9 Days Late Now

Perhaps this baby will never come out? Or I will give birth to a teenager years from now?

The best way I can describe how I feel is that it’s like when you get really hungry, but can’t get something to eat. You get hungrier and hungrier and you’re totally focused on food, then eventually you get over it and you’re not even hungry any more.

I went from being so anxious about the pain of labor that I had no desire to start the process, to the point of wanting to do it just to get it over with. And in that brief period I was trying to get myself pretty pumped up about it. But now my I-am-woman-hear-me-birth motivation has been depleted by the endless waiting. I feel oddly unconvinced that I’ll be having a baby soon, even though everyone’s been great about assuring me that I will.

What’s a gal to do? Well, considering that at this juncture my pre-labor manicure and pedicure is looking quite shabby, I’m going to the nail salon while Kate’s at school.

Maybe the baby doesn’t want to emerge to this horrible shade of pink I somehow settled on for my toenails last? At least he/she has good taste. His/her lateness is pushing the boundaries of fashionableness though.

Adding Insult to Injury

I just got an email from BabyCenter.com entitled “Your One Week Old.” Yeah, not so much.

Still pregnant here…

I went for “antenatal tests” today that showed that the baby is moving around well and isn’t all cramped up in there (despite how things might feel from my perspective).

Last night I was actually starting to get the impression that this baby was mistaking itself for a bird. The way it was stretching and pushing at every possible angle of my uterus was like a bird tapping away from inside a shell looking for a weak spot to crack its way free. It made me daydream a bit about how much easier birds have it–just sitting on an egg for a while to keep it nice and toasty, then letting the kid do all the work when it’s time for it to emerge.

Anyway, another test today showed that he/she also has plenty of amniotic fluid. I guess that’s what helps keeps babies nice and fresh.

So the outcome of our visit to the hospital was a pat on the back and a directive to go home for more waiting. Of course it’s always best when medical tests reveal that you’re doing well. The Achiever part of me always wants to excel, even when it comes to an ulstrasound. But at this rate I’m fearful that I’ll be giving birth to a one-month old.

I just hope BabyCenter has an email newsletter called “Your Newborn One-Month Old.”

Signs from the Beyond

Ellen called today as I was lounging in the bath tub. It was one of those 30-second-long FYI kinda calls that she and I are good at. She said that out of the blue she had this thought that Mom was “coming around” and that the baby would be here soon.

She realized that this was a somewhat offbeat idea–seeing as it’s not like Mom would be coming ’round on a flight from New Jersey or something, but would be paying a visiting from some kind of cosmic beyond-the-grave locale. So before hanging up she offered, “I know it’s a kinda hippie idea, but I thought I’d mention it.”

What the heck. I’m happy she did and I’m even willing to buy it. It’s comforting (even flattering actually) to think that my mother would “come around” from wherever she is. That may be hard to do, and only reserved for special occasions. And as an added benefit, at this juncture it’s also nice to hear that this baby is coming soon.

Of course, I couldn’t help but consider some practical matters as part of this supernatural notion. I’ve moved a couple times since my mom came to California last. I just hope she knows where to find me.

All Quiet on the Western Front

Here’s what happens when you are 5 days past your due date. At least if you’re me.

The phone utterly stops ringing. I haven’t had such a lifeless phone since I, well, I can’t seem to remember.

It’s too bad that all those women who complain about getting lots of inquiring calls around their due date wreck it for the rest of us. Sure, it’s kinda funny when you’re just in the bathroom and can’t grab the phone and the message that you get is one where someone grows much more frantic as they go.

“Hello? Hello? You aren’t there? Oh wow, so that probably means you guys are at the hospital right? OH MY GOD! This is sooooo exciting! Puleeeeze let us know when the baby is born!! Wait, I wonder if I should call you on your cell phone? No, no. I don’t want to bother you. You might be, like, pushing RIGHT NOW! Okay, well, congrats you guys!! We are so happy for you!”

So yeah, it’s kinda funny having to call that friend or family member back three minutes later to let them know that no, even though you are some 23 days past your due date there is still no action and you couldn’t grab the phone because you were really just peeing (again).

Apparently, for most women, these calls are annoying. I’m not sure why. Is it that they don’t want to be reminded that they are waiting for a baby to come? Are they spending all that pre-labor time doing a reclusive yogic ritual that doesn’t allow them to use the telephone? Or maybe they’re super busy regrouting their bathrooms in a manic last-minute nesting surge? And answering the phone interrupts the self-imposed HGTV-like deadline they’ve given themselves?

For the record, I’m always happy to chat on the phone. My mother is not here to attest to it, but, believe me, I did some stellar phone work in my teen years. And my cell phone bills as an adult attest to the fact that I’ve managed to maintain some world-class phone-talkin’ endurance.

Granted, I might not have much to say other than what I thought of the dowdy dress Meredith Viera wore on The Today Show. (What up with the matronly navy dress with the vampish patten leather stiletto boots?) But I’m sure you’ve got something new or interesting to tell me about. I’d love to hear all about the mundane details of your day! Hey, I’ve got TiVo here, so a phone call from you will barely impact the 24/7 Law & Order-watching vigil that I’ve been keeping. I can just hit ‘pause.’ No harm done!

This is your time people. I’m all ears! I’m here for you! The phone lines are open.

Frettin’

So the truth is that I’ve been tweaking out a bit at the prospect of going into labor. Even though I can’t remember what it felt like per se, I do remember that it REALLY HURT. And it was relentless. And it took a long time.

Unfortunately, when I was at this same point with Kate–waiting for labor to kick in–I had the benefit of blissful ignorance about what labor would be like. I mean, how bad could it be?

Then, 9 days past my due date when she finally decided to make a fashionable entrance, I remember thinking, “How in the world is it that people ever elect to do this twice? If we want another kid, we’ll adopt.”

Then that mind-eraser thing happens that deletes your memory of what labor felt like. And then that absolute head over heels love you feel for the one kid you have, and suddenly the thought of going it again doesn’t seem so unreasonable after all.

That is, until now. Two days past due and staring down the barrel of more labor agony. And this time, trying to not only have an un-medicated birth, but to also have a vaginal delivery after Kate’s C-section. Is it too late to decide I don’t want to do this any more?

Where a few days ago I was patiently enjoying where I was–not too terribly uncomfortable in my body and savoring our last days as a family of three–today I’m in a different place. It’s not exactly impatience to have the baby, since I’ve been spending some good middle-of-the-night time stressing over labor. I mean, I’d love to be able to roll over without a system of levers and pulleys to hoist this large baby-filled belly up and over to the other side without bouncing Mark out of the bed and slamming him against the far bedroom wall. And I’d love to meet this small being. Boy? Girl? Look like Kate or a whole new person?

I’ve just been a bit hesitant about the physical passage between the here and there.

But tonight I think I just need to slap myself upside the head. Whatever happens will happen and I will get through it. If I opt for the epidural and don’t fulfill the ultimate groovy natural birth, so be it. All of us got here from this whole birth process, and there have to be plenty more women out there who are wimpier than me, right?

This thing is, being this anxious is not only frustrating, it’s exhausting too. And I’m kind of getting sick of it. So earlier tonight I decided to just shake it off and stop worrying that all hell will break loose at my first contraction. I’m going to butch up and have a bit more faith in myself.

I can do this. It’ll be okay. So don’t you worry about me one bit.

Kate’s First Words Today

Of course, on days when Kate has preschool she decides to sleep in like a depressed teenager, and on weekends she springs from bed at 7:15AM.

This morning when Mark went in to rouse her the first thing she said was, “Did the baby come out?”

“No,” Mark assured her. “No baby yet.”

Perhaps it’s the four library books we got yesterday about being a big sister/having a new baby in the house that are breeding Kate’s impatience for her new sibling.

No, no baby yet. But I am starting to get on bodily alert. It’s kind of like the first time you smoke pot. (Well, what I hear from other people that that’s like.) Your mind races through a physical check list of sorts. “Am I high yet? Is it working? Did I just feel something?”

That’s kinda the mode I’m in now. Lying in bed this morning half awake I feel some kicks and some little pang of something rattling through my Buddha belly and think, “Yeah? What’s that there? Could something be starting?” And then I realize it’s just last night’s Taco Fiesta dinner making its way through my system. The hyper activated System Alert picked nothing up out of the ordinary, and I am left to use my arms to push off against the mattress and heave my big Mama self upright to launch into the day.

So, I am not high. (Though a Chips Ahoy cookie doesn’t sound half bad right now.) I am not in labor. And no, no baby yet. At least no external baby.

Thanks to all for the calls, emails, and smoke signals. We’ll shoot up a flare when there is news to share.

Not Impatient Yet

I’m at the point in this pregnancy–the very end–where just seeing me can’t help but illicit comments from people.

Today at Baby Gap a woman with a toddler in a stroller and I walked up to the door at the same moment, leaving her to kindly try to reach around her stroller and fumble to get the door for me. “Oh wow. Any day now, huh?,” she said.

“Yes. Due date’s Saturday!” I offered. “But of course, who knows when it’ll happen.”

“Oh wow. I feel for you! I remember those last days!”

And later in the day as I sat in a spa waiting room with a bunch of other women, a massage therapist came around the corner and walked up to me. “Let me guess,” she said smirking, knowing her next client was in for a prenatal massage. “You’re Kristen.”

“Yeah,” I said as I scrambled to put down an Us Magazine and heave myself up off the padded bench. “What gave it away?”

Later, walking—okay, waddling—down the street, two men were looking me up and down. “You got twins in there?” one said. Thankfully I was too relaxed from my massage to run up to him and belly-bump him into traffic like a tsumo wrestler in a ‘roid rage.

Of course, I could also go into the comments from the other parents picking up kids at preschool, or the teachers, or Kate’s intermittent, “You pregnant, Mama” remarks. But it’s as boring repeating it all as it is for me to hear it.

Hey, everyone. I know I’m pregnant! Very pregnant! And yes, the baby is coming soon!

Perhaps I need to wear a t-shirt (or a sandwich board, if they’d make one that could accommodate my girth) with all the information that I need to convey throughout the day when I’m simply trying to order a hot chocolate, check books out of the library, or buy groceries.

It’d say:
Yes, I am pregnant! Good for you for noticing and thanks for filling me in, lest I were one of those women who shows up at the emergency room with stomach cramps and leaves with an unexpected bundle of newborn joy. [And don't even get me started on how that sub-plot has marred an otherwise perfect season of Mad Men.]

Due soon? In fact I am! Saturday!

No. Second child. I have a two year old.

We don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl. [This receives all manner of comments and often spins off into another diatribe from either the stranger, or, admittedly, myself.]

Of course, many people are asking because they are sharing our excitement in a way that is very sweet. And heck, I’m not someone who’s ever scoffed at receiving attention. It’s just the ones who act as if they need to reinforce their seismic retrofitting when I daintily thunder into their stores that I can do without. As well as the endless sea of holiday party goers who seemed after a glass of eggnog or two to make their way over to me, grazing at the food table, and bellow, “What! Were you due yesterday or something?”

I spent a lot of sober time at drunk holiday parties chanting an internal mantra that my red maternity dress from Target really was slimming, and delighting in the thoughts of the miserable headaches and dehydration awaiting those who made ungracious comments to me about my largess.

Of course, when asked in mid-December I had to admit that I still had a month to go. But towards the end of the party circuit I just started lying. “Yeah,” I’d say, beaming a sprightly smile into the face of the person panting booze all over me and my mini peeled carrot stick. “Any day now!” I’d saying looking down and patting my belly.

And to all those women who’ve done this before who have tried to empathize by suggesting that I must “really be ready” and “they remember how hard those last days of waiting were” I feel kinda bad for letting them down by saying, “I’m actually doing okay.” I mean, having done this before I know that the trade-off for no longer having maternity shirts sufficiently cover my belly without having to wrench them down, and for having to get up and pee in the middle of the night (something I’ve felt superior to other mortals for never having had to do before), and, sure, for often feeling like a turtle on my shell when I’m utterly baffled by how to hoist myself off the floor—the trade-off for all that is labor (ouch!), followed by the exhaustion and intensity of caring for a newborn. It’s not like once this mild physical discomfort is over I’m being sent on a 2-week paid Hawaiian vacation with no one else to care for but myself and my tanning and mai tai needs.

Don’t get me wrong. I really want to meet this wee one. I’m curious about whether Kate will have a sister or a brother to push around. And the planner in me doesn’t like not knowing when “it’s going to happen” so “it happening” will of course eradicate that.

It’s just that in the home stretch I’m staying grateful for the nice little life our family of three has. I’m cherishing being able to indulge Kate in only-child-level attention, and enjoying the amount of sleep I’m getting at night, even if I do need to get up to tinkle a couple times. When it’s time for me to trade this in for gratefulness about having a family of four, I’ll happily go to the front of the line to do so. At least today, I just don’t see any reason to begrudge the here-and-now for the soon-to-be.

Toddlers Against NPR

The other day when I picked up Kate from school and loaded her into the car, she asked who was on the radio. It being 1:00, I was tuned into NPR for the early broadcast of Fresh Air–a program I listen to with relish.

“Who that lady on radio, Mama?” Kate asked.

“Her name is Terry Gross.”

“I no like Terry Gross, Mama.”

“Really? Why is that?” I asked, half-expecting her to bust out Mark’s comment about Terry Gross–which I disagree with–that she uses her interviews as a platform for showing off her own knowledge of a person or topic.

But no. Not so insightful. “I like Grandma Peggy,” she said.

Who knew about this link between Terry Gross and my mother-in-law? Here I’d been liking both of them and thinking that was okay. Clearly, in Kate’s world that’s not kosher.

Since her initial proclamation of dislike for Terry Gross, Kate has repeated this several times. While brushing her teeth: “I no like Terry Gross.” While making a Lego tower: “I no like Terry Gross, Mama.” And oddly the other day when walking with Mark, “I no like Grandma Terry Gross.” Hmmm. The plot thickens…

Of course, my greatest fear is that I’ll stumble across Rush Limbaugh on the radio some day and Kate will mutter a “Right on!” from her car seat. Oy.

Wildlife in Our Bathroom

Just when it seemed like Kate’s alligator had evacuated our pink bathroom, it appears a new resident has moved in.

Yesterday when Kate was on her potty and me on mine (yes, the tandem tinkle), she said, “There a blue baby elephant in here, Mama. He scared of you.” So she stood up, toddled over toward me with her pants around her ankles, picked him up and brought him back with her to her potty, arranging him comfortably on her lap–safely away from me. Then she claimed, “He tinkle too.”

What I want to know is, why was he scared of me? I’m nice, right? I mean, how scary can an exhausted 9-month prego with unwashed hair who’s peeing look?

Wait, don’t answer that.

Anyway, I’m started to think Kate’s sixth sense is seeing dead animals. And for some reason, they’re flocking to our bathroom.

Making Space for a Growing Family

Once the mayhem of work died down, it was immediately replaced with an endless stream of household chores based around the displacement of the office for Kate’s Big Girl Room.

It’s been nothing short of maddening not being able to roll up my sleeves and do my fare share of the work. But the half that doesn’t involve lugging heavy boxes, furniture and electronics involved dismantling and re-establishing computer equipment, wireless internet service, etc. So either advanced pregnancy or lack of tech know-how has stymied my usefulness. And turbo-charged with the nesting instinct as I am, this leaves me to just pester Mark, sit and watch, and pipe up with occasional undoubtedly aggravating suggestions.

The whole endeavor has been extremely stressful on Mark, since A) I’m nagging, B) he’d doing all the work and C) he’s wedging it into whatever free time he has on weekends. Also because this process entails adding more stuff to a small house and trying to figure out where the hell to squirrel away the stuff we already have.

Can we jimmy another human into this space–replete with its own wardrobe and cavalcade of gear–and still be able to find our 2006 tax returns? At this juncture, that remains to be seen–though we seem to be close to emerging on the side of success. Everything is still not in its final resting place. For example, all our important (and some not-so important) documents still reside in a towering 5-drawer file cabinet in Kate’s new Big Girl Room. Good to have them at hand for her in the event that she wants to review our life insurance policy, or check out some detail of Mark’s birth certificate on some sleepless night.

And just when you think it’s the adults who are in charge of the house-space wrangling, Little Miss Toddler has to get into the mix. When I recently came home from a long car ride and was making my way to the bathroom, Kate stood in my way. “No use this bathroom, Mama,” she said sternly. “Why not, honey?” I asked, trying to be patient and not sweep her aside as my pea-sized prego bladder prepared to burst.

“My alligator in this bathroom,” she explained. “My alligator need privacy.”