am a cheap Yankee and debt gives me hives; finish the %&$*^# house; invest the vast majority so I could live off an annual distribution (I’m not only cheap Yankee, I’m a cheap and boring Yankee!); give a good bit to my favorite charities; and travel, travel, travel.

5 places I would run away to: St. John, Virgin Islands; Venice, Italy; New York City; California wine country (never been there, but sunshine and wine sound good to me!); and the coast of Maine.

5 TV shows I like: Project Runway (thank you TV gods for bringing this back for my maternity leave!), Bones (oh, David Boreanaz…), the Amazing Race (I really want the Goth kids to win.  I also want that mean dad to shut up and stop picking on his daughter), Pushing Daisies (a little cloying, but they always pull it out at the last minute), and The Soup, which is the only E! show that I can stomach.

5 biggest joys of the moment: foot massages at the end of the night; “family time” on the couch with two people, two dogs, and a pushy cat; the realization that this my last day of work for three months; ice cream; and the anticipation of meeting this squirmy, long-legged, pointy-butted, stubborn little babe in person.

40 weeks, 6 days: One of the traits we’re hoping she gets from me

There’s a list of things that the Alias Father hopes he has won the genetic lottery on. He’s hoping the kid gets his height (from the way he goes on about it you’d never know I am a completely respectable 5′7″), his athletic ability (which is totally necessary if she gets the height. Otherwise we are looking at years of a gangly, bruised up girl), and his artistic talent (the man can build, fix, or create anything. I am baffled by kindergarten-level crafts).

There are a number of my traits that I’d like to root for as well, including my nose (his is fine; it’s just very manly), my communication abilities (sweet AF isthe world’s worst speller), and my more mellow reaction to bad drivers.

Oh, and one other thing. The thing that some people call “procrastination” but that I euphemistically describe on my resume as “deadline orientation.” I hope she gets my deadline orientation.

Because we just set her a deadline.

After talking with my doctor, and having a long heart-to-heart with the nurse and former midwife that was giving me the nonstress test yesterday (oh yeah, forgot to mention that. Baby’s fine in there), we decided to go ahead and schedule an induction.

I’m not thrilled, but I’m at peace with the decision. Mostly because at least there has been a decision. We are scheduled for a Monday induction, which will put me at 10 days overdue. That seems a respectable amount of time to allow the babe to head out naturally while allowing us to have my doctor deliver the baby.

Also, that means I’ll be out of the hospital on Wednesday and thus available for Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday. (Which I am not cooking, oh no.) And if you think that a little thing like childbirth is keeping me from stuffing and pumpkin pie, you are sadly mistaken.

We go in on Sunday afternoon for the prostaglandin insert, then get to go home and wait. My doctor tells me that in her experience, this is enough to get things started in roughly 40% of patients. If it doesn’t work, we head in Monday at 7 for my hot date with the Pitocin drip.

Which I don’t really want. So come on, little girl. Let’s see that deadline orientation. Make mama proud.

40 weeks, 5 days: Slow progress is still progress

Yet another doctor’s appointment.  Do you think they are as sick of me as I am of them?

Anyway, some progress.  I am slightly effaced and a “fingertip” dilated.  Encouraging, but not exactly thrilling.  We’ve got to start seriously talking about inducement options.  But I am not ready to surrender yet!

I’ve got my raspberry leaf tea, plans for more walking, and am even, yes, it’s true, gearing up for sex.

Clearly, I am getting desperate. 

These people are, like, totally harshing my Zen, dude

I kept my “everything is fine; the baby will come when she’s ready” calm pretty well yesterday.  Until the phone calls started.

First was the Alias Father, who wanted to know if I had been massaging my accupressure points religiously.  And gone for a walk.  Did I plan to go for a walk?  How about two walks?

Then it was my mother.  She also wanted me to walk.  And how about some of those teas?  Aren’t there teas that can help induce labor?

Then the sisters.  And the friends.  And the on and on about walking and showers and spicy foods and sex.  Did I know about the sex?  That sex can start labor?  How about some yoga?  Wasn’t there some secret yoga move that would trigger labor?

How was I supposed to stay relaxed and in tune with the kid with this kind of racket?  By the end of the day I was so jumpy that I was convinced every twitch and twinge was a sign of labor. 

WHICH IT WAS NOT.

I went back to work today just to get a break.  And my coworkers have pretty much left me alone.  I must be sending off a vibe.  I only received one suggestion.

My next door cube mate told me that her sister, who has six children, jumpstarted each labor with a gin and tonic–on doctor’s orders.

I think that’s one suggestion I just might take. 

40 weeks, 3 days: Waiting for Godot

As I’ve mentioned before, I was an English literature major in college.  There are those who argue that this is one of the more useless degrees, but I have found that those people usually grow up to be real estate agents or stock analysts and thus I pay no attention to them and their lack of a soul.  I myself am very glad that I was an English major, and not just because I learned how to think critically and communicate clearly.  And footnote properly.  Let’s not forget the importance of a proper footnote.

No, one of the great joys of being an English major is that you absorb so much literature so deeply that it tends to pop back up throughout your life when you need it most. 

My marriage to Alias Father four years ago was a tremendous leap of faith, in that despite knowing each other for six years we had never actually lived closer than a few hours apart and that, for the most part, our courtship was marked by ongoing bad timing, periods of dating other people, and lots of wishy-washiness.  We decided to get married in April, actually got hitched in October, and in the intervening six months I felt like my life was moving faster and faster and spiraling completely out of my control. 

The day I moved all of my things to his town (three weeks before the wedding) was a particularly scary one for me.  I remember sitting in my car on the side of the road, nearly hyperventilating from being both thrilled and panicked, convinced that I was doing the right thing, but equally convinced that this could totally ruin my free-spirited life.  At that moment, I remembered a scene from Jack Kerouac’s The Dharma Bums when the main character is hiking down a mountain.  He begins to pick up momentum and soon finds himself sprinting down a rocky hill, terrified that he is going to crash but unable to stop.  Suddenly he gets that sweet, sudden endorphin rush that can hit in the presence of sun, execise, and mountains and realizes that he is completely wrong.  He isn’t going to fall, simply because “It’s impossible to fall off a mountain, you fool!”  Of course it is!  You won’t fall, you can just move faster and faster, leaping from rock to rock, trusting that gravity and the universe will keep you safe until you get home. 

That line became my mantra, and as I drove the few hours to my new life I repeated it over and over and, in fact, repeated it again in my head as Alias Father and I walked together to get married in front of a large crowd of people who loved us but thought that we were generally off our rockers.

I had another one of those English major moments this morning as I lay in bed, contemplating yet another day of being pregnant.  I was laying on my left side, belly braced against a pillow.  My left arm was dead asleep, my shoulder was aching like crazy, and I had pillow marks in my face so deep that they hurt.  I was tremendously uncomfortable and desperately wanted to flip over, but the herculean effort of shifting this gigantic belly over to the other side, rebuilding my pillow nest, and resettling was completely beyond me.  I knew I wasn’t going to sleep more where I was, but I just couldn’t face moving.  So I lay there, completely defeated, feeling like I could not handle another minute, let alone another possible week or more, as a pregnant lady.

So I thought of Samuel Beckett.

I mean, who wouldn’t?

Well, real estate agents and stock analysts probably wouldn’t.  But I did.  Beckett’s constant theme was that our lives are essentially spent just waiting.  Waiting to be happy, waiting to die, waiting for enlightment that never really comes.  Just…waiting.  All of the things we do every day–the jobs, the housecleaning, the jokes, the parties, the sex–just fill the time while we wait.

And boy, was I doing some heavy duty waiting this morning.

So my favorite Beckett line came back to me.  This isn’t actually from “Waiting for Godot” but is actually from, I think, the novel Murphy. In it, the narrator feels that this whole life thing has just become completely overwhelming.  He can no longer continue with this pointlessness, this endless series of repetative tasks that serve no purpose other than to get us through the day.  So in despair he mutters, “I can’t go on.” And then, “I’ll go on.”

And this morning that made perfect sense to me.

I can’t go on.  I’ll go on.

It’s true that I can’t stand being pregnant anymore.  But it’s equally true that I will stand being pregnant, because what are my other options?  So I flipped myself over with plenty of Beckett-appropriate groaning and muttering and got on with the waiting on my right side.

I have today off because of Veteran’s Day.  I’m going to clean the kitchen.  I’m going to bake banana bread.  I’m going to fold all the laundry.  I’m going to watch some bad TV and read a bit, though I don’t have much attention span right now.  I’m going to take the dogs for a walk.  I’m going to do all those pointless things that take up the day, because, really, what are my options?

I can’t go on.  I’ll go on.

Due date

Yep.  This is it, folks.  I am officially 40 weeks pregnant.  Hu-huh.  And the prognosis is…NOTHING.  I’ve still got nothing.  No need to fret or panic, because I know all about most first babies being late.  And I know that only 5% of women actually deliver on their due date.  And I know that no matter how grumpy I get, it’s not going to make the kid come out any faster.

That said, I am going for a long, encouraging walk this afternoon.  Also, I am getting a prenatal massage to distract me and I’m going to tell them to hit all those acupressure points that supposedly start labor.  Then the Alias Father and I are going out to dinner, where I will eat something spicy.  And then we will possibly go to a movie.  A loud, scary movie.  Where I will do jumping jacks in the aisle.

Honestly? I’m not really hopeful that I will go into labor today.  I am hopeful that it will happen this weekend.  And it’s a long weekend, which gives me three whole days.  Come on, kid.  Momma doesn’t want to have to do the waddle of shame into the office Tuesday morning.  Let’s get this thing a-crackin’.

While we are waiting, here is the hard, totally honest look at my stats.  This is where I stand at 40 weeks.  I’m not proud, but I’m not beating myself up about it either.  Because I know what I’ve been eating and not eating, and I know that this reality is not reflected here.  (Yes, I know.  Could I be more defensive?) 

Height: 5′7″

Weight at first appointment, when I was about 5 weeks along: 144 pounds

Weight at last appointment: 204

Weight gain: 60 pounds. (Seriously.)

Number of people I have confessed this to prior to putting it on the internet: 5.

Number of them who gasped and said, “Where the hell are you putting it?”: 5.

How this made me feel: Much, much better.

Minimum amount of weight that I think is purely water based on those weekly gains that were so out of touch with reality that I nearly fell off the scale: 15-20 pounds.

Waist size pre-pregnancy: 27 inches.

Current waist size: 45 inches. (Seriously.)

Bra size pre-pregnancy: scant 34B

Current bra size: Overflowing 36C.

Number of pairs of shoes I had to choose from pre-conception: about 20.

Number of pairs of shoes I have to choose from now, meaning that I can still wedge them on my feet: 1.

And, for the record…

Alias Father’s height: 6′5″

His weight when I conceived: 200 pounds.

His current weight: 215 pounds.

His explanation: “It’s totally sympathy weight!”

How I feel about it: Thank god I don’t outweigh him. (There’s nothing wrong with outweighing your husband. Unless he is nearly a foot taller.)

See, baby?  You need to come out before your dad eats his way into a heart attack.  Annndddd….GO!

Quick question

Once I have left the office and my uterus is no longer the hot topic of conversation, what on earth are these people going to talk about?