Dear Universe, Maternity Edition

Dear Universe:

Yes, I am pregnant.  No, I did not eat a watermelon, a basketball, and I'm not one of those people who is just carrying a little extra weight around her middle.

No, you may not touch my belly.  No really, you can't.  Hands off, you crazy woman!

Yes, I am going to have my hands full.  Is that you volunteering to help? Why, thank you. I have plenty of laundry that needs to be folded, and am always accepting home-cooked meals.

Yes, we do know what causes this.  Apparently, we're pretty good at it too.  Jealous?

No, I haven't had the baby yet.  And for the record, really?  Why would you even ask that?

Yes, I do feel like I'm ready to pop.  I also feel like I want to pop you for asking such an inane question.

No, we are not having twins.  Yes, I'm sure.  No, I really don't want to hear about your sister-in-law's cousin's friend who had surprise twins after having multpile ultrasounds.

No, I don't know when the baby is going to come.  Wishing I had that fortune-telling gift, though, because then we could probably make enough money to pay for this birth.

Nope, I don't want to hear your horror stories.  Or your sister's, your daughter's, or the one you just saw on TLC.   No, really.  I have some of my own.  Like how I once had a baby in my minivan on the side of the road, or how I walked around dilated to a 6 for a week before I had my son.

And no, I'm not going to go into labor while I'm standing here talking to you.  Even if I did, it's highly unlikely that I would give birth with you here watching thankyouverymuch.

So as of today, I'm putting the world on notice.  From here on out, comments on my pregnancy will be limited to "Wow, you look amazing," or "Can I bring you some chocolate?" 

(Or maybe I just need to stop going to the grocery store.  What is it about picking out produce that inspires stupid pregnancy comments?)

Surprises

This baby loves surprises.

First, there was the surprise of even being pregnant in the first place. 

Then, when my husband decided it would be fun to wait to find out the gender until the baby was born, we added that surprise to our list.

I was very surprised at 28 weeks pregnant to find myself planning a hospital birth instead of a homebirth. 

And now, just when I thought we were done with surprises, I've found myself in the hospital twice in the past two weeks for pre-term labor.

(That's what I get for thinking that I had already experienced all the craziness possible when it comes to being pregnant and birthing a baby!)

The past two Mondays, contractions hit regularly.  I tried valiantly to ignore them.  Then they started coming every 2-3 minutes, making it impossible.  Both times, I called my midwife, who said I needed to come into the hospital to have them stopped.  So for the past two consecutive Monday nights, I've made the trip to the hospital in the middle of the night to be filled with injections of terbutaline and niphedipine.  I've started dilating and effacing, which isn't great news.  But we were able to stop the contractions, which is good news.  

The new goal is to get this baby to 36 weeks- three weeks from now.  Thanksgiving would be better, but at this point, anything that ends with a healthy baby and little to no NICU time would be fantastic. 

I'm not on bedrest yet, and crossing my fingers that it doesn't get to that point.  Because while a day or two of mandated rest sounds like a fantastic idea, being stuck in bed for three weeks sounds crazy making.  Not to mention what it would do to my poor toddler, who has very little patience with a mom who wants to just hang out on the couch. 

Here's hoping that we're done with surprises.  Because while being on a first name basis with the nurses on the L&D unti is great and everything, I'd really not like to go back until this baby is actually ready to be born. 

One of those rare times a mom likes to hear the word "no"

We had a follow up ultrasound yesterday. And while I am generally sick of hearing "no," especially when it comes from my obstinate not-quite two year old, I was thrilled to hear "no" twice from the perinatogist yesterday:

There is NO evidence of craniosynosyosis in this baby! Siblings with cranio are extremely rare, but then again, much of what we have been through with Max is. I was very relieved to see a normal head shape and several open skull sutures. (And it was more than a little fun to shock the perinatologist by identifying the saggital suture on the ultrasound. Being an obsessive researcher has it's privileges.)

And there is NO more worry about placenta previa. The placenta has very obediently moved up and out of the way.

Oh and one other no. NO, I didn't peek at the baby's gender. I wanted to, but the ultrasound technician remembered me, and remembered that we didn't want to find out. Busted. Buy we've made it this far, we can make it six more weeks, right?

I was going to upload what has to be the Cutest Ultrasound Pic ever, but my scanner has decided that it no longer needs to do it's job. Much like my van, which sputtered to a stop about 10 miles from home this afternoon without warning while I was carrying 5 violinists home from rehearsal. I was tempted to send them all out to play their violins on the side of the road to see if they could earn the money for what is probably going to be an expensive repair, but then decided that probably wasn't the educational experience their parents are paying me for. Too bad, because it would have made for a very funny post.

This is what happens when I haven't had an adult to talk to in a while

Due the fact that I feel about 17 months pregnant, I have a chronic inablility to focus on something for more than about 3.2 seconds.  So a post with coherent thoughts, or maybe even a point?  Not happening tonight.  So here you have it: a collection of the minutiae that is my life right now.  (And as a side note, don't you love that word?  It makes me feel intelligent just to use it.  Despite the fact  that I just had to switch over the Word to use the spell checker so I could actually spell it right...)

My laptop is dying a slow, painful death.  It's very sad, really.  It gives me anywhere from 10 seconds to about 10 minutes of use before it goes black with absolutely no warning or provocation. There's no computer repair money in the budget right now, ("Yes, ma'am, I'll look at your computer, but it costs at least $127 to glance in its direction, and we charge by the blink.) and I'm pretty sure I'll go into a deep state of mourning when it does actually kick the bucket.  Stupid technology.

My second grader's spelling words are harder than the third grader's.  Strange.

Does anyone else hate school fundraisers as much as I do?  The kids come home from school completely hyped up about prizes, prizes, prizes  they can win from selling crappy wrapping paper/overpriced chocolates/collecting walk-a-thon pledges from everyone they know, and immediately start begging to sell/collect/whatever.  What they don't get, (and the lovely fundraising people neglect to tell them) is that everyone else they know is also selling crappy wrapping paper/overpriced chocolates/collecting walk-a-thon pledges, making the whole thing an excercise in fultilty.  You then proceed to try to explain this to your child, whereupon they collapse in a puddle of tears, proclaiming that they're going to DIE if they don't earn enough money to get the free donut coupon and the package of Silly Bands.  Am I a bad mom if I ignore the fundraiser and buy the kiddos a donut and a packet of silly bands?

And while we're on the subject of silly bands, seriously?  File that under the "Ideas I should have had so I could make a million dollars and retire" category.  Sheesh.  I have at least one in depth conversation about silly bands with a child or violin student at least once a day.   On the bright side, the morning routine is running a lot more smoothly with the added bribe incentive of silly bands for good attitudes during practice time.

I went to Babies R Us yesterday, and spent entirely too much time ooh-ing and ahh-ing over every baby supply imaginable.  You would think that this being my fourth baby that I would be immune to all the tiny cuteness and matching absolutely everything.  (Don't you know you're a bad mom if your baby's bib doesn't match her crib bedding?  Don't you need to spend an entire's months' salary so that your newborn can have a crib that she can take to college with her?)  I think there's something in the pregnancy hormones that make you completely hypnotized by impossibly tiny socks in all the colors of the rainbow.  I escaped with my checking account relatively unscathed, although I do admit to buying two little tiny newborn outfits- one with baseballs, and one with seriously cute pink flowers- that will fit the new baby whoever he or she is for approximately 2.3 minutes before they grow out of it.  But every baby needs something new to come home from the hospital in, right? 

Speaking of babies, I have given this baby official notice that he or she has exactly 38 weeks to gestate and that's all.  None of this 40 or 42 weeks crap.  My pregnancies have gotten progressively shorter, so I've decided 38 weeks is about right.  The funny part is 38 weeks puts me right about Thanksgiving Day.  Not a bad day to have a baby, right?  So 38 weeks it is.  Think it'll work?  (It'll take a miracle.)  (Bonus points and my everlasting admiration if you get the movie reference.)

Speaking of babies, again, (you would think I was an obsessed pregnant woman or something!) I have an ultrasound next week to check baby's skull sutures and monitor the marginal previa.  I'm still dying to know boy or girl.  I wondering if it would be so bad to ask them to take a quick peek?  I could just keep it a secret from my husband and everyone I know for the next two months, right?

Max is officially obsessed with the iPhone.  Frustratingly so.  In fact, in his nearly two-year-old brain, I am not even allowed to talk on it, because it is his phone.  So if you are brave enough to call me, be prepared for a lot of toddler screaming very loud protesting going on in the background.  I'm trying to decide if I'm going to try to break the addiction or just give in. 

And just because I can, a gratuitously cute picture of the little iPhone addict.

Because it's important to always be fashionable, even in the bathtub.

Change of Plans

Don't you hate eating your words?

Yeah, me too.  Which is why this has been such a difficult post for me to write.  That, and the fact that I had pneumonia last week and still need daily doses of an inhaler just to breathe.  And also the fact that I've spent cumulative hours on the phone with less than wonderful customer service agents the past few days trying to get my internet access restored.  Just for the record, my husband is now in charge of all things internet related. 

Ok, back on point.

Let me clarify a few things first. 

I am a homebirther.  I believe in homebirth.  I believe its a safe, wise, and gentle way for a baby to be born.  I believe that homebirth is as safe as a birth in the hospital when the mom and baby are low risk.

I had a marvelous experience birthing Max at home.  I've attended lots of successful, beautiful homebirths as a doula.  So when I fould out that we were expecting again, I naturally started planning for another homebirth.

Problem is, I've never felt completely settled or comfortable with the idea.  Since my wonderful midwife with Max, who also happens to be one of my best-est friends, moved to New Mexico a year and a half ago, I had to start from scratch interviewing midwives.  Nothing seemed to click.  I kept telling myself that I was only dragging my feet because I had such a great friendship with my last midwife and was having a hard time adapting to the idea of having "just" a midwife. 

I hired a midwife who I knew, respected, and had attended births with.  I had seen her in action and respected her experience and liked her style as a midwife.  I still felt unsettled.  I joked with my husband that maybe the reason I was feeling so lost and uninspired was either because I was going to have a baby so fast that it didn't matter who I hired, or I was just going to end up in the hospital anyway.   I stuffed my uneasiness and apprehension in the back of my mind, convinced that the reasons I was unsure had more to do with all our medical drama over the past year and a half than it did any inspiration or instinct about the matter.

This pregnancy, much like my others, has been relatively problem free.  I had two visits with the midwife and an ultrasound, all showing that things were progressing more or less as they should. 

But underneath it all, I couldn't deny that I was feeling uncommitted.  I was dragging my feet when it came time to make another midwife appointment.  I was having trouble envisioning, planning or getting excited about a homebirth.  Previous pregnancies have found me reading every birth story I could get my hands on, devouring birth books by the dozens, (I remember my husband asking me once, "How many birth books can you possibly buy before they all start saying the same thing?") and daydreaming about my perfect birth.  Imagining a homebirth this time around has felt as productive as visualizing a brick wall.

It all came to a head about a week and a half ago.  Out of the blue one Tuesday evening, my husband remarked, "You know, I really have a strong feeling that we're going to end up in the hospital with this baby."

"I do too."  I said, without even realizing that I was going to say it.  And just like that, everything I'd been trying to deny for the past six months came rushing to the surface.  There was a reason behind all the apprehension, the unease.  It was because, deep down underneath, despite all the denying my uneasiness and pretending everything was fine, I really wasn't at all certain about our plans for a homebirth.

We talked more that night after the kiddos had gone to bed.  We talked pros and cons, and put everything out on the table.  After our experiences with Max's birth, my husband is as pro-homebirthing as I am, and was equally wondering why he felt this way.  But I couldn't help but think that if my husband felt the same unease that I did, that it was time for me to sit up and take notice.

The next two days were filled with a lot of praying and a lot of crying.  I didn't want to give up on a homebirth.  I hate hospitals.  I know it sounds crazy to 98% of women out there, but I really do feel like my births belong at home.  I don't know that I have ever felt so conflicted about something in my entire life.

I was supposed to have an appointment with my midwife that week, and called the day before and cancelled it, telling her where we were emotionally.  She was wonderfully encouraging and supportive, asking me to keep her in the loop with whatever we decided.  She said that she had sensed hesitation from me at the very start, and kept waiting for me to come down off the fence on one side or the other.  She encouraged me to follow my gut, and let my instincts and feelings guide my decision, because in her experience, it's women who don't listen to that inner voice that find themselves in trouble.

Meanwhile, I made an appoitnment with a midwife who delivers at a new hospital nearby.  I've done a birth with her as well, (although I have to use that term loosely because we both showed up at the same time- about five minutes after the baby was born!) and she has a wonderful reputation for being as non-interventive as possible, and helping her clients get the birth they want.  The hospital is very new, and from everything I've heard, very progressive when it comes to labor and delivery.  Both Tom and I thought that we should probably start checking out all our options. 

I kept hoping and praying for revelation.  Waiting and wanting the skies to open up, a voice to speak.  So conflicted.  Caught between things I truly believe and the nagging feelings that my husband and I had been feeling the entire pregnancy.

I went to see the midwife this week, and immediately felt at ease.  She was very upfront and matter of fact, easy to talk to, and laugh and joke with about the birth community.  I gave her a brief rundown of how we were feeling, and she also encouraged me to follow my instincts, letting me know that she would do everything she could to help me acheive a peaceful, nonmedicated birth in the hospital.  From what she told me, there are no interventions I would be subjected to routinely, and that rather than forcing her patients into procedures, she would explain the risks and benefits and then let me decide.

I left the appointment feeling like a giant weight had been lifted off me.  I met Tom for lunch, and once again had the odd experience of hearing words come out of my mouth before I knew I had made a decision: "I think this is what we need to do."

So I find myself in a very weird spot.  I'm a homebirther through and through, but we feel strongly that for reasons we don't know, that we need to plan a birth in the hospital.

I don't know what that means, or why we would feel that way.  I had one friend suggest that I may not be completely over all the medical chaos that we went through with Max, and that because of that, I'm having a hard time believing that anything could go smoothly. 

I've wondered if my ambivalence about having another baby may be keeping me from making the committment to a homebirth.

But the last thing we want is to spend all the time and energy investing ourselves in a homebirth and then be forced to transfer late in pregnancy or worse, during labor.  If something is going to go wrong, (heaven forbid!) I would much rather be prepared emotionally to be comfortable in the hospital.  And the biggest nightmare driving both of us would be to look back and realize that we had been receiving inspiration the entire pregnacy, only to ignore it. 

There's also the not-so-small fact that birthing in the hospital would be significantly cheaper for us, to the tune of at least $1000, and probably more.  

I've felt like a traitor to my natural birthing mamas and friends.  I've felt like an imposter.  I've questioned my ability to receive and interpret revelation.  I've wondered if I'm just a big fat wimp.  I don't think I've ever felt so conflicted about a decision in my entire life.

But now that the decision has been made, I feel lighter.  Calmer.  Settled. 

I know that the majority of the people who read this will wonder what the big deal is, and why I'm acting like the decision of where to birth my baby is such a big deal. I know that people can and do have wonderful experiences in the hospital.  I know that there are many (most) women who can't imagine birthing anywhere else. 

I'm holding on to the hope that I wouldn't feel this strongly about something without a reason.

I'm almost 30 weeks, so it won't actually be that long until we know how this story ends. We joke that this baby is just destined to be surprise from beginnning to end. We were surprised to be pregnant, surprised to change our birth plans, and the biggest surprise of all will be finding out if we're having a baby brother or sister.



So we're hanging on for dear life for the rest of this crazy ride.

You might be pregnant if...

~The worth of an object becomes directly proportioned to your willingness to actually bend down and pick it up off the floor.

~You have a favorite color/flavor of Tums.

~Your nightly going to bed ritual includes clearing a path to the bathroom that you'll be visiting at least 47 times that night.

~You've been known to jump out of your seat or yelp occasionally because of a particularly hard kick to the ribs.

~Peeing in a cup at your Doctor or Midwife's appointment feels like an Olympic sporting event.

~You can stand in front of a very full pantry or refrigerator and then burst into tears because you can't find anything good to eat.

~After your husband makes fun of you for crying about it, you yell "Don't laugh at me!" sounding very much like a three year old.

~You then blame the whole episode on hormones.

~Your hips make more snapping and popping noises than a bowl of Rice Krispies.

~You threaten to shoot up a local fast food restaurant (that shall remain nameless) when they screw up your order and all you've been craving all day is a crisp bean burrito.  Why is that so hard people?  Come on!

~You can fall asleep standing up in the late afternoon, but wake up five hundred times later that night to pee.

~You make a nice, healthy meal that looks and smells great...until it's actually sitting on a plate in front of you.

~You could immediately tell a perfect stranger your EDD, LMP, and exactly how far along you are, (27 weeks and 2 days thankyouverymuch...) but you might very well forget your own childrens' names.

Anyone else?

And the panic sets in

I was at the grocery store at an obscene hour last night, buying toilet paper, toothpaste, bananas and ice, (don't ask!) when the well-meaning but stupid cashier decided to take it upon herself to say "Wow- looks like you're about ready to have that baby."

Groan.

I didn't hesitate to tell her I wasn't due until December, and would have enjoyed watching her hem and haw if I wasn't wondering if I had somehow blown up to the size of a blue whale when I wasn't looking.

It was just one more on a growing list of eveidences that I am, in fact, going to have a baby.

I know, right?  Shouldn't this have sunk in, oh, about the time I got a positive pregnancy test? 

You'd think so, wouldn't you? 

I think I've adjusted to the idea of being pregnant.  Now the idea of that pregnancy actually leading to a real baby?  Yeah, not so much.

Four.  Four kids.  It just seems like so many.  I'm going to be seriously outnumbered.

I have lots of friends with four kids.  Most of them have an oldest child the age of my middle daughter.  They do great with four.  They handle everything with grace and style.  I'm not sure how well it's actually going to work out for me.

I'm mildly hyperventilating at the thought of parenting four kids, including my toddler terrorist and a newborn.   I don't deal well with chaos, and I've been having viscious flashbacks from the six months of hell that was Abby as a toddler with Ashlynn as a newborn. 

Don't get me wrong.  I love this little person, and I'm looking forward to meeting him or her and adding them to our family.  I have little doubt that a year or two from now, I'll wonder what I was so worried about.  But nights like tonight, when Tom is in class late, the girls are alternating between bickering and singing stupid Cub Scout songs at the top of their lungs, and the toddler launches his uneaten bowl of chicken noodle soup across the kitchen that I wonder how I'll handle fitting the inevitable screaming newborn with the diaper blowout to the mix. 

Once again, I'm finding myself glad that it takes nine months to cook a baby.  Because while I may look like I'm ready to have a baby, it might take a few more weeks for me to actually be ready to parent four kids. 

Moms of four or more, tell me it's easy.  Tell me that the transistion didn't rock your world to the core.  Lie if you have to. 

PS- This new school/teaching/practicing/being pregnant schedule is kicking my butt.  Hoping to get back into a good posting groove soon.

An update of sorts

How was the Girls' Weekend, you asked?  Ok, so maybe you didn't ask, but I'll tell you anyway.

We stayed here.  (It was paradise, really!)

This massive Elk was our protector- secretly, I think he was laughing at us. 

We did a lot of this. (and if it looks like we were all lounging around doing nothing, it's because we were!)

And we did some of this, (which is more pictures of us sitting around gabbing like crazy with the important distinction that we got up and changed our location!)

And here we are doing more impersonations, giggling, swapping stories, and entertaining ourselves the way only girls can.  My husband was incredulous when he found out we didn't go anywhere the whole weekend.  "You just talked?"  "Yup."  "You didn't go anywhere?  You didn't play any games?  You just talked for the entire weekend?  How boring!"  Except it wasn't.  And as all girls know, you never run out of things to talk about.

Oh, and we hung out in the hot tub.  And everyone stayed fully clothed the entire time.  Including me.  Especially at 2:30 in the morning.  Uh huh.  Yup.

So now I'm home, missing my girlfriends, and trying to re-set my sleep schedule.  And to convince Tom that overnight trips with the girls should be a monthly requirement or so for sanity purposes.

What else is going on, you ask?  (Just play along and pretend with me, okay?)

Well, I had the two incidences of spotting that I wrote about, then nothing.  I then had some wicked contractions that had me reaching for the stopwatch.  Just as I was about to panic, everything stopped and hasn't started since.  Good thing, because we still have months of cooking this baby before the timer goes off.  At the midwife's appointment today, baby is measuring right on, heartbeat is good, and so we're back to business as usual around here.

Oh, and Max is now refusing the binky with all the disdain his 21-month old self can muster.  His  new security object is now this little blue alien.  Whatever works.

Spotting

I am 21 weeks pregnant today, and holding my breath.  I started spotting yesterday.  Mild, pink spotting.  Two midwives telling me "It's most likely nothing to worry about" spotting.  But that doesn't stop me from worrying.  Because somehow in the midst of the "Are you kidding me?  Now!!??" reaction to the initial positive pregnancy tests, and the weeks of negativity that gradually led from ambivalence to acceptance to excitement, I've become very attached to this little person growing inside of me.  I can't wait to meet him or her (and find out if it's him or her!) and add their personality and prescence to our home.

I feel the baby move every day, several times a day.  I adore that feeling, and the secret communication between my baby and me always brings a smile to my face.  Ashlynn felt the baby move for the first time tonight, the first of the family to have that physical manifestation of his or her prescense. 

I've never spotted in any of my healthy pregnancies. 

It could be nothing.  It could be something.  There's nothing for me to do now but wait it out, and see what presents itself. 

We have had so many medical dramas, surgeries, trips to doctors offices and emergency rooms in the past two years that psychologically, it's hard for me to fathom that something could go smoothly, normally, or proceed without a hitch. 

I am clinging to my deeply-held belief that birth is normal, that my body isn't broken, that I know how to grow, nourish, and birth a healthy baby. 

I am 21 weeks.  I have 3-4 weeks left until the baby is considered viable, and a good 16 weeks before we're considered full term. 

I'm hanging on for the ride.  Prayerful, emotional.  Hopeful.

It's a...

Baby.

A healthy one.

And despite all my pleadings on the way to the appointment, (when I thought my husband might actually cave,) and my beggings while I was laying on the table covered in all that lovely, oh-so-warm ultrasound goo, (when I swear he almost changed his mind,) we still don't know if we're having a boy or a girl.

The great news is, though, that everything looks great with the baby, whoever he or she might be. 

According to the ultrasound, the baby weighs about nine ounces, and is measuring small, around the 30th percentile or so.  Not at all concerning considering I've had two six pound babies at term, so this little one is following in big sister and brother's footsteps.

We were able to visualize 3 open skull sutures, and although that really means nothing in terms of the wonderful world of craniosynostosis, I was happy to see a nice little round noggin.

We also found out that I have marginal placenta previa, but as of right now, it's absolutely nothing to worry about.  Even the Doctor who diagnosed it, who knew we are planning a homebirth and actively discouraged it, didn't tell us that it was a reason to worry at all. 

I'm scheduled for a repeat scan at 32 weeks, both to check on the skull sutures and monitor the previa.  I'm more worried that I'll be able to stay strong and not ask about gender than I am about a problem with either one of those. 

As we were leaving, Tom told them to make a note in my chart that I'm not allowed to ask about the gender when I'm there next.  They all got a good laugh while I rolled my eyes.

And I'm really hoping that the surprise at the end is worth it!

To find out or be surprised?

Our "big" ultrasound is scheduled for Friday.  Normally, the question on everyone's mind is what kind of baby are you having: pink or blue, brother or sister.

The other three times we've done the big ultrasound, we've gone in wanting and expecting to find out.  Twice, (with Abby and Max,) our intuition proved correct.  When I was pregnant with Ashlynn, neither one of us were certain until we saw the ultrasound.

Now my husband is pretty tolerant with some of my more crunchy habits, especially when it comes to pregnancy and childbirth.  He knows how much homebirth means to me, and lets me go along with what I think is best, with few exceptions.  And since he so rarely has a strong opinion, when he does, I know I have to stand up and listen.

Except for the fact that he doesn't want to know if we're having a boy or a girl.

He wants to be surprised!

His theory is that since this is our last, and since we have some of each, there's no reason why we shouldn't wait until the birth to find out. 

Problem is, it's killing me not to know!  And I have absolutely no intuition either way, so I really do think we're going to end up being surprised. 

The girls are dying for a baby sister.  Ashlynn's reasoning is that she doesn't know what it's like to have a baby sister, because she's only ever had a baby brother.  They ask me almost every day when we're going to know if they're having a brother or sister, and then groan when I remind them that we're probably going to have to wait until December to find out. 

When I first found out we were having another baby, I could have sworn up and down that we were having another boy.  After all, in my neighborhood, there are at least ten boys to every girl.  Over the weekend, we went for a cookout with three other families, and there were fifteen kids between us.  Only three are girls, and two of them belong to us.  It's a big joke around our neighborhood that we just don't know how to make girls.

Although the past few weeks, I'm feeling much more girly.

In the beginning, Tom was thinking girl, and now he's convinced we're having another boy. 

I keep telling him that it will just take one little peek and we'll end months of wondering.  He always laughs, and asks why we would want to miss out on five more months of these discussions.

I've been to several births as a doula where the parents didn't know their baby's gender beforehand, and they were always so fun.  Not only were they meeting the baby they'd been growing for nine months, but they also got to find out who that baby was.  And announcing the birth had the extra excitement of "It's a Girl!" or "It's a Boy!" instead of just telling everyone that the baby had been born.

But still.

I'm dying to buy teeny-tiny clothes, and I can't justify it because we have more than enough boy clothes, and I want to buy clothes in colors other than green and yellow!

Maybe not knowing will be great incentive when I'm in that "Why did I ever think a natural birth was a good idea and I just can't do this anymore" stage.   And deciding on both a boy and a girl name has given us and our families plenty of discussion material.

But I still can't help but hope that the technician slips on Friday.

How about you?  Did you know what you were having?  Did you ever want to be surprised?

This post has a happy ending

It almost didn't.

I had a routine check up with an ob/gyn yesterday.  While its not exactly normal to see a homebirth midwife and an ob/gyn at the same time, ever since my last miscarriage at thirteen weeks, I've needed to know that my pregnancies were viable.  

The ob/gyn who did my last D&C is amazingly respectful, supportive and willing to help.  After the surgery, he told my husband and me that he would help us in any way he could. He suggested when we got pregnant again that we see him for the first 12 weeks, have an early ultrasound to verify that everything was progressing normally, and then he would be happy to discharge us to the care of our midwife.   

This time around, we opted to do the same thing.  We saw him at eight weeks, had a quick (less than a minute) ultrasound showing a healthy heartbeat, and scheduled one more appointment at twelve weeks.  

Yesterday, when I went in, I was expecting to be in and out.  When the doctor came in, he offered to do another quick ultrasound.  Once on the table, I was concerned when an image didn't immediately come up on the screen.  

Several times, he turned on the sound, trying to hear a heartbeat.  There was nothing.

He searched for a few minutes, and still couldn't find anything.  I made a lame joke about the baby playing hide and seek, and he didn't answer.  My heart caught in my throat.  

"I'm so sorry," he said, "but I can't find anything.  There's very little fluid, and I can't find a heartbeat."  He pointed to an image on the screen, still searching with the ultrasound.  "I'm sorry. But let's do a quick check with the vaginal ultrasound to be sure."

He left me in the room with one of those lovely paper "sheets" to cover myself.  In the two minutes that it took me to get undressed and situated, I battled a myriad of crazy emotions.  First and foremost, I was numb.  I couldn't believe that this was happening again.  My sister just went through this exact same situation three weeks ago at her twelve-week visit, and I was incredulous that both of us were going through the same thing.  I clicked into survival mode, immediately planning the lesson cancellations, and how I would manage to have a D&C when my husband was scheduled to leave for Germany today for a business trip.   

The doctor came back in, and started the vaginal ultrasound.  Immediately, a crystal-clear image popped up and once again, the doctor said, "I'm sorry," but this time he followed it with "Its right there."

"What's right there?" I stuttered.

He turned on the sound, and there it was.  The blissful sound of a baby's heartbeat.

The doctor apologized up and down.  He said he didn't know what had just happened, and said it was the worst ultrasound imaging he had ever seen.  The baby was measuring perfect, and the image was so clear that we could see the spine, two arms and two legs moving around, the skull, the brain, and the fluttering heartbeat.  

I've struggled ever since I found our we were expecting again.  I don't think I was emotionally ready to be pregnant again, and the reality of this pregnancy has been tempered and colored with Max's surgery and hospitalizations.  I've felt horribly guilty because I haven't felt the excitement and anticipation that I've felt every other time I've been pregnant.  

It wasn't until I was faced with the idea of losing the baby that I realized how much I really do want this little person to join our family.  And while things have been complicated and difficult these first few weeks, I now know that I wouldn't go back and undo it, even if I could.  The timing definitely isn't what we would have chosen, but this little person is obviously on their way at this time for a reason.  And I can't wait to meet him or her and have them join our crazy little family. 

In which I become jealous of the cat

I am seriously tired.

I forget how incredibly, bone-tired, I'm-going-to-die-if-I-don't-sleep right now I get when I'm pregnant.

Add that to a teething baby who is up every 37 minutes all night long, (Seriously.  I counted.) and you have a recipe for one very tired mama.

Give me a choice between just about anything and sleep, and I'll pick sleep. 

This afternoon after the girls got home from school and Max was napping, I told them they could go upstairs for a few minutes and play so I could shut my eyes.  I told myself it was just going to be a few minutes.  An hour and twenty minutes later, I woke up with drool on my chin and the print of the couch on my cheek, wondering how it got to 5:20. 

Yesterday I started feeling insanely jealous of our big fat black cat.  You see, all he does all day is sleep. 

He spent a few hours sleeping in the baby's crib, (Max certainly isn't using it!) then got up, ate some food out of his dish, and spent the next few hours sleeping under our bed.  Then he moved to the window seat.  Yesterday night, he spent a few minutes purring in my lap, then curled up on the couch and went back to sleep again.

And the best part about it?  No one expects him to do anything different!

Yes, I'm convinced.  I need to be a cat.  At least for the rest of my first trimester. 

It's hard work growing an entire human from scratch you know. 

That's what I keep telling myself as I lay around the house like a slug, anyway.  I figure no matter what else anyone around here does, I'm still being more productive than they are. 

Things are about to get a lot more interesting around here soon...

Two days before Max went in for surgery, we got this surprise:

To say we were stunned would be an understatement.

Today, after about four weeks of letting the idea settle in a little, we had a brief ultrasound that showed us that there is a new little someone with a happy little heartbeat who will be joining our family in December.

Still feeling a bit stunned and more than a little overwhelmed, and glad that babies take nine months to cook so Tom and I have some time to get used to the idea. The girls are wishing for a baby sister, of course, and haven't stopped talking about it since we told them this morning.   Tom and I have bets on another boy.  The baby's heartrate at the ultrasound today was in the 150's, so the little stinker isn't giving anything away!

I am glad that, after two miscarraiges, there is actually a baby with a heartbeat.  And I am also glad that there is not more than one baby with a heartbeat, despite all the dreams and premonitions I have had about twins lately. 

So there you have it: my excuse for everything for the next seven months, including why my house is a disaster, my blog isn't interesting, and why I'm wearing maternity pants for the first time today.  (Hey, this is pregnancy number six for me!  I think my uterus just decided it was way too much work at this point and gave up early!) And now, I think I'm going to go eat some pickles and take a nap.