Recently in Baby On the Way Category

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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 do 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, mid-December when asked 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 breath 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 frequently 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 mere mortals for never having had to do myself), 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 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 am 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.

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 pest 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."

With three weeks to go before my maternity leave started--which was also when the Christmas holiday was beginning--lots of things happened.
a) I got a new boss.
b) Three days later a client pulled out of some projects leaving a gaping hole in my P&L for next year, upwards of, well, a monetary figure with many many zeros in it.
c) We got a chance to pitch for new work.
d) My nesting mode reached bionic heights and I went on an obsessive Excel-monitored Christmas-gift shopping bonanza in all of the time that I wasn't a) trying to make a good impression on my new boss, b) doing damage control over the significant loss of work to my team, c) writing PPTs to win a new client
e) I began to understand what being an insomniac is like, which for anyone who hasn't experienced it should know totally sucks, but it does allow for you to run threw a lot that's on your mental To Do list between 3 and 6AM.

Oh sure, I've been diligently taking my prenatal vitamins, along with a host of other supplements that will help my little inner parasite be the healthiest, smartest and most emotionally balanced being ever produced. But really, I don't think all the other factors had a positive effect on me.

Working long hours, sitting in epic commuter traffic, subsiding on the copious amounts of holiday candy, popcorn and chocolate-covered pretzels, and trying to tap dance fast enough in front of a new boss that she doesn't notice that the shit has hit my division's fan--none of these things are pretty when you are waddling around nine months pregnant.

For the past month or so my internal mantra had been, "Cope, cope, cope." When needed, I can draw on considerable reserves of energy, optimism and drive. And if I push myself hard enough, I won't have enough time to stop and feel sorry for myself. This, plus allowing myself an occasional half-caf latte at Starbucks, can provide much of the necessary energy to light up whatever grid we're on here out West.

Yet, aside from the lack of loving attention I've been focusing on this little baby-to-be, I was also dreadfully lacking the holiday spirit. Sure, I was get the family's gift shopping done. But in the rote emotionless way an astronaut runs through a pre-take-off check list.

Then, something happened--but what was it? Oh, Neice Maia's dance performance. Sitting watching a group of urban kids interpret the Nutcracker with everything from ballet to hip hop to break dancing, while my sister held Kate--who was enraptured--on her lap. It was just enough to make a knick in my steely outer shell of "Cope cope cope" and left me considering briefly a change to "Savor savor savor." I got a small hit, akin to those you can get watching a grocery store commercial during the holidays when PMS makes you sentimental.

But it vanished more quickly than a spritz of fake Christmas tree scent.

Next thing you know, work was over. I was out of there. And then we were in the wind-up to Christmas. I realized that on the same day our nanny would be leaving us, it would be Kate's last day of preschool before the holiday, our house was being cleaned for the last time pre-Xmas, and I was heading out for maternity leave. Thankfully my insomnia gave me plenty of time to process the convergence of all this the night before--while panicking about the appropriate gifts for the house cleaner, teachers and my team--all of which had been ruefully forgotten until my most awake refreshed part of the "day" over the course of the past month, which happened to come while lying in bed between 3AM and 20 minutes before my alarm went off.

And the other thing is, this baby has continued to gestate! Despite my utter emotional neglect. And while I was spending time realizing how unfocused I was on the holidays, I was even unfocuseder on how damn soon this baby will arrive.

3 weeks to be precise. And, given the holidays are past, work is behind me, and we've actually finally (and successfully, I may add) moved Kate into her new room and Big Girl Bed, I'm suddenly staring into a abyss of space and time in which thankfully there is one thing left I can do so I won't feel totally bereft--realize that we are about to have another baby. That I am in fact. Out of this here body.

I never made the change from "cope cope cope" to "savor savor savor," but I'm hoping that I'll be able to get "baby baby baby" in under the wire before I'm moaning in Labor and Delivery and it's much too late.

Turns out that my past life as a project manager has served me well for parenting. At least in terms of the schedule management. Or so I thought.

So in 11 weeks or so New Baby arrives. Got that down as a milestone. There are a few dependencies associated with that, such moving Kate's room into what's now the office to free up the crib for the young'un. And to do that we need to move the office downstairs into this weird little basement room, which means that Mark needs to move all his bike stuff from the weird basement room (multiple bikes, a bureau of cycling clothes, cases of Gatorade, bike tools, helmets, shoes, and a gazillion water bottles) along with tents, beach towels, and sleeping bags, into the the garage.

Mark has already started the bike stuff migration, but the office is still very much intact, and very much teeming with bookcases, books, computers, file cabinets and a bunch of musical equipment.

Every project manager worth their MS Project Plan knows that it sometimes takes completion of one task to spur on the onset of another one. And as it happens I got a flyer in the mail announcing that a huge kid-stuff store is having a furniture warehouse sale tomorrow. So Kate and I are going big girl bed shopping. A field trip which, if fruitful, will result in more urgency around the need to make way in the office for Kate's new swingin' big girl boudoir.

And, of course, in my manic state of nesting, I can't wait to obsess over what all I'll need to get and do to make Kate's new room appealing for her, but moreover cute as the Dickens in my own eyes. The potential for endless runs to Ikea and Target to meet this objective makes me giddy with delight. This because I have already overhauled and or re-organized almost every other room in the past two months due to Crazy Lady Nesting, and it seems silly to do them all over again. I need a new outlet for this beyond-my-ability-to-control animalistic phase.

Back on my gantt chart of What Needs Happenin' Before Bay Comes, is the issue of Kate and preschool. At one point a few months ago, in the productive early morning hours of prenatal insomnia I realized with intense clarity that what I'd need more than anything was for Kate to have a place to go (a nanny share or preschool) 2-3 mornings a week when I was tending to the new baby.

And driven Mama that I am, I somehow took that middle-of-the-night self-assigned action item and made good on it. So now Kate is in preschool. And since no sudden moves can descend on the project plan of family dynamics, we were lucky enough to get her started with plenty of time to acclimate before her little sibling started sucking parental attention away from her like a vacuum cleaner.

And initially it seemed Kate was going to oblige us neatly with little to no transitional issues or new school trauma. But then the "outside time" at the school started to overwhelm her. The kids from her classroom and a couple others pour into the school's playground all at once and the mayhem and unstructured time seems to throw our Little Miss for a loop.

Give her noodles to glue to a paper plate and she's fine. But in the wilds of the outdoors she's been coming undone.

One of the teachers has told us when Kate starts bumming out outside, she takes her in and they hang out and play in the classroom. And at the end of the day when you ask Kate about playing outside, she cheerily reports, "I cry outside," as if she's telling you, "We had muffins at snack time."

Hearing about this has been heart wrenching for Mark. But, especially with the unemotional way she reports this to us, I wasn't too concerned. By all other reports Kate seems to find preschool pretty groovy. And to be honest, it seemed to me that it wasn't in the plan for Mark to get waylaid by this little development. It will work out! We will move on! I will buy new curtains for the basement office room and everything will be okay. See how well we are moving through our tasks?

Today the nanny is on vacation. (Selfish.) So I blasted out of the office at noon, feeling a certain amount of work-neglect guilt, to fetch Kate from school. Surprisingly for the time of day I got enmeshed in traffic and drive 15MPH for a solid 30 minutes. I realized I'd be late to get Kate. All the kids who spend the full day there would be lying down for their naps. Then the gas tank went from kinda low to the red light going on. I decided the traffic hold-up left me no time to get gas, but the longer I sat in traffic the lower the indicator needle moved to the bottom of the last white line. (It's never a good sign when you find yourself rationalizing about where on that last line of tank emptiness you are.) Add to this my desperate need to pee.

Suffice it to say I wasn't feeling at one with the universe when I skidded into Kate's classroom 10 minutes late, and then saw she had a big scrape on her nose and a bloody upper lip. When I asked the teacher who was with her what happened it seemed like she was on a slow record speed responding to me. I mean, I think she just said hello to me or something before starting to tell me, but I was already in Crazy Mode and just wanted to know right away what the $^%(# happened to Kate?

The fact is, Kate was fine. Yes, she'd fallen off a log, and sure she cried for a while afterwards, but she was over it. But for me, I felt a disturbing inner lurch as I went from feeling great about our latest foray into preschool into a mode of "wait, this might not all be perfect and settled in my mind after all." There are some things that I'm going to need to get used to here.

I'd heard that after a couple good weeks an otherwise "adjusted" preschooler may backslide into some transitional issues. But no one prepared me for the fact that that could happen to me as well.

When Kate registered my presence, she started to wimper and demanded a kiss on her owie. And the teacher, after finally sputtering out what happened, decided to launch into details of how she comforted Kate and then what they did, and this is how she was the rest of the day which was really very happy and doing well for the most part blah blah blah, which I suddenly had no interest in hearing about. I just wanted to get Kate and get out of there. (And I wanted to pee.) The thought of Kate having had a bad experience outside, which was already the Bad Place for her, just seemed unbearable. We needed to go home home home.

I struggled down the sidewalk holding the car seat Mark left me when he dropped Kate off against my big belly, and trying not to drop my keys or Kate's sweater and extra pair of pants. Ten paces behind me Kate dawdled along, dangling her lunch box and looking like a pathetic waif with her barrettes sagging in her hair and her face scraped up and bloody. It seemed like miles to the car and worlds away from our dear sweet home, as Kate announced she wanted to walk on the "crunchy leaves" and slowed down even further. It was all I could do to not sit down on the sidewalk and bawl.

In any given project there is always the unexpected unplanned for snafu that jumps out at you, invariably when you're also having a bad hair day. And no matter how much of a bad-ass you are, you can't always rally on the spot and regain your firm grasp. For some project managers the lack of control is probably a fairly familiar feeling, but for others, knowing it could have been avoided devours us.

In all my transitional strategizing and well-laid plans to ensure everyone moved through all there is to do before the new baby arrives, I totally overlooked the potential for me to put a kink in the plans. Without expecting it, and certainly without wanting it, it became apparent that it was going to take me a little longer to adjust to preschool than I'd planned for. It's not that I suddenly felt like it wasn't a safe place for Kate to be, or that I even really had any misgivings about the place. It was just its utter newness.

Finally at the car, I heaved the car seat in and was preparing forlornly to climb in with my big belly and crouch over it to install it. My internal dialog was chanting "Home, home, home." When I looked out at Kate to make sure she was staying safely by the car, she peered up at me and said "I don't want to go, Mama. I want to stay preschool!"