Welcome 2 The Dawn (Birth Story Pt. II)

And we now continue The Birth Story ...

Part Two

After making several rounds of Peggy Lee and Julie London, I thought I'd try to coax the babe out with some volunteer radio. You know what's on WEVL at 6:25am on Tuesdays? Techno. Thumpy, contraction-taunting techno. Back to you, Julie.

Not long after the sun came up, Miss M came stumbling into the living room. At this point, I was making noise during contractions, going from audible exhales to quiet groans. We'd prepared M as best we could for what she might see or hear during labor, and she didn't seem bothered by what was going on. She was very clingy to The Admiral, though, so we decided to wake Cha Cha up and turn over child-wrangling duties.

Poor Cha Cha. She was in a dead sleep when The Admiral went to get her. When she came into the living room, she was a trooper and went right into happy-cheerful-grandma mode. Problem was, I was just on the verge of transition and hearing a vocal tone in that register was like a rake on a chalkboard. Both Cha Cha and The Admiral claim I said, "Mom, I don't want to hear your voice right now," but what I very carefully chose to say was, "Mom, I need to not be able to hear what you're saying right now." I thought that was pretty diplomatic, considering.

Contractions had been getting more and more intense during this interlude, and I finally hit the point where I could no longer complete my dining room table laps and had to just stand in one place, grab the back of a chair, and moan out my exhales. When I started doing this, Amy and Andrea started bustling around, clearing space around me and laying out all the waterproof materials. They'd been assessing my dilation to that point based on my circulation and the location of my uterus, so I figured they had a good idea that I was getting close. Looking back, though, I think they just wanted to protect the rug in case my water broke.

I wasn't so much feeling pushy as just ready to be done with those really fierce contractions, and based on my sudden hot flashes and shakiness, I was pretty sure I was in transition. Amy pointed out that at some point, I'd probably have to get rid of my shorts, so that made me all the more encouraged that I was, if not at the final turn, somewhere in the vicinity. Glad that I'd thought ahead and closed the dining room blinds, I followed my urge to take off all restrictive clothing (i.e, all of it). This cued Miss M to take on one of her pre-assigned tasks, and she ran into her room and got a tiny little fan that she proceeded to use to cool me off. It was pretty damn adorable. For about 15 seconds, anyway. Then she got bored or freaked out or otherwise occupied and quietly went off with Cha Cha.

Saying things are a blur from this point on isn't entirely accurate. They're more dark than blurry, owing to the fact that my eyes were closed 90% of the time. I stayed in the dining room for a short while longer, but I suddenly remembered how soft and comfortable the bed had looked when I passed it on the way to my 319th pee, and I spontaneously decided on a change of venue. The bedroom was clean and light and airy and seemed like the perfect place to be.

I waddled into the bedroom and hoped that I could find a way to rest in between contractions. Problem with that plan, however, was that I couldn't get myself into any position other than standing or kneeling with my body straight up. Lying down just wasn't an option. Neither was being on my hands and knees, which I thought would help with the baby's position. I also became aware that, well beyond the intensity of the contractions, the pain in my back was getting stronger and stronger. The Admiral resumed his post from Miss M's delivery, with his fists firmly pressed against the upper points of my pelvis. Amy helped out with this job as well, when she wasn't busy doing other ... midwife things. I really have no idea what they were doing during most of this because, again, my eyes were closed. The Admiral mentioned afterward that Andrea had been sitting on my exercise ball at the end of the bed. I hadn't noticed that at all. At this point, the outer world was almost entirely aural.

They kept checking the baby's heart tones as often as they could manage, and as time went on, just about the only thing encouraging me was hearing that strong, consistent beat. After wandering around the bedroom and trying several positions suggested by the midwives, including sitting backwards on the toilet, I found my most comfortable spot. This involved standing in our teeny bathroom, hands pressed into the wall and arms straight ahead of me, trying to create a straight line of energy between the pushing in my arms and pushing out the baby. The crucial part of this set-up was The Admiral, who was stationed behind me with his hands pressing into my back. Because the bathroom is so small, he was up against the opposite wall (or so I thought; he later showed me that he was actually jammed up against the closet doorknob) so there was a lot more counter-pressure.

Amy and Andrea were paying close attention to my energy level, and when I seemed to be wearing out, they were right there to encourage and coach me. When I thought I was about to tip over from hunger, Amy appeared with a spoonful of honey. When my legs started shaking from standing too long, Andrea suggested I try moving back to bed and trying to push from my side or back for awhile. Sometime in here, I elbowed The Admiral in the head while trying frantically and unsuccessfully to find a comfortable side-lying position. I actually thought I'd hit Amy, but I heard her asking The Admiral if he needed an ice pack. I swear it was an accident.

Even though being in bed wasn't as comfortable for me, I actually found myself relaxing (or, more accurately, collapsing) and nearly asleep in between contractions. I also tried to keep focused by talking to myself, muttering words like "open," "release" and "strong."

But my back. Holy hell, my back. There was nothing else going on in my body that rivaled the pain in my back. It was searing, like flaming knives stabbing outward. When I wasn't bellowing incomprehensibly, the only words out of my mouth were, "MY BACK MY BACK OH PLEASE MY BACK!" The Admiral did his very best to accommodate my hollered requests, but I felt like I was taking up valuable energy and breath trying to detail where I needed counter-pressure when I should have been spending it on pushing. Andrea did suggest that I try holding in my urge to groan and focusing that effort on pushing instead, which did seem to help make the pushing more effective.

Or so I thought, anyway. After all that work, I couldn't imagine that the baby was very far away. I kept waiting to hear, "He's close! I can feel the head!" but I never did. Every time they checked my dilation, I could tell that the baby was still very high up. Sometimes there was still a lip of cervix, sometimes not. I deliberately didn't look at the clock, but I overheard the midwives discussing the heart checks and Andrea said something about 10:25. When I heard that, I wanted to cry. Three hours. I'd been at this three hours and I wasn't even close. Andrea asked me to lie down so she could get a good check, but it hurt so badly that I flipped over and scurried over the edge of the bed like a startled spider. (You have to clearly envision my giant contracting belly for that to seem as impressive as it was.) I believe it was Amy who then said, "Well she's still got spirit."

At this point, the baby was doing just fine, but I was feeling in distress. I fell to my knees at the side of the bed, in exhaustion and fear and supplication. I prayed. I choked back the urge to sob. The idea of a hospital transport flitted into my head, but I knew I could never make it sitting in a car for 20 minutes. I also knew that I'd be a very likely c-section candidate, especially after I gleefully accepted an epidural and all its back-numbing deliciousness. So some stubborn voice, way way back in my head, told me to just keep going. To trust that we were doing fine and that everything would be okay.

I got back up and into the bathroom, mentally if not physically stronger. I felt a small increase in the effectiveness of my pushing, and with one particularly strong push, I felt the massive sploosh of my water breaking. As did The Admiral, who was still stationed right behind me. (Although I dare say that a little amniotic fluid wasn't that bothersome after everything else he'd seen coming out of me over the last few hours. When we were in a more light-hearted mood, I observed that he had, in fact, been in the shit.) I was somewhat encouraged by this change, mostly because it meant that something was happening. The midwives also noted that I'd feel a lot less pressure now that the bag of water wasn't trying to get out ahead of the baby. And they were right.

But oh my motherfucking back. Andrea offered to try saline injections to relieve the pain, but having heard nothing but failing reports from other mamas who'd tried the same thing, I decided against it.

I think it was about this time that The Admiral pulled out the big guns. A few nights before, we'd watched Borat and, as much as I enjoyed the movie as a whole, there was one part that made me laugh out loud both when I watched it and any time afterwards that I thought about it. It was just one second of the movie, but it cracked me up. And I told The Admiral that, when labor got unbearable and I seemed like I wasn't going to make it, that I needed him to duplicate that scene for me. So there in our bathroom, after 11 hours of watching me trying to squeeze out a baby, The Admiral took it upon himself to cluck like a surprised chicken in a dropped suitcase. And in the middle of all that pain and frustation, I laughed.

The laughing stopped shortly afterward, though, when Amy came in to check the baby and we all heard something we hadn't heard before. No one said the word "deceleration," but after all those previous checks, it was easy to tell that the baby wasn't doing as well as he had been. His heart rate was noticeably slower. This time, Andrea's recommendation that I lie on my side wasn't a suggestion. And this time, I didn't resist it. I knew my comfort wasn't the most important thing anymore.

I got back in bed and onto my side. The Admiral had my back, Amy helped support my leg and Andrea was applying compresses and trying to guide the baby's head. I'd rest for about 20 seconds and then groan, "Okaayyy," which signaled everyone to get into position while I pushed. I was still yelling instructions on where I needed my back pressed while I heard Andrea and Amy calmly encouraging my pushing. I finally felt like I was getting close, like the baby was really coming. This was the part I'd been anticipating for four hours.

I pushed and pushed and pushed. I could feel the fullness of the baby moving down and without anyone telling me it was happening, I knew his head was nearly out. And then it was. The relief was so tremendous that I wanted to stop right there and rest for awhile, but the midwives kept calmly but firmly guiding me to continue pushing. Within a few more pushes, and with a feeling I can only describe as "blooop," he was all the way out.

And so, so quiet.

My eyes were still closed. All I could hear was the midwives telling me to talk to my baby, call him by name, talk to him. The Admiral's face was against mine, and I could vaguely hear him whispering that everything was fine, that the baby was fine. And we both called to him, "It's okay, Abraham. We're here. Abraham. Abraham. You're okay." I can't pretend I didn't think the worst. I thought what every parent thinks in that time when you're waiting for the crying to start.

After a very long minute, we heard the cries we'd been waiting for, and the midwives placed his still bluish body on my chest. Andrea explained that his umbilical cord had been wrapped around his neck. Twice. I didn't think there was a drop of fluid left in me after sweating for so long, but one heavy tear of joy and relief slipped from my eye.

Amy stepped outside and told Cha Cha and Miss M, who had been out back playing in the inflatable pool, to come in and meet the baby. Damp from the pool and red from the sun, they both tip-toed into the bedroom. I'm not sure whose face was beaming more brightly, although Cha Cha had the reflective power of tears on her side. I'm pretty sure my mother hugged me, and I'm positive she told me how proud she was of me. I wasn't prepared for how much it would mean to share that moment with my own mother, and I was so fiercely grateful that she had the chance to be there. (Later, Amy thanked her for her amazingly selfless involvement, saying that most grandmothers would have a very hard time staying away and taking care of the older child with all that baby activity was going on. I heartily agree, and will spend the next 8-12 birthdays and Mother's Days trying to express that.)

I think it was my Intro to Psychology textbook that said: if you want someone to fall for you quick, take them to a scary movie or ride roller coasters on the first date. The rush of adrenaline associated with fear can easily be mistaken for instant affection. I wouldn't say it was a glandular mix-up, but I would attribute the stress of Abraham's arrival with a prompter sense of bonding. It took me a little while to absorb Miss M, whereas as soon as Abe was handed to me, I was awash with all those motherly feelings, the primary one being protectiveness. It's not that I fell in love with him more, but I did fall in love with him faster.

I held Abraham while the midwives assessed how I was doing. I coughed out the placenta a few minutes later and was feeling pretty good, all things considered. But they were concerned about my bleeding, which mirrored the situation after the three hours it took to push Miss M out of me. They dosed me with arnica, both to help contractions and to deal with the already gruesome bruise blossoming on my lower back.

Again, the timing here is all a bit fuzzy, but I think this is when they checked the baby. They weighed him with the slingy-looking scale (I won the weight pool - 8lbs. even), measured out his little body (21" long, 14.25" head, 13" chest, 13.5" abdomen) and gave him an oral dose of Vitamin K. Because he'd spent so much time swimming around instead of descending, his head was a perfect little ball of a thing. He had a light dusting of dark hair, already threatening to curl. His eyes were blue, but a deep sapphire that seems likely to darken into brown but will be truly stunning if they stay as they are. He had a hint of his dad's chin cleft, just like his big sister. He was, quite simply, beautiful.

I, however, was a different story. The midwives helped me out of bed so I could attempt to pee, but that didn't quite work out. I was still bleeding more heavily than they wanted, so they gave me some herbs and, when that still didn't slow things down, I was blessed with a dose of Cytotec. Which apparently is more effective in suppository form. I've decided to spare you the details of my bottom's condition after all this, but let's just stop to acknowledge the un-funness of having anything go back into my body at this point. And the little bastards still didn't work!

During one of her checks on my bleeding, Andrea detailed the stickiness of Abraham's delivery position. He'd been posterior - face-up - but slightly turned to my left side. All he really needed to do was flip a quarter-turn to the right and he'd have been all set. But instead, he kept turning left. And turning, and turning. In what is called a "long arc rotation," he spun almost 360 degrees and ended up almost exactly where he'd started - still posterior. The only thing that keeps me from holding this against him his entire life is the knowledge that, in that big spin, he may have unwrapped one more loop of cord from around his neck. I don't think she was being at all dramatic or anti-hospital when Andrea said that this type of presentation was the most common reason for c-sections. She didn't suggest it, but I wholly believe that if I hadn't had this baby at home, I would have surely ended up in surgery.

After yet another discouraging check on my bleeding, I reminded Andrea that I'd been catheterized after M's birth because I'd been too swollen to pee on my own. I gave her permission to try again (forgetting that I'd had a local anesthetic last time, due to being stitched up). It was not a pleasant minute, but it did the job. With my bladder empty, my uterus could contract and the bleeding slowed way, way down. I could see the relief on both midwives' faces, both because I was going to be okay and, I dare presume, because this meant they could get some rest.

And, finally, that I could, too. With my baby at my breast, I laid in my own bed, with the sounds of my family around me, and went into a deep, bone-tired, blissful sleep.

We'll Catch Up Some Other Time

I've been so busy trying to complete the birth story (how many different ways can you say "astronomical back pain"?) that I've been neglecting everything else going on. Not that there's a whole ton of things that the outside world would find fascinating about life with a newborn, but it's still been a fairly eventful week. I don't have the time or memory to go over them all, but some of the highlights are:

Day Four: Baby Blues hit full on. List of possible things that made me cry include: my parents leaving town, my physical inability to comfort the baby in any way other than nursing, the ferocious pain of nursing, the ferocious pain of just about everything, and the Leonard Cohen song stuck in my head.

The Admiral's mom and step-dad also arrive and begin their mission to fortify us with stunning amounts of home-cooked food.

Day Six: The In-Law-Mobile is broken into. In our driveway. In daylight. Welcome to Memphis!

Edited by gentle prompting to add: my badass friends moved our weekly childless lunch date to our house, bringing a glorious feast of Elliott's take-out right to our kitchen. The food was great, but the company was what really hit the spot.

Day Seven: I don't really remember anything specific, but hey, he's a week old!

Edited to add again: Der. This was our first big outing! My first trip out of the house in a week, and his first car ride ever. We went to Mothersville, of course, to crash the breastfeeding support group, which I actually needed to attend. Although as is always the case, (warning, Miss M has given the child an unbearably cute new nickname:) Mr. Baby was the picture of perfect breastfeeding while we were there. It did make me acknowledge, though, that I wasn't hurting as badly, and that healing up from those first few days let me notice that he was doing better.

Day Eight: We loosen our 18+ door policy and invite the legion of bloggers (and a Legion of Zoomster) over for a 4th of July party. Ten children, thirteen adults, two sprinklers and a very large pitcher of mojitos later, I'd call our first 4-person-family fiesta a success.

Day Nine: Andrea came by to check up on Mr. Baby and declares him perfect. Our biggest concern? The fact that he's sleeping so dang much. Nap for longer than 45 minutes? We didn't know babies could do that.

Edited to add more: he weighed in at 8lbs, 14oz. The goal is to have them regain their birth weight by two weeks. Guess that nursing thing is going just fine.

And The Story Begins (Birth Story Pt. I)

Due to both time and memory constraints, I'm sure I'll have to write this down in pieces, but before the recall gets even fuzzier, I'll embark on ...

The Birth Story
Part One

Monday was a conflicted and emotional day. After starting the midwife appointment thinking we were about to induce then leaving Ike's with a bottle of castor oil and a complete change of plans, I spent the evening trying to step back and relax, consider my options, and take a night just to rest without worrying about what would happen next.

Anyone else hear the whistle of the Irony Express?

I went to bed around 11pm, feeling nothing physically stronger than my usual fatigue. But then I woke up about an hour later. And then ten minutes after that. And ten minutes after that. Still not convinced I was breaking out of the pre-labor pattern, I fought to go back to sleep, but then at 1am I got the, "No, seriously" call from my uterus. Contractions were five minutes apart and after another half-hour, I couldn't lie down and be still during them. I got up and watched the clock for another twenty minutes or so and then woke up The Admiral at 2am.

Since she had the furthest distance to drive, I called Andrea first. She answered the phone excitedly and asked, "Is it time?" It was thrilling to be able to finally say yes. She said she'd call Amy and head right over.

The Admiral was off to a slightly groggier start than I was. Maybe it was all the false alarms, or perhaps just the 97 minutes of sleep he was running on, but it took several reminders to get a pot of coffee made for the midwives (and him). He was in gear after about ten minutes, though, and we both spent the next hour puttering around, picking up the house, lighting candles, picking out music and contracting every 3-5 minutes (that was just me).

Miss M woke up and stumbled into our room, but The Admiral scooped her up and got her back into bed without incident. We kept an ear open for her moving around, but she didn't seem to be aware of the activity around her. The dog, on the other hand, was no further than ten feet away from me throughout the entire process.

When Andrea arrived around 3:15, we were in a very peaceful yet productive mode. I was resting between contractions, rocking back and forth to Julie London, and then up and circling the dining room table when they hit. The repetitive movement was my primary motivation, but it was also an instinctive desire to get away from everyone and into a dark, quiet room. Andrea checked my blood pressure and the baby's heart rate and position and said we looked to be in good shape all around.

Amy rolled up about 4am, and she and Andrea set about getting things prepared. It didn't occur to me how much stuff they'd show up with, and it was pretty cool to see how they'd organized a mobile birthing center into a couple carry-on bags. They both quickly adapted to the mood of the house and, although they did their work and carried on conversations, they moved and spoke smoothly and quietly, never interfering with my own rhythm.

As the morning rolled on, The Admiral asked if we should wake Cha Cha up. I said no, since I didn't see much need for her to sit around and watch me hurt. I also figured it would be better for her to get as much rest as possible before Miss M arose and she had to entertain her for an indefinite period of time, even though I was thinking we wouldn't have all that much longer to go.

Turns out, this was a good call.

Continue to Part 2.

My Mind Is On The Blink

The gentlemen may want to avert their eyes.

I just went to the bathroom (see, I mean it, look away!) and discovered that I've spent the last few hours wearing a pad with the adhesive wings still folded up in the middle. With the paper on.

Maybe I'm more tired than I thought.

Child Of Nature

I'm working on the birth story, I swear, but in the meantime, I just wanted to make note of what's been going on the last couple days. Going backwards, since my brain may or may not make it back two days.

Andrea came by today to do Mr. A's newborn screening stuff, including the PKU test that requires a heel stick. Generally just one stick, but because he's got his mother's thick Nordic blood, it took three jabs to get all the samples she needed. He was understandably pissed off about the whole deal, but handled it pretty well and settled quickly into a defensive nap when it was done. That gave us time to talk about how things were going and get some clarification on birth details that we hadn't absorbed at the time. (I don't want to spoil the birth story, but the words "long arc rotation" came up.) We also talked about the general amazement that comes from a natural, non-interventionist birth. I don't discredit the amazement of any birth, but there's something incomparable about trusting your body and the baby's inherent needs to get through a process that seems, from a logical standpoint, nearly impossible.

Andrea also admitted that, when she examined me at my first non-stress test, she was concerned about A's position. My OB had reported that he was at -1 station, but she could still plainly feel him floating around, and that made her worry that he was moving so much he might be getting tangled in the cord. She also saw some vaariables on the monitor that made her suspect the same thing. So when things occurred the way they did during labor, she was prepared and supportive and allowed for the time we needed to make things work. (Yep, just building more suspense for the full birth story.)

Anyway, after all that chatting and a discussion with my mom about their mutual love of Arabian horses, Andrea was on her way. A has been nursing and resting his sore little foot ever since, while the rest of us are gearing up to see Pops, who is making yet another voyage to see us, this time coming upriver from New Orleans to spend about 30 hours in town just to see his grandson.

Other than that, not much else of outside interest to report. Much sleeping, some crying, a general dissatisfaction with the non-tube digestive process that resulted in a 3am half-dose of Gripe Water (that stuff really works; good thing I know where to get some). Sleep has been decent, but I'm not taking these first couple days as any clear indicator of future behavior. Nursing is ... going. After nearly three years of nursing and four years of breastfeeding support groups, I of course expected to be Queen Nurser of Boobville, but apparently the boy has plans to undermine me. His latch is pretty amateurish and every feeding is a struggle to get both of his hands away from his face and his mouth positioned correctly, which takes about two more hands than I was endowed with.

Speaking of needing more hands, Cha Cha was just blessed with a pooped out diaper, so I should probably go help with that. Or at least stand by helpfully and point to the wet wipes.

Cute Cute Little Baby

Click the pic for more, including the back labor badge of honor.

Happiness Runs In A Circular Motion

We did it.

Seven days of pre-labor, twelve hours of the real kind, four hours of pushing and he's here. Abraham Dallas Secretagentlastname. All 8 lbs, 21 inches of him. Born at home, as planned but very much not, at 11:17 am on Tuesday, June 26.

All the very descriptive details and many pictures to follow, but I was just allowed to get back on the laptop and I have much catching up to do (including uploading said pictures). Our big thanks to everyone who has checked in, online and in 3-D. We're all doing great, with varying degrees of physical recovery time ahead.

There's Something Happening Here

People, I'd put your money on this Tuesday ...

Rockin In Two By Two

The upside: he's down.

The downside: he's up.

The non-stress test went fine this morning - very good, even. He's doing great in there. But, as we approach Week 42, we started talking about castor oil induction as the best way to get labor to go from neutral to drive (and stay there). Amy seemed confident that a boost like that would really get things moving. So to speak.

She asked if I wanted to do an exam, and because I'm such a fan of statistics, I said sure. Turned out to be a good call, because we discovered that he's moved down to zero station - so low she could actually touch his head. (This prompted the suggestion that I might want to skip the full-term-action component of Induction Step #3.) I'm a little more dilated, too - about 3cm now. So it was very encouraging to find out that something is happening, even if it's slowly.

However, the little bugger is posterior. Or was at 10:30 this morning, anyway. Which apparently explains the start-and-stop labor. I guess it's a lot more womb-agitating for him to be face-up.

We left the midwives' office with me planning to start the CO induction early tomorrow morning, but then when I was at Ike's getting all the needed supplies, I got a call from Andrea. Based on the NST and exam, and the fact that we may be a week off with my dates (um, better to know now than never, I guess), she didn't feel like there was any big rush to try to induce. Amy called shortly afterward and said basically the same thing. I think they both wanted to stress that I shouldn't, well, stress. Which, despite what you've all been wallowing through for the last two weeks, is my inclination as well. I'm tired of the waiting, obviously, and extremely eager to meet the little man, but I don't feel like there's something wrong that needs fixing. I still feel confident that he'll come when the time is right.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go do my cow-cat tilts and child poses and send a constant stream of mental "roll over!" messages to my belly.

Nothing Happening, It's All Illusion

Nope.

Not after a nesting spree this morning, nor a 2-hour nap battle with Miss M this afternoon, nor a relaxed home-cooked meal this evening.

Nothing.

We ended up canceling the non-stress test on Saturday because the ultrasound had gone so well, but I was instructed to go in tomorrow "if nothing happens before then." I'm going to have to think of a way to make people stop saying that.

On the plus side, I think everyone in the house has reached a point where any anxiety about birth, or homebirth specifically, has been waylaid by eagerness. Both The Admiral and Cha Cha have long expressed their concerns about this plan, and even though they both came to support my decision, I know there were still reservations. But now? Whatever. They just want this baby out. I don't think they'd mind if I delivered in the driveway.

Tired Of Living This Old Way

Nothing to report, really. Just feel like I need to keep posting regularly so that no one assumes I'm doing anything else.

We had a nice evening of overpriced chicken and inappropriate dinner conversation at Castilo Urf! last night. Remind me to add "mass pity" to the list of things that don't effectively induce labor, but it was a very pleasant couple hours of semi-distraction. We let Cha Cha off the monkey-hook for the night, which worked out just fine. Miss M was so excited to see her friends that she didn't eat or stop running the entire time we were there.

Right now we're trying to figure out how to entertain M through another disgustingly hot day and keep her out of the Futon Construction Zone so Cha Cha doesn't have to keep sleeping on the coffee table The Admiral got out of a dumpster. We're scheduled to go in for another non-stress test at 2:30 this afternoon. Depending on schedule and general well-being after that point, we could be heading eastward for a Chockleyblogbirthday party, or I could be curling up on the couch and banging my head into the no longer needed coffee table. (Yes, that's my passive-aggressive way of telling the Chockleyblogs that our attendance is still up in the ultra-pregnant air.)

Same As It Ever ... Was

What's the sound of exhaustion and frustration that comes after "sigh"?

The highlight of my Thursday was going to pre-natal yoga. Nothing makes you feel like a super-gravid badass like walking into class 41 weeks pregnant and in your third day of labor. The looks and sounds of amazement when I showed up were a much-needed boost.

Class seemed to help, too. After I got home, I started noticing regular contractions again. I didn't time them until after I put Miss M to bed, and then I noticed that they were coming every ... ten minutes! Heyo! I made sure the pattern was holding and then told Cha Cha and The Admiral (who already suspected based on the firm look passing across my face). I kept putting off calling the midwives until I was really, really sure it was staying steady, which meant I ended up waking Amy up at midnight. There still wasn't a ton of intensity to the contractions, and the length was still between 30-60 seconds, but it appeared to be a good, and real, start. Amy said to call back if anything happened - water breaking, span getting shorter or length increasing - and get some rest in the meantime. Which, amazingly, I did. I was excited and optimistic and ready to finally - FINALLY - get things going, but I was also really tired from the three days of constant low-grade activity, so I fell asleep almost immediately.

And then woke up an hour later to Miss M screaming. From her wet bed. The Admiral got up and dealt with getting her cleaned up, and then she crawled into bed with us. On the exact night I was really, really hoping she'd stay in her room and sleep until 8am. I had a surprisingly easy time getting back to to sleep, though, and she actually stayed quiet until 7:45, so it wasn't as rough a night as it could have been.

No, the roughness waited until morning. Waking up and having it hit me, yet again, that another day had passed without having this baby was enough to set off another crying jag. Another day's worth of frustration, worry and disappointment rolled out of me all at once. After a group family hug and some breakfast (we have had two containers of milk expire since my due date, for the record), I was feeling together enough to call Andrea and get the details for the ultrasound/amniotic fluid level test she wanted me to have this morning. It's not so much out of her own concern, but just following the ACOG guidelines in deference to my OB. I'm not really looking forward to spending half the day in a waiting room, but it might be nice to get a good look in there and some assurance that the little guy is doing okay. I could use some good stuff about now.

Update: The ultrasound went smoothly (and surprisingly quickly for a walk-in visit). The baby is doing great and my fluid levels were right on. We snuck a peek at the sonographer's screen when she left the room and it had an estimated fetal weight of 8lbs 4oz, which I don't take as absolute fact but which does coincide with my belief that I've got an 8-pounder in there.

I had a whole different kind of teary outburst when the technician showed us his face. It's a very big change from the alien-baby view you get at 18 weeks. I could discern his features, and see him doing baby things like swallowing and clasping his fingers. It really emphasized what I've been feeling the last couple weeks - I don't even know this baby yet, but damn do I miss him.

Since the ultrasound went so quickly, and happily, we decided to have a quiet, parents-only lunch. We went for Thai and I actually ordered something with a "spicy" asterisk next to it. Plus pineapples. Just so I can cross two more things off of my "stuff that's supposed to cause labor but really doesn't" list.

Ask Him How Much Of Your Mind, Baby

Well, on the plus side, the vomiting has stopped. Miss M seems to have expelled whatever was troubling her (which we suspect was a belly full of allergy-induced drainage) and spent the rest of the morning eating her weight in breakfast foods.

On the other side ... well, you know this story already. There did seem to be a little activity going on while we were walking around downtown in the mid-day heat, and even a bit when I was sitting quietly in the car, but nothing since we got home an hour ago.

In other fake-out news, Pops called to tell us he was going to fly back down tomorrow night. Woo hoo! And there was much jubilation! But then he called back half an hour later and said he couldn't make it because he got the dates for the Gay Pride Parade off a week. Don't ask.

I was looking at the midwives' call schedule for the month and noticed that today is the summer solstice, so now I'm actually rooting for the kid to come out in the next nine hours. It just seems really fitting that he would emerge on the longest day of the year. I also observed that today is the first day of Cancer's astrological rule. I guess he really didn't want to be a Gemini. As if it wasn't bad enough that he didn't come out on Prince's actual birthday, thwarting my plans to let The Admiral name him Nelson (after Lord Horatio, he would assume) but not tell him why.

Nothing Lasts Forever

Contractions? What contractions?

Nothing at all going on this morning. Not a freaking thing. The baby's moving around just fine, but all labor-related activity seems to have come to a halt. A big, fat, embarrassing, crazy-making halt.

On the plus side, sleeping on a vinyl tablecloth for two nights did pay off when Miss M threw up all over our bed this morning. She's been retching up the meager contents of her stomach for the last two hours. I'm wondering if it's at all related to the nausea I felt Tuesday night, the nausea I optimistically chalked up to hormone stirrings. She's tentatively working her way through breakfast, with the puke bucket close at hand. Since she's off school today, we'd planned a day of distracting activities, but I have a feeling we're not going to get much further than the couch I've been orbiting for the last three days.

Tell Me Lies

I've been lied to.

Second babies don't come sooner. Second babies don't come faster. In fact, I'm not entirely convinced that second babies come at all.

Sigh.

Cha Cha and I walked around the mall this afternoon, hoping that the combination of movement and adorable baby clothes would kick up some activity, but to no avail. She and The Admiral picked M up from school again and swept her off to the library until dinnertime so I could get some rest, but that didn't do much, either. I stopped even looking at the clock or, really, even noting when I was having contractions at all, but since I've started paying attention again, I've timed them at 20 minutes. When they bother to come at all. So ... we're actually going backwards. Awesome.

At the appointment today, Andrea mentioned that we'd need to talk about our 42-week plan the next time we meet. I appreciate that she hasn't breathed a word about induction, homeopathic or otherwise, before now. With Miss M, I think my OB was already itching to do something when I came in at 40 weeks. But it's still discouraging to know there's a general feeling that this baby has no clear intention of coming out on his own. I know it's irrational, and I also know it's really common, but as we head into Day Three of Fake-Out Labor, with all the physical and emotional fatigue that entails, it's hard to have faith that it's ever going to happen.

But everyone says it will, and that's the one thing I need to believe.

Testing 1, 2, 3

Whoever named it a "non-stress test" doesn't know anything about Minnesotans, because sitting in a small room while a bunch of people look at you is about as stressful as it gets for my people. Nevertheless, the babe and I did fine. My contractions slowed to every 20 minutes while everyone was staring at me, but the midwives were impressed by their intensity considering I'd been rating them very low, discomfort-wise. The kid was handling them well, though. He just hasn't gotten himself into position to make use of them. Which they said is very normal for not-first babies. Apparently they don't usually slide into place until the contractions reach a stronger, less latent phase of labor. Thus explaining why I'm still at the exact same stage of dilation that I was four weeks ago, even though my cervix is, as Andrea said, "like soft butter." It's just going to take pressure from someone's seemingly stubborn head to open it up.

They've got me scheduled for another NST on Saturday, if he's still not here. Maude help us.

There's Got To Be A Morning After

Did anyone else hear that noise this morning? The sound of a dozen cell phones being picked up and checked for new messages? Just me, huh?

Well, to hit everyone at once, the update is: no update. I slept tolerably well, getting up the normal number of times. I was awake from about 4-5am and clocked my contractions at about 13 minutes apart, and since getting up at 7:30 they seem to be a little bit closer, but nothing dramatically different. Of course, the distraction of getting M ready for school may have had something to do with that.

I spoke to Andrea around 8:15, when I realized today was our regular appointment. She said to come on in, and since I'm at 41 weeks, they're going to do a non-stress test as well as check the little man's position to make sure a posterior presentation isn't what's causing the ... leisureliness.

I'm trying to stay non-stressed myself, but it's hard to stop worrying that The Hammer Guy may be considering a trade-up for a scalpel.

Into The Night

Part One

So here we are, twelve hours later, pretty much in the same spot. Contractions are still 15 minutes apart, or so I assume, since I've been dealing with Miss M's bedtime routine (voluntarily) for the last couple hours and haven't really had a chance to time them.

I spent a good chunk of the afternoon alone, relaxing, hydrating and power-napping. The crew returned home with my Camy's take-out around 6:30. Cha Cha and M were off playing for a while, then joined me in the kitchen for a pre-bath Play-Doh party. She (the child) was being unusually cooperative, actually heeding time limits on playtime and bathtime. It was ominous, really. We got through a few books, including our homebirth picture book, just fine, but when the lights went down, the monkey emerged. When I reached the limit of my patience and could no longer communicate in calm, baby-soothing tones, The Admiral stepped in, gallantly abandoning the season finale of Deadliest Catch to help get her down.

Aaaand that's about it for now. When I last spoke to Andrea, around 4:30, she said to give her a call when my contractions got longer than a minute and/or less than 10 minutes apart, which looks like it won't be happening anytime before midnight. If at all. Maybe I'm gestating a practical joker with a very acute sense of timing.

Part Two

Took The Admiral up on his suggestion of another walk, which got contractions going between 7-11 minutes apart and lasting almost a minute. Stopped by the apartments behind our house to hear and witness the loudest group of mating toads ever. Had another shower when we got back, changed into pajamas and, at 10:38 pm, broke into Birth Bag #1 to make up the bed. Had a few contractions somewhere in there but didn't notice the clock. Cha Cha just took her crossword into the office/guest suite, The Admiral is lining up his last snack of the day, and I'm planning to roll into bed right after The Colbert Report. Good night, y'all.

The Final Countdown (?)

Hmmm. Looks like I may have been a Tuesday off ...

Hm? What? More details? Oh, okay.

The morning got off to a fairly normal start. Miss M crawled into our bed at about 7am, dozed for a few minutes and then started kicking me in the back to indicate she wanted breakfast. The Admiral slept on, Cha Cha was comfortably tucked into her new futon and Pops had caught a 5am cab to the airport, so M and I were the only ones up. I got her ready and off to school, then swung by the store to pick up mail and receipts.

By the time I got home, I started noticing that the contractions I'd pretty much stopped expecting to be any sort of consistent were actually sort of consistent. I kept a lid on it, though, and watched the clock as I went about my morning chores - checking email, checking blogs, checking email again. After about two hours, I mentioned to The Admiral that I thought I might be having a baby today. After a few other cyber-announcements and a couple more contractions, I broke the news to Cha Cha, too.

That set off a flurry of puttering involving bathroom cleaning and laundry, none of which involved me. I did whip out the vacuum, though, figuring I might be spending some time on the floor in the near future. A few more cyber-updates and about three contractions later, I decided I should maybe let the midwives know what was going on. Andrea seemed very unsurprised to hear from me. "I was expecting a call when this weather came in," she said. I guess barometric pressure has something to do with babies coming. We discussed my status for a few minutes and casually agreed that we'd check back in later when there was more going on.

In an effort to help that happen, I had a sandwich (egg salad, my labor favorite) and juice, went for a semi-vigorous walk and took a long shower. I started singing in the shower - something I rarely do, but I remembered a passage from Ina May's book talking about how that could help open things up. I just kept repeating this lullaby from Miss M's hippie earth-music CD, over and over and over again. I don't know if it helped open anything, but it was very soothing.

After I got out, Melissa called from the store with a diaper question, and I couldn't resist letting her know what was happening. (I think both she and the customer she was helping felt bad for interrupting, but really, I just wanted to share the excitement.) Not knowing when I'd have a chance to do it again, I put on a little make-up and did my hair, and then returned to my post on the couch where I ... well, where I am right now. Contractions still coming, but no more intense. I think I'm a little bit anxious about Miss M coming home from school, but I may just send her and the other adults out to the park for awhile. I spent the first twelve hours of my last labor totally alone, and I think some quiet time would be helpful.

This Is A Story About Control

Sigh.

It's not the discomfort, really. That's pretty minor. Other than the feeling of having to move an internal 20-lb. bag of marbles whenever I roll over in bed, and the extra time needed to get off the couch, I don't really feel that different from a month ago.

It's the suspense, I guess. The not-knowing. The Hammer Guy lurking around every corner. And it's also the unraveling of the few plans I did have. I've spent months looking forward to my parents being here for the big event and now here we are, a few hours away from taking my dad to the airport for his return trip. My mom's going to hang out a few more days at least, but I'd envisioned a week or more of grandmotherly assistance, both with the baby and Miss M.

I've been stuffing the feelings of disappointment and anxiety, but I'm running out of room in here. And unfortunately, I reached capacity on the one day of the year when I should have been focused on something other than my maternity - Father's Day. While my dad and The Admiral were trying to wrangle Miss M and watch the US Open at the same time, I was trying to nap off the urge to get in the car and drive back to my cabin for the week. Didn't really work, though. I slept from 1:00-3:30. Then wept openly from 3:30-5:00, an event so unusual and jarring to Miss M that she just sat and stared at my face with a puzzled expression. Even after Cha Cha and Pops took her for a long walk and park trip, she came back and said, "Mama, are you feeling better? Why were you crying?" I tried to explain it to her in terms she'd understand, reminding her how frustrated she gets when she's waiting for something to happen and it takes longer than she hoped. That made some sense to her, even if she didn't gather the deeper issues. Or why the crying got more intense whenever I looked at Pops.

I'm trying not to sink into pessimism, but part of me is thinking that this Tuesday will be the day, because that will be after my dad leaves but before my midwife gets back from vacation. Wouldn't that be just like a baby? All spontaneous and inconvenient like that? But at this point, I don't even care. Maybe that's where I need to be. I've been so busy trying to get everything in order and under control before this baby comes, but now I just want him here. Now.

Sweet Southern Comfort

Whenever someone asked me what my due date was, I always said June 15, since that was right between the two dates given to me by my OB and midwives. But I never expected to make it that far. Everyone swore to me that second babies came earlier than the first, and since Miss M was only 5 days past 40 weeks, I thought I'd be on target for a 38.5 week delivery, 39 at the most.

What I forgot to take into consideration, however, is The Natural Factor. Granted, I just made it up, but I think it's a solid theory. I've been paying more attention to the natural birthing multi-breeders I know, and I've noticed something strange: unlike our spinal-blocked sisters, the women who went drug-free the first time delivered their second babies later than the first. Anywhere from 8 to 11 days past dates. And I'm unscientifically crediting that to the fact that, whatever may happen between births, as soon as those Braxton Hicks contractions start kicking in, the full memory of labor's intensity emerges from the mental mist. And it's hard to resist the urge to go into lockdown, to obey the voice that says, "Nuh uh! Not again! That sucked!"

I've been trying to dispel these thoughts with the knowledge that there were many factors of my first childbirth that were outside of my control, and that with a better handle on my environment and birth team, some of the most challenging aspects of labor will be reduced, if not altogether eliminated. Like the half-hour drive while I was in transition, or the twenty minutes pacing around an empty ER while I was checked into the hospital, or the endless expanse of time during which I was hooked up to a monitor belt. I'm counting on the home field advantage to reduce both the mental and physical aggravation I went through last time. Whenever people ask why I decided on a homebirth, the first thing I say is that everything I didn't like about my first labor occurred after I left the house, so I'm trying to focus on the memories of those first 15 hours, and how the peace and quiet and comfort of home made everything easier to take.

Save A Horse

Why having horse breeders around when you're trying to go into labor can be a not entirely good idea ...

"Look! She's denting at the sides, like the mares."

"Yeah."

"Must be getting close. Have you bagged up yet?"

"Have I wha .... no! People don't do that before the baby comes. And stop talking about me 'foaling.'"

No No No No No-No-No-No

No. Nothing. I'm just not answering the phone.

A Little Left Of Center

In answer to all the calls, texts, emails and quizzical looks I've gotten today: No. Not yet.

I'm feeling a little less pressure, though, since I found out that the midwife who I thought was leaving for vacation tomorrow actually left town this morning. So at least I don't have to spend the rest of the day worrying about messing up her packing.

Speaking of less pressure, I just got a call from my other midwife, to get the most straight-forward directions for the back-up midwife. She mentioned that having my folks around will probably help get things going, since I'll now have the time to rest and refresh and center myself before the next ... I believe "onslaught" was the word she used.

It's a good point. While Cha Cha was wearing Miss M out in the pool, I was sitting on the couch, eating candy and watching Oprah. Now that's some centering. Just not having to think ahead to how we're going to get M peacefully through the next few hours is incredibly relaxing. Right now, Cha Cha is helping her through a puzzle book that I, quite frankly, despise. Just watching someone else dealing with that horrible torture device is making my blood pressure sink. At this rate, I could be mellowed into labor by dinner time.

Post-script: I just got this from my weekly BabyCenter email.
You're 14 percent more likely to give birth on a Tuesday than on any other day of the week — and least likely to deliver on the weekend.

The taunting!

Barely Out Of Tuesday

Tuesday.

I've decided. That's when he's coming. I've had enough of the whole not knowing what's going to happen thing so I'm just putting it on the calendar. Cha Cha and Pops get here Monday, one of my midwives leaves town Wednesday, so it's just got to be Tuesday.

Just in case sheer force of will isn't enough to make it happen, I've lined up a few back-ups. Before I went into labor with Miss M, I had a long walk, a hot bath and a vigorous foot rub. So I scheduled a spa pedicure for Monday afternoon, after which I'll walk several loops around the airport while waiting for my parents to arrive and then soak in the tub while they figure out how to put together the new guest room futon.

I don't see how it can fail. If I've learned anything about parenting so far, it's that all you have to do is make a decision and things fall into place.

Shower Scene

I shouldn't say that I wasn't thrown a baby shower for Miss M, because even though I had to fly 2000 miles to get there and most of the guests were guys, it was a well planned party thrown on behalf of my baby-to-be. My sister and oldest girlfriend worked hard to coordinate all the details and it was a really nice evening. But it was at a bowling alley and most of the gifts we received were Spiderman board books, so it didn't really fit the traditional baby shower mold. (Not to mention the fact that I ran into my college boyfriend in the middle of his bachelor party.)

I've never been entirely sure of the etiquette for second-baby showers, and I just assumed we'd go without one this time. We pretty much had everything we needed already, and, oh yeah, I also own a parenting store, so it seemed a bit grabby to presume we'd be thrown a party with the deeply implied intent of stocking us up on baby gear. And yet, as a slowly evolving Southerner, I did feel a strange urge to get together with our friends and drink punch and get prodded about announcing the baby's name for a couple hours.

The main difference between this pregnancy and the last is that, this time, I've had three years to build up a network of parent friends, and moms in particular, and it should have occurred to me that a bunch of Southern women weren't going to let this baby's arrival go uncelebrated. Thanks to Kristy and Stephanie, along with their genial spouses (only one link because Stephanie and Chip share a blog, or possibly because Kristy and Stephanie share a husband), last Sunday brought us to Castilo Alley for an afternoon jam-packed with friends, babies and enough strawberry icing to affect my unborn's insulin level until 2017. Aside from the presence of menfolk and the gracious absence of games, it was very much the traditional shower. Except better.

I was still enjoying the post-party glow when I got to work this morning and noticed that my gaggle of playgroup regulars was acting a bit strangely. And that their diaper bags looked heavier than usual. After a few arrived and started whispering to each other in the back, I knew something was up. They eventually admitted that they were all throwing me a shower today, and each mama who came in was toting a bag of goodies to add to the table of treats we set up in front of the nursing bras. Other than the customers who loitered around and made me miss the first 45 minutes of the event, it was a lovely party and a very touching gesture from these moms who have been sharing their first year of motherhood with me. They tell me often how much Mothersville means to them, but I don't think they understand how much it brightens my week to see their babies and share their stories and enjoy their company for a few hours. And having been one of them not so long ago, it's my honor to keep up the community that was so crucial to my survival as a new mom.

And now, just because I need to show off all two opportunities that I've had to wear my very fancy maternity boutique dress, I bring you pictures from my 2003 and 2007 showers.

With my sister ...


And with my baby's sister ...

Payback Is A Grandmother

(Yes, folks, the posts are going to be very heavy on the "mom" and very light on the "secret agent" for the next spell here. As my roster has already learned, my booking brain is on lowest gear right now as I prepare to pop out my newest client.)

You forget things from one pregnancy to the next. It's nature's way of guaranteeing the propagation of the species, because if we could clearly recall every ache and inconvenience, let alone what happens at the end, it would be pretty hard to go through this ordeal more than once. But one of the pleasant things I'd forgotten was Grandbaby Watch.

GW '07 began tonight with a call from my dad. He was just calling to check in, see how I'm feeling, and get any hint possible about when this baby might come. Just like he'll do tomorrow. And the next night. And every evening until he and Cha Cha arrive in Memphis or the child makes his debut, whichever comes first. As their grandchild count has increased, my parents have gotten exponentially more excited about each addition. I was looking at pictures from Miss M's first month, and my folks look nearly as dazed as The Admiral and I. It had been more than 20 (okay, 25. Or so.) years since they'd last spent any time with a newborn and there was definitely a readjustment period.

I thought being the bearer of The First Grandchild would give me some cred over my older sister, who has always had the chance to be first at everything. But when her daughter arrived almost three years after Miss M, my parents were so much more comfortable and enthusiastic as grandparents that I sort of wished I hadn't been the one with the Rough Draft Baby. Not that they've been anything other than completely loving and attentive and overwhelmingly supportive with Miss M. They're just even better at the whole Cool Grandparent thing now.

Of course, after having two daughters and two granddaughters, this first grandson will be a whole new experience in itself. My mom actually hoped for boys when she was pregnant, since she'd basically raised her two younger brothers and figured she knew what to do with Y chromosomes, but my dad, the oldest of four sons, never had that heir urge. I know they're just about exploding with excitement, though, and that the gender really doesn't make much difference except how it relates to which side of the Baby Gap Outlet my mom will spend her time.

So I look forward to the nightly calls and the chance to share their excitement on a regular basis. I didn't want to start off too optimistic, though; I didn't bother to mention that I've spent the day feeling like we may be gearing up for ... something. Mostly because my impatience is probably translating into hyper-awareness of every twinge, and that the popcorn-and-soft-pretzel lunch I had might not be lending itself to the most settled interior feeling possible. But also because I know how excited they are to be here for the big event, and I don't want to tell them they might miss it until/unless I absolutely have to.

Miss Independent

I keep hearing/reading that, with a second child on the way, I should be paying special attention to my first-born. I'm told that making an unusual fuss over her will help stave off jealousy issues and decrease the likelihood of her feeding the baby to the dog while we're drinking mojitos on the front porch. And so far, I've bought into it. Literally. All of my nesting has been focused on Miss M's room, and has involved the purchase of a couple storage units and a new mattress, along with a total rearrangement of her furniture. Since then, she's developed a new interest in her space, actually playing with her own toys in her own room for relatively long periods of time. Assuming we're playing with her, of course. And because everyone says we should right now, we have been.

But now I'm starting to wonder. I mean, is it a good idea to get her used to this? I've spent the last 3+ years trying to slowly adjust her expectations so that she no longer believes that "mama" and "oxygen" are synonymous. It's taken a lot of time for me to be able to get enough distance between us so that I can read half a New Yorker article while she puts a puzzle together. In my lap. I was sort of hoping we'd get to the point when she might not notice that the thing I'm holding so possessively is a newborn instead of a weekly magazine. How much ruder will her awakening be if she goes into this sisterhood thing accustomed to us paying attention to her every need, indulging her every play-related whim, acknowledging every word that falls from her very active mouth? Will she just resent her baby brother because he has robbed the comedic value from her repertoire of jokes involving chicken butts?

Perhaps its best if we return to our regular course of action, best described as "benign neglect." Or, "as benignly neglectful as possible with a 3-year-old affixed to one's ankle." It will make the transition so much easier, and speed up her accumulation of important skills for independence. Like mixing mojitos.

Under An Old Brass Paperweight

A list of risky items to which I exposed my second child in-utero from which I carefully protected my eldest, or more succinctly:
"Why my son will be a serial killer."

- 20 oz. iced chais
- long, hot baths
- nitrate-soaked processed meats (Camy's knows I need me my Hot Italian)
- multi-weekly Dr. Pepper
- the litter box
- surprise head butts from a 3-year-old
- gas station fumes
- laptop-based (literally) wireless Internet vibes
- antibiotics
- .003 oz. of mojito
- small business ownership

Sister Psychic Won't You Tell Me

Oh, I should also mention that my OB predicts I'll have this baby between 38-39 weeks. And that the labor will last 4 hours, a 20-hour shave from my current record. Since we're taking guesses, I asked Miss M when she thought the baby would come. "June!" she said. Alright, there are 30 days in June, I explained. Which number? "One!" So there you have it. June 1st, right between weeks 38 and 39.

Anyone else care to weigh in? Official due date, for the record, is June 15.

It's Alright - Baby's Coming Back

We now interrupt this lengthy child-free recollection to mention that, at what will hopefully be my last visit to the OB (it's all midwife appointments from here on out), I was pronounced two centimeters dilated and 70% effaced. I won't bother explaining that to anyone who doesn't already know what it means, because I'm not sure what Blogger's decency policies are.

As you were ...

They Call Her Mississippi (Parts 1-3)

Whenever Stacey is asked to recount a situation that she's blogged about, she tells people to "read the book." Well, in the case of recounting this past weekend, book reading is what y'all are about to do, should you choose to hang in there and sit through every detail of my weekend abroad, or at least a-state. So here we go, now all packaged together for one cohesive, patience-testing experience ...

Day One

I decided to start my trip by winding through the downtown Barbecue Fest crowd, just to see the throng and remind myself what I was escaping. After a multitude of near-misses with F-150s, I made my way to the open end of Riverside Drive and onto I-55. Traffic got lighter and lighter as I got further south, and by the time I passed Olive Branch I was able to set the cruise control to 72 (speed limit: 70mph) and leave it there until my eastward turn toward Oxford, David Sedaris reading to me and an assembled audience in Carnegie Hall the entire way.

I was still a good bit early for check-in, and I’d deliberately left the house without eating so that I wouldn’t chicken out on going to lunch by myself. I pulled into Oxford’s courthouse square and magically caught a parking spot right in front of Ajax Diner. As I disconnected my iPod from the radio and rearranged my bags so that they weren’t so openly begging to be stolen, I was struck once again by the unsettling put-togetherness of Oxford girls. Or women, really. It wasn’t just the clusters of perfectly dressed, coiffed and made-up sorority sisters and their cowlicked, pastel-Polo-shirted companions. Every woman on the sidewalk looked like she’d just stepped out of Southern Living, or some special Mississippi edition of Marie Claire. A woman of indeterminate age – lustrous, flawlessly bobbed white hair on the body of a 30-year-old, if 30-year-olds wore fiercely tailored Donna Karan linen suits – floated by my windshield and I nearly gasped, she was so lovely. I took a look in the rear-view mirror and was glad I’d decided on a dress as a comfortable driving outfit. I’m not sure I could have stepped outside the car in anything less formal.

Stepping creakily into Ajax, I got quite a few lingering but not nearly as admiring looks from the frat boys at the bar. I of course went straight to the bathroom before finding a two-top table facing the kitchen. Something about dining alone makes me feel like I need to be in direct sight of the wait staff, plus it gave me something to look at. The aggressively conventional nature of Oxford made me even more self-conscious about being alone, particularly because I’m pregnant. As if the other patrons were thinking, “Oh, that poor girl. Someone got her in trouble and doesn’t even have the decency to share a meat and two with her.” But perhaps I was letting my Memphis inferiority complex get the better of me.

I got my giant fountain Dr. Pepper almost immediately and my lunch soon after that. I’d been hankering for chicken and dumplings for weeks, and I decided to go with the least heartburn-inducing sides I could find, which resulted in the meal you see pictured over there (in homage to Stacey). Ladies and gentleman, I present to you: The Beigest Meal Ever! It was just as good as I’d expected, though, and the lunch I was hoping would kill an hour of my afternoon was complete in about 20 minutes. I wandered back onto the square and decided to do a quick reconnaissance mission. I grazed through several outdoor clothing racks before turning the corner and reaching my real destination: Bottletree Bakery. Mercifully, they had just closed for the day half an hour before, but I noted the Sunday hours and worked out how I could fit a slice of pie into my next day’s plans.

I continued my walk, blissfully aware that there wasn’t anywhere I could go that would cause me any trouble. The weather was almost disturbingly perfect, and even with a full belly (on top of another full belly), I felt buoyant as I re-entered the square and headed over to Square Books Jr. for some book-fondling. And a pee.

That mission complete, I got back in the car and re-read the directions to the cabin for the 48th time. The navigation was pretty simple, though, and except for missing the driveway on the first pass because of the very impatient Buick behind me, I got there without a problem. I pulled into the long gravel driveway and up to a house that looked like it had been lifted from a Cordova subdivision and dropped in the middle of 50 acres. Which is to say, it looked much happier here. I didn’t see any signs or indications of an office as I rounded the circular driveway, but my tires spinning in the rocks must have alerted my hostess to my arrival. I parked in the least obstructive portion of the driveway and was met by Lee Ann just as I got out of the car.

Sweet, adorable and still very Oxfordian in a t-shirt and shorts, Lee Ann eagerly showed me into the cabin, which was situated about 30 yards from the garage. I was a little surprised by the proximity to the house, although in my current state, reassured by the idea that it wasn’t too far to stagger if I had to get any sort of help, especially after I realized that I wasn’t getting any cell phone signal. The cabin was even more inviting than I’d imagined, with much of the slightly overdone themeyness I detected in the pictures either redecorated away or blown out the door on the perfect spring breeze. Lee Ann and I chatted for a few minutes about my store and my pregnancy, and then she left me to look around and inhale all the loggy goodness on my own.

The full force of my solitude hit me right about then, and I’m sure I had a very silly smile on my face as I walked through each room, opening cabinets and looking out windows. It was a little dizzying to realize that I could do whatever I wanted, and I had to stop and think about what that might be. It didn’t take much thought, though. I put up my hair, changed into flip-flops, grabbed a book and headed out to the porch, where I settled into the swing on the western, non-house-facing side of the cabin.

I read and swung and occasionally paused just to look out onto the field in front of me, trying to decide if I was comfortable enough to nap right there or if I should relocate to the new leather couch inside. I didn’t think my hips would be happy about a swing snooze, so I gathered myself up to go in, first making a lap around the porch and a visit to the horses inhabiting the pasture behind the cabin.

I left the front door open as I settled onto the couch, fully prepared for the fresh air and warm sun to put me right to sleep, but I couldn’t put my book down. It’s amazing how fast I can finish a book when I actually have a chance to sit and read it. After about an hour, I was turning the last page of a novel I’d been nursing for weeks. The only distraction I had was a quiet visitor who snuck in the open door. I heard tiny footsteps on the wood floor and looked up to see a sleek gray cat gliding into the room. This made me inordinately happy. I don’t know why it is, but I love a gray cat. I watched as he stalked his way through what is usually a forbidden area, only giving passing attention to me with a glance of his dark amber eyes. He slid back out shortly afterward, probably to get on with more pressing matters like chasing the birds from the feeders or the butterflies from the wildflower garden.

My book finished and my stomach still full from my giant carb-ridden lunch, I could no longer resist the siren call of the copper tub. I obliged myself to the complimentary bubble bath, which was apparently made of some space-age, non-popping polymer, put a CD in the laptop and sunk into the deep, perfectly angled tub. As I soaked, I realized that listening to music whenever I want to is something I’ve unconsciously given up with motherhood. I used to have music playing when I showered, when I cleaned the house, when I was falling asleep, but now my life is so full of background noise that I don’t usually want to add to the din. But there, in that intensely quiet Mississippi evening, it was perfect.

I could see the sun setting through the window when I finally emerged from the tub. After considering several appealing options, I settled back onto the couch to explore the depths of DirecTV programming. I was slightly let-down to discover that, despite a no-kids-under-10 policy, the channel options were decidedly family-friendly. After deducing that I had no premium cable choices, and that it would be insulting to the true Southerness of this experience to sit through either Sweet Home Alabama or Cold Mountain, I put in the first season of “The Office” and tore into my dinner of Cool Ranch Doritos and Mini Oreos. Oh, the ranchy-sweet comedic bliss.

Barely awake after the sixth episode, I got ready for bed (peed, brushed my teeth, took my contacts out, peed again), observed that there were still bubbles in the tub, and then gleefully (but carefully) went up the uneven stairs to my loft bedroom. The only minor disappointment about the cabin was that the windows didn’t open, as I’d imagined falling asleep with the night noises and May breeze drifting in under the gable, but it was so intensely comfortable up there that I couldn’t focus on that one minor loss. They had redone the room since taking the pictures posted on the cabin website, and the kooky mix of Southwest, mountain-man and North Woods was streamlined into a much more cohesive décor, with my favorite change being the replacement of a moose-stencil lamp with a unique biographical lighting piece depicting the major points of Abraham Lincoln’s life. I felt positively Ingalls-esque as I pulled up the hand-made quilt, set Windows Media Player to play, and fell into a deep, tranquil sleep.

Day Two

As peaceful and pre-schooler-free as my night was, I still woke up a few times. Even then, though, I noticed how calm and comfortable I felt – you know, except for the heartburn. The mattress was firm but forgiving, and with a giant, extra-thick feather pillow tucked between my knees and under my belly, I didn’t have a twinge of achiness. I’d expected to sleep until noon, or at least until my breakfast arrived at 8:45, but I was wide awake at 7:30. I opened the shutters to the eastern sun, sat listening to various critters scurry along the tin roof, and wrote most of that Day One tome you see down there.

Lee Ann rolled up with the breakfast cart right on time, noting again how happy her son was that someone had requested a sweet breakfast (it’s great to be the only guest at a B&B and get to choose the menu yourself) and thanking me for not going into labor in the middle of the night. She set my meal up at a wooden table on the shady side of the porch and left me to enjoy the waffles, muffins, hot raspberry cobbler and whipped cream with strawberries. The side of sausage patties was the only part of the spread that was not obviously and perfectly home-made, but even those went down just fine when followed by a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. I ate in near-silence, the only noise coming from the birds, bugs and occasional Wal-Mart truck heading down the state highway in front of the property. After meeting the resident dog, getting another once-over by Nickel the cat, and scaring the heck out of Lee Ann as she came to retrieve the dishes, I dragged myself out of the porch swing and got myself ready to face Town Folk again.

Opening a bathroom cabinet to discover a normal, modern shower inside was a pleasant surprise, as were all the included amenities (soap, shampoo, lotion and even a hair dryer). I leisurely showered and dressed and then packed up to head back into Oxford proper. Once I got to the car, though, my phone started making all sorts of noises at me. Apparently I only needed to walk 20 more feet to get a signal. Good to know, although also sort of strangely jarring. I realized I was actually enjoying being completely out of touch.

I drove into town and came upon a square much less bustling than the day before. That’s when all of Oxford’s quirky little bylaws came back to me. Oh right, I thought, this is the town where I can’t book shows on Saturday night because there’s a midnight curfew. Most of the shops I’d planned to browse through today were locked up tight. I pulled into a parking spot to call home and assure all interested parties that I survived the night. Then I circled the courthouse and veered off the square, hoping to find the coffee shop where I’d had the world’s best hot chocolate a few Double Decker Festivals ago, but all that I found was a big gaping hole where I thought it should be (much like the hole mysteriously left in my Mini Cooper’s windshield during that same festival). I swung around and drifted toward the highest concentration of parked cars, which fortunately happened to be in front of a coffee shop. I indulged in an iced chai and recharged my laptop, but unfortunately was stymied in my effort to get online, so this blog entry just got longer instead of being posted. (I am, at the moment, being stared at by a young man named William, who appears to be visiting Oxford from a country afar with his parents and older sister. I’d guess that the age range between the two children is the same as between Miss M and Baby SAM, and I got a little twinge watching the sister shepherd her sibling around.)

Still in search of the interweb, I moved my car into the square and returned to Bottletree Bakery. At noon on a Sunday, however, I discovered that the place was packed with Ole Miss students, and not seeing anything appealing in the display cases, I backed out the door and headed toward the literary triple threat of Square Books, Square Books Jr. and Off Square Books. When faced with this overwhelming bounty, I try to restrict myself by only buying books by Mississippi, or at least Southern, authors. I did alright at my first stop, picking up Letters to a New Mother (which looks a little remedial to me but is by an Oxford-based writer, and I thought it would make a nice addition to the store’s library) and Mockingbird, a biography of Harper Lee which I’m sure will be even more interesting once we get through the copy of Capote that Netflix sent us during the first Bush administration. Next came Square Books Jr., where the helpful bookseller was sadly unable to provide me with a copy of The Princess Knight (we’re trying to do some deprogramming at SAM HQ), although I did pick up Pirate Girl, plus a sea creature puzzle for Miss M and a relentlessly cute monkey grab-toy for Baby SAM. Off Square Books was an afterthought and I nearly passed it by as I was gazing at all the other shops nearby, but it turned out to be my best stop. I got a $6 hardback copy of Eudora Welty’s Optimist’s Daughter, a $4 collection of Richard Ford stories, and then I broke my streak by grabbing a worn Roddy Doyle paperback. Weighed down by books but feeling the joy of mass literature consumption, I got back in the car and made my way south to the most famous house on Old Taylor Road.

It’s really dang easy to miss the turn to Rowan Oak, since it’s just marked with a tiny plaque smaller than the standard green street sign. But since I’d been by that way a dozen times or more, I knew where I was headed. I’d visited the grounds several times but was determined to actually make it inside the house today. Unfortunately, the Square Book trifecta took all but $3 of my cash and it was $5 to get into the home itself. Damn you, Roddy Doyle! The day was gorgeous, though, so it was still a pleasant and reflective experience to walk around the property, smelling the centurian pine trees that line the path to the front door, winding through labrynthine hedges and discovering hidden alcoves and benches. Mostly I reflected on how I’d never really clicked with Faulkner, and how they’d probably take a debit card if I really wanted to go in, but that it wouldn’t really have all that much meaning to me, unlike the pilgrimages I’d taken to Fitzgerald’s St. Paul haunts or Hemingway’s Key West retreat. My reflection came to an end as the industrial air conditioner behind me roared to life, and I decided it was time to go back to my own Mississippi estate.

I got back to the cabin, which I mentally caught myself referring to as “home,” and immediately got to the important business of doing nothing. I put on my maternity swimsuit, laughed out loud at my reflection, and then dragged a blanket, my iPod and a month-old New Yorker out to the side yard. And try as I might to say more about that, there’s really nothing else to add. After about an hour, the shade and my sleepiness caught up with me, so I went up to the loft, accepted the non-historical but nonetheless courteous provision of the window A/C unit, and took a light but thoroughly refreshing nap.

I woke up both hungry and sticky, so I made the decision to bathe first and then get onto cooking my elaborate last-night-in-the-wilderness dinner. I soaked until I could sense dusk approaching, then got out of the tub and began work on my meal. This involved a number of important steps: 1) place 6 Totino’s Pizza Rolls on a microwave-safe plate, 2) microwave on high for 60 seconds, 3) move cooked pizza rolls to larger plate, 4) repeat steps 1-3 with next group of 6 until all pizza rolls were complete. During the final step (#5: let rest so that the pizza rolls cool to a sub-nuclear temperature), I went outside to try to catch a cell signal and call home. I had to go all the way to the car, so I opened the hatchback and sat in the trunk while The Admiral summed up what I’d missed over the last 30 hours (mostly, numerous viewings of Alice in Wonderland and a narrowly averted poop crisis).
The sun was nearly down as we said good-night, and I went to take a few pictures of the cabin before the light was completely gone. Nickel emerged from under the porch and I tried to get him to stand still long enough for me to photograph him. I guess he found this insulting because what had seemed so far like a friendly relationship quickly soured into a more primal arrangement, wherein Nickel was the sly cheetah and I was the gimpy zebra. After repeatedly detaching him from my limbs, I hustled back inside, locked the door, and decided that was probably enough country living for one day.

After another unsuccessful trip through the DirecTV offerings (with a brief stop at Searching for Bobby Fischer, being broadcast in very poor quality by ESPN Classic), I dove back into “The Office” and made it through the first 6 episodes of season two before my Doritos, Oreos, Vitamin Water and general alertness gave out. I shuffled back upstairs, tried to think of at least three reasonable, non-boogieman-related reasons for the mysterious noises outdoors, wrote all the way up to this point here and then, I suspect, read a little and went to sleep.

Day Three

I had another surprisingly restless night, with several unplanned wake-ups (yet none motivating enough to get me to navigate the bumpy wooden stairs in the dark to get to the bathroom). My last stretch of sleep managed to last all the way until 7:45, at which point I remembered how much I've missed being able to just lie in bed and read. So that's what I did, all propped up on my four giant feather pillows, bird calls and squirrel feet echoing over my head.

As breakfast time approached, I spent a few minutes doing some pre-packing but then stopped when it got too depressing. I took my New Yorker out to a rocking chair on the front porch and basked in the gorgeous morning as I waited for Lee Ann to roll up. When she arrived, we had a comfortable discussion about the joys and pitfalls of business ownership (she'd owned an antique store in Oxford before opening the cabin to guests, which explained a lot of the decorating decisions; except, perhaps, the empty shotgun casings that bordered the kitchen countertops, which I had started thinking about more intently while listening to all the clunky noises on the front porch the night before). She set my breakfast up on the porch again, and I got a little giddy with anticipation as she set out all the covered dishes. Just as my brain began to form the thought, "That breakfast yesterday was good, but maybe just, if it's even possible, a little too much sweetness for me," I lifted the plate cover to reveal scrambled eggs reveling in a bed of bacon, supported by an oven-hot peach cobbler. The basket that had contained yesterday's muffins now held wee little biscuits and jelly. So perfect I had to fight a fleeting urge to cry.

I ate my wondrous breakfast, read a New Yorker profile on Barack Obama and snuck what little bits of food I could spare to my canine dining companion. After I put down as much as I could stuff, I just sat very still in my chair, watching Lee Ann make the long walk to her mailbox and back, listening to the buzzing and singing and croaking in the air, relishing the mercifully cool, cloudless sky. But I had to shake out of my reverie and get myself going if I was going to make check-out.

Not really much else to report on the last hour of my trip. I showered and dressed, packed up my tiny bag of clothes and now even huger bag of books and collected the neglected fruit from the fridge. I sat down at the dining room table to record a message in the guest book, but had trouble expressing how deeply I'd enjoyed my stay on just one little page (obviously). I felt a knot forming in my throat as I carried out my bags and closed the cabin door behind me.

For me, Oxford was a perfect pick for a getaway, because I was familiar enough with the area that I could move around comfortably. I knew where things were, I had a few destinations chosen in advance, and if I did decide to just hang out and do nothing, it was by choice and not geographical intimidation. And by very happy luck, the cabin was an absolutely perfect fit for what I wanted out of the weekend. I'd originally thought I wanted to be way out by myself somewhere, but once the reality of being 36 weeks pregnant truly hit me, I realized that being in what was essentially a detached bed & breakfast was exactly what I needed.

I don't feel like I need to explain how I felt about this weekend by qualifying it with, "As much as I missed my family ..." Yes, I of course felt the tug on our intense mother-daughter bond when I heard Miss M's voice over the phone, but did I wish I were back home, or that she were with me? No, no I did not. Not even a little. I needed those two days as much as I've needed pre-natal vitamins or an unlimited supply of Honey Nut Cheerios. And I'll proclaim the universal maternal need for weekends like that to any mom who will listen. Even in almost 4000 words, I can't explain how good it felt to get away and breathe my own air for a little while. It's something every mother needs to do, the minute she feels ready to do it.

Time Out Of Mind

I'm doing something this weekend, something I've been dreaming about for quite some time. It seems almost grotesquely decadent, and when I tell other moms about it, they gasp and clutch their nursing tanks and stare at me with a combination of awe, envy and maybe even a little disgust, as if I were planning to meet up with George Clooney in his chocolate pudding hot tub.

But no, it's even more thrilling than that. I'm going to Mississippi. For two nights. All. By. Myself. As I mentioned in March, I'd been trying to come up with a way to get some pre-baby time alone, but as the weeks passed, the work stress increased and the airfares crept ever higher, I realized the likelihood of me doing any major travel was slim to nil. But based on the brilliant suggestion of one of my mama friends, I started looking into minor travel - B&Bs and small hotels within a day's drive of home. I soon discovered a semi-rustic, 2-bedroom cabin up in the hills. The "semi," by my interpretation, means that there's no phone line, but they have DirecTV, which is exactly my kind of roughing it.

And most importantly, they're willing to give me the entire place to myself. The 1800's log cabin, the 50 acres of hills and flowers, the wrap-around porch, the cozy lofted bedroom - all mine for two peaceful nights.

I keep focusing on the nights rather than the days because it's been, well, three and a half years since I got a solid night's sleep. I did get away for the weekend last Mother's Day, but it was to visit my sister and attend her baby shower, and since it was also Weaning Weekend, it wasn't exactly conducive to comfortable sleep. The only other time I've had away since Miss M's birth was to attend my grandmother's funeral last summer, which involved sleeping on a 40-year-old couch surrounded by my enormous-yet-septum-compromised cousins. And since the insomnia and nocturnal discomfort of this pregnancy began, I've been aching for a good night's rest, especially since all the usual pregnancy stuff is combined with Miss M's continued desire to creep into our room every night ... and then ask to go to the bathroom ... and then ask for something to drink ... and then ask for more covers ... And lately, just to add to the fun, she's been waking up at 6:40 and demanding breakfast, which despite The Admiral's general role as family chef, seems to be a job only I can accomplish.

So yes, I need a solid 10-14 hours of sleep. And then a nap. The other daylight hours I'm still trying to coordinate, but not overly so. The Admiral keeps asking what I'm going to do, and my first response was, "I don't know, whatever you did in Amsterdam," but that's probably not a good idea at this point in my pregnancy. You know, all that gallery walking and all. The subtle point I was trying to convey, however, is that he's taken two trips to Europe, two trips to San Francisco, two trips to New York and various visits to locales like Portland and Austin, all since becoming a dad. Yes, they were all work-related, but I think it would be tough to argue that he's had less than 48 hours of purely recreational time during any of those excursions, let alone the combination of them all. And really, anything as ambitious as "having fun" is secondary to this trip. My goals are to relax and to gather up my resources for what's to come. To enjoy the last little bit of having my body (sort of) to myself before jumping back into the nursing pool. To reflect on my mothering experience so far and prepare for all the changes to come.

And, quite possibly, to fill that hand-made copper tub with chocolate Jell-O pudding mix and fire up Out of Sight.

Ooh That Smell

This just came in my weekly "what your baby's doing" email from BabyCenter:

He's shedding most of the downy covering of hair that covered his body as well as the vernix caseosa, the creamy substance that covered and protected his skin during its submersion in amniotic fluid. Your baby swallows both of these substances, along with other secretions, which will stay in his bowels until birth. This blackish mixture, called meconium, will become his first bowel movement.

Okay, I knew that those first poops were nasty, but I went this long without knowing that it was made up of old skin and hair.

Babies are gross.

You And I'll Just Use A Little Patience

When I was pregnant with Miss M, I mentally set my due date a week past the official 40-week count. Everything I read said that the average gestation for first-time moms was 41 weeks, so I tried not to expect anything to happen before that. Even when we hit the point where my OB kept saying, "Might not see you next week!" at every weekly appointment, I stuck to the idea that the arbitrary 40-week mark was just a frame of reference. And sure enough, Miss M arrived at 40 weeks and 5 days, in perfect health and ready for the world (as indicated by the picture over there, where she seems about ready to take out a nurse).

So this time around, I've been operating under the idea that second babies usually come a little sooner. But not too soon. Since one of my midwives will be out of town the weekend before my due date, and my mom can't get down here until a few days before, I've made an agreement with this baby that he is to stay where he is until at least June 12th. Which seemed like a reasonable plan; I mean, it's got to be easier to keep them in than to get them out, right? Horses do it all the time. Spook a mare in labor and she'll hold that foal for another three days if she has to.

It seemed like a breech of contract, then, when I started getting the feeling that this baby might not be so willing to stay put. It began at about 2:40 Saturday morning, when I got hit with The Stomach Crud that has been making its cruel rounds through our social circle. After twelve hours of nutritional evacuation, the general ooginess of the illness started to be countered by a growing unease about the stability of Baby SAM's habitat. The dehydration and low blood sugar were getting to me, both physically and mentally, and the Braxton-Hicks contractions started kicking up. By Saturday night, I was fairly convinced that this baby was on his way. The back pain that came with the bug was causing me to instinctively fold up into shapes I hadn't been in since my last labor. The tightness in my abdomen kept coming, although I was afraid to watch the clock to check if the intervals were regular.

I went to bed at 9:30, hoping that sleep and complete stillness would stop everything, or if not, that I would at least get a little rest before things got more intense. I was also already half in mourning for the homebirth that wouldn't be. Even though I'm on the cusp of the full-term window, the midwives don't deliver at less than 37 weeks. I'm just shy of 36. So on top of any fear about prematurity, I was running down the list of hospital procedures and interventions that I'd now be forced to endure. All the plans and preparations I'd made over the last nine months, out the window. And, crap! I hadn't even washed the baby's clothes yet!

Fortunately, after a solid night of sleep and a little real food, I was feeling much better and less prone to pop at any moment. I still had a moment of panic on Sunday afternoon when I thought my water was about to break at the grocery store, but after that, things pretty much returned to normal. So now I'm back to just feeling awkward, uncomfortable, achey, but, still, patient. This baby will come when it's his time to be here. I can't wait to meet him, but his body will let mine know when he's ready.

Dirty Mind

I've told this story 138 times, but I feel I should engrave it on the Interweb before it escapes my feeble memory.

Miss M and I were in bed one Sunday morning, talking about the upcoming arrival of Baby SAM. We've already decided what we'll be naming him, but since we hope to keep it a secret just a little while longer, we haven't told the chattiest member of the family what our plans are. We're always trying to look for ways to ease her into the idea that it won't be Jack, despite what she's been telling people for the last few months. And so we now join our conversation already in progress ...

SAM: So, what do you think we should name the baby?
MISS M: Jack!
SAM: Okay, well, you can call him that if you'd like, but mommy and daddy might call him something else.
MISS M: No! His name is Jack!
SAM: Okay, okay, what about a middle name? What should his middle name be?
MISS M (ponders): Cass.
SAM: Yeah? Cass? Hmm. Jack Cass. Jack Cass. Jacka ... Miss M!

And then, despite our ongoing efforts not to give too much notice to her less than polite phraseology, I absolutely dissolved in giggles. And then swore she wasn't allowed to ride in the car with her dad anymore.

I Know I'm Gonna Love You Any Old Way

Last night was our home visit with the midwives, which basically meant that they got familiar with the drive to our house, the location of our bedroom and where they should soak the towels. When we told Miss M that they would be coming over, she asked, "Are they coming to take the baby out or just checking him?" We assured her it was the latter. Thanks to a very sweet and fairly detailed picture book about homebirth, M has a pretty solid idea of what midwives are and what they do, but apparently she's a little overconfident in their actual baby-bringing abilities.

I try not to focus attention on Miss M's bashfulness and I avoid using the word "shy" when she's hiding behind me and refusing to acknowledge a single word spoken by anyone she's known less than 10% of her life, so after they arrived I just let the midwives talk to her and ask her questions without stepping in to explain that she probably wouldn't answer. And I'm glad I resisted that urge, because I would have felt pretty foolish when she engaged in conversation with these two strangers as if they'd been visiting for months. I'm sure it helped that they showed up with a bag of interesting and mysterious medical devices that she was dying to get into, but mostly she just seemed at ease with these naturally calm, comforting women.

Part of the visit included a basic stat check, and Miss M was thrilled to be asked to help as they checked my blood pressure, measured my belly and listened to the baby's heartbeat. I wish I had a picture of her eagerly handing paper towels to Andrea (with anyone else, I'd have expected her to hand me the towels and pull on my arm until I gave them over) and then helping her wipe the doppler goop off my stomach. Or the focused look on her face as she followed Andrea's hands around the outline of the baby's body. It was truly one of the sweetest moments of this pregnancy. I have a lot of anxiety about the sibling transition, but seeing her bond with her baby brother and doing her best to care for us both gave me a new, albeit tenuous, confidence that we'll all make it through okay. I knew that having a homebirth would allow me a closer connection to my birthing body, but I didn't expect it to connect us all.

Why D'You Do Me Like You Do?

I've officially hit the point in this pregnancy when the blessings of gestation just keep coming: aching joints, insomnia, tendency to forget one's brilliant blog ideas, and of course, the constant questioning of strangers as to my dwindling tolerance for fetus-toting. "Are you just over the whole pregnancy thing?" they ask. Or, "Bet you're ready for this to be over, huh?" Or, "Are you totally miserable yet?"

But the thing is, I'm not. Part of it is from having the good luck to have a relatively hassle-free pregnancy, but mostly it's because, as a second-time mom, I know what happens next. And this, right now? Is way, way easier.

It also helps (or not) that my every working day is filled with brand-new babies. I've never had the time to develop maternity amnesia. I see the squalling newborns, the fussy infants, the irascible toddlers. And perhaps more significantly, I see the brand-new moms and I can easily recall all the exhausted, tearful, swollen, puke-stained days of early motherhood. And the nights. Oh, the nights. We've only recently gotten to a point where Miss M stays in her own bed for most of the night, and now we're starting all over again. We've also, just in the last two weeks, hit a major bathroom milestone: Miss M has been using the bathroom just fine for quite some time, but it wasn't until this month that she started actually going by herself. I noted this to The Admiral the other day and he replied, "Yep, and just five more weeks until we start diapers again!"

Of course, I also have the benefit of hindsight, and the gift of knowing that, as impossibly long as the hours seem at 3am, a year or two really does go by quickly. I frequently tell new moms "The days are slow, but the months are fast," and it really is true. I'm trying to remind myself of that before those slow days arrive, so that I can do a better job of appreciating the positives of the baby time - the firsts, the snuggles, the complete symbiosis between mama and child - and less time frustrated about how long it will be until I can read an entire book or shower with the door closed.

The Kids Are Alright

As I was watching the news (meaning, of course, The Today Show - I prefer that all my current events be interspersed with cooking demos) this morning, I got pulled into a "report" about a growing trend among new parents. They called these parents "grupsters," which I suppose is some combination of hipster and ... I don't know. Grown-up, maybe, except the point of the label was that it identified parents who were doing their best to avoid the irrevocably adult duties of child-rearing. Although really, it just seemed like they were talking about people who were trying to interlace parenting with their own identities, which in most cases appeared to be "aging college radio DJ."

The pictures painted of these parents were mixed. Some looked like regular yet enviably hip folks who just wanted to expose their kids to a wider variety of cultural (and pop cultural) experiences. Others, however, seemed so determined to avoid the faintest whiff of mainstream babyness that their goals were on the polar opposite but nonetheless extreme side of the stage mother/sports dad spectrum. Although funnier, because they didn't seem to see the irony of trying to force their toddlers to be punk.

There was an all-around rabid opinion against big purple dinosaurs and Australian pseudo-bands, with these parents preferring disco dance parties to Saturday morning cartoons. And while I relate to that leaning, it did get me to thinking about whether or not it's a great idea to push small children completely away from kid-friendly culture and into our own. Maybe all that stuff is intolerably bland for good reason. In a world that's got to be completely overwhelming about 90% of the time, what would best refresh a tiny brain - a plinky little ditty about tying your shoes or, I don't know, Lou Reed? I'm not at all opposed to little kids listening to music that wasn't specifically packaged for them, but it seems a bit rigid to completely shun anything that was designed to appeal to their developing artistic sweet spots. (Full disclosure: Miss M's current favorite album is Bob Dylan's Modern Times, but I'm pretty sure she doesn't understand the metaphors about Hurricane Katrina and economic discrimination.)

The story was summed up by two dads, one of whom said, "The baby has entered our world, we haven't entered his," and another who said (essentially; give me a break, I already remembered one quote), "There's no way around the fact that having a child changes your life." Although I've had my own grupster tendencies, I have to admit that Second Dad is right. Or righter, anyway. Yeah, I'd rather take my baby to Music For Aardvarks than Kindermusik, or better yet, to a real show like Rock n'Romp, but when Friday night rolls around and I have to choose between dragging a cranky pre-schooler out to a coffeehouse concert or cuddling up on the couch to watch Cinderella for the 119th time, my hipmama cred gets put on hold.

Here Comes My Girl

Uttered by Miss M today, and in inadvertent summary of our entire 30-year-old-to-3-year-old relationship:

"I want you! I want you! Leave me alone! Leave me alone!"