Yes, another grandchild is on the horizon. If you're keeping count that would be THREE grandbabies! This arrival will be a first for my daughter.
There is so much to say and so many questions to answer. Of course I am instantly brought back to my first pregnancy. 26 years ago today I was eight months along and done being pregnant. If the icky pukey morning sickness stage is miserable, just wait, seven/plus pounds of wiggly fetus pressing on your bladder, colon, stomach, kidneys, rib cage, lungs and whatever else that stinker can stretch out and reach will make you wish you were hugging a toilet, hacking up a handful of crackers.
For however gross and uncomfortable it all is and will be, it is totally worth it. This is a unique journey not afforded everyone. And your first time? Truly magical. This is the time you can truly appreciate what miracles your body can produce. There is an actual PERSON growing in there. I remember rubbing the nearly non-existent bump and humming songs. If you love music I'm sure it's because how much exposure you had before you took your first breath. Unlike my next two pregnancies, when I had oooohhh YOU running amuck, I could focus completely on the changes my body was making as you grew. I found it fascinating and I hope you do too.
So, for my actual advice:
Take time to journal your experience. This baby will not allow you the peace and quiet necessary to gather your thoughts during future pregnancies.
Sleep. I'm pretty sure I taught you the value of sleep, but let me remind you. It is as vital to your health and sanity as eating healthy. Take naps often. This is good training for after baby arrives that you let the dirty dishes sit so you can grab essential sleep.
Eat. And eat right. At the moment anything you can keep in your stomach is "right" but soon you'll be ready to rampage a buffet like a million teenage boys. Keep yourself in check. Milk, which includes cheese and milkshakes, are essential, but try to do so in moderate amounts.
Exercise. I just could not master this one and am still paying the price. Keep your body active, stretch regularly.
DITCH ALL ADVICE BOOKS AND WEBSITES. I quickly learned to disregard all of those helpful tips coming from every damn corner. It's overwhelming, frequently counter-intuitive, and most of it does not apply to your situation. Find a zen way to blow past it. You only need to listen to your mother and your doctor :) Actually, if you come across books like "What to Expect When You're Expecting" take them for the spirit they are intended, simply as a guide. Seek advice for the clinical stuff and developmental stages, but all of the rest is just noise and treat it as such.
Building off that last one, avoid pregnancy/delivery war stories. I've warned you about this one before and I'm sure you've already been subjected to horror stories. Find a way to escape these conversations. They are not helpful and could actually build unnecessary fear.
Fear. It is natural. I went through crazy bouts of paranoia and the nightmares were unreal. They make sense if you think about it, your body is forcing you to protect this baby. It is what makes you into a growling momma bear. So hearing all of that other crap scaring you about delivery or your future baby's health is totally unneeded. Your active imagination will fuel all of that without any help. Find a grounded source to talk these things out - my ear is always available.
Take some time to consider your parenting style. Think about what you did and did not like about your upbringing. Be careful with the I-never's because that will bite you in the ass.
God gives us nine months for a reason. You may be ready to hold your little bundle right here and now, but the rest of us, especially daddy, need that time to absorb and prepare. Be patient if he isn't quite on the same page. Dads don't tend to accept the reality of a baby until they actually hold that pink, screaming child. It is also during this time that your body trains you for waking up for a baby eating every two hours, adjusting your sense of smell so you can literally sense danger and identify your baby from all of the other ones in the nursery, and widening your hips so you can pass a watermelon. It is all for a reason. Ride the tide and appreciate it as literal steps in your development as a mother.
This baby is a blessing and my heart is simply bursting with pride and anticipation.
With all of my love,
Mom
Showing posts with label Pregnancy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pregnancy. Show all posts
Monday, January 06, 2014
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
February 22, 1988
*A day late, I know, but I really meant to post this yesterday. I posted it last year on my now-defunct parenting blog*
This is such a big date in my life. It was my focus for nine long months, my due date.
I enjoyed being pregnant. It was amazing that a person was growing inside me. Unlike my later pregnancies I had no distractions and could spend a lot of time bonding with my growing belly and the alien rolling around inside. But that last month was pure torture. I was impatient to finally meet this person who was no longer a stranger to me.
Very impatient.
Her father was impatient too. We jokingly contrived ways to speed up her arrival, but true to her current personality, Miss Amanda does shit according to her own schedule (file that one under things we learn from our fetuses).
I knew better that babies rarely arrive ON their due dates. In fact, most babies arrive BEFORE their due date. By February 1st my bag was packed, the plan mapped out, phone numbers to grandparents written down, I was ready. And waited. And waited. And waited.
AND WAITED.
By February 20th, anxiety, anxiousness, anticipation, and impatience were starting to take their toll. Add to that my physical discomfort? Let's just say there's wisdom in the old traditions of "confinement," the hiding of women during their final stages of pregnancy behind closed doors away from the general public. I was not fit for human consumption.
The night of my due date it was clear I was nowhere near going into labor so my mom took us out to eat. As we stood in line waiting for a table, two elderly ladies were behind us. Two things bring out uninvited conversation from old women - babies and pregnant bellies. So I immediately became their opening line and my mother, the non-stop talker, quickly joined in.
"Oh honey," one chimed, "you've DROPPED!"
To this day, twenty-two years later, I'm still royally pissed about this statement. How in the FUCK would she know if I dropped or if I was carrying low? Seriously?
"When are you due?" she asked like every other stranger on the street has asked for the past forty weeks.
With a glint of evil joy in my eye I said, "today."
I swear both women shit themselves right there. Their eyes bugged out and then fell to my "dropped" belly. It was obvious they were taking quick inventory about gathering towels, sheets and boiling water in case their midwifery skills were going to be needed in the next five seconds.
And then my table was ready. Damn. No more torturing little old ladies!
I was then confined for the remainder of my days. That would be another NINE DAYS. nine. I was contemplating a do-it-yourself caesarean.
This is such a big date in my life. It was my focus for nine long months, my due date.
I enjoyed being pregnant. It was amazing that a person was growing inside me. Unlike my later pregnancies I had no distractions and could spend a lot of time bonding with my growing belly and the alien rolling around inside. But that last month was pure torture. I was impatient to finally meet this person who was no longer a stranger to me.
Very impatient.
Her father was impatient too. We jokingly contrived ways to speed up her arrival, but true to her current personality, Miss Amanda does shit according to her own schedule (file that one under things we learn from our fetuses).
I knew better that babies rarely arrive ON their due dates. In fact, most babies arrive BEFORE their due date. By February 1st my bag was packed, the plan mapped out, phone numbers to grandparents written down, I was ready. And waited. And waited. And waited.
AND WAITED.
By February 20th, anxiety, anxiousness, anticipation, and impatience were starting to take their toll. Add to that my physical discomfort? Let's just say there's wisdom in the old traditions of "confinement," the hiding of women during their final stages of pregnancy behind closed doors away from the general public. I was not fit for human consumption.
The night of my due date it was clear I was nowhere near going into labor so my mom took us out to eat. As we stood in line waiting for a table, two elderly ladies were behind us. Two things bring out uninvited conversation from old women - babies and pregnant bellies. So I immediately became their opening line and my mother, the non-stop talker, quickly joined in.
"Oh honey," one chimed, "you've DROPPED!"
To this day, twenty-two years later, I'm still royally pissed about this statement. How in the FUCK would she know if I dropped or if I was carrying low? Seriously?
"When are you due?" she asked like every other stranger on the street has asked for the past forty weeks.
With a glint of evil joy in my eye I said, "today."
I swear both women shit themselves right there. Their eyes bugged out and then fell to my "dropped" belly. It was obvious they were taking quick inventory about gathering towels, sheets and boiling water in case their midwifery skills were going to be needed in the next five seconds.
And then my table was ready. Damn. No more torturing little old ladies!
I was then confined for the remainder of my days. That would be another NINE DAYS. nine. I was contemplating a do-it-yourself caesarean.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Pregnancy - do's & don'ts
On my parenting blog today I wrote about my first ever due date. None of my kids were born anywhere near their due dates. Doctors may as well have tossed darts at a calendar!
As I wrote, I recalled many of the things that other people did that enraged me. Maybe there should be a guide to dealing with pregnant women? Oh okay, I'll compile a list. Please feel free to add:
1. DO NOT TOUCH! This belly is not Buddha. Rubbing it does not bring you luck. It's attractive, I know, a beacon begging for your grubby hands. You must resist. One day someone is going to rub a pregnant belly and pull back a bloody stump instead of their full arm. It ranks up there as justifiable homicide and if there were any mercy in the world, the case will come before a judge who has been pregnant with no toleration for being touched.
2. Keep it above the bellybutton. If you get permission to rub the belly (and do ask before attempting to touch), stay ABOVE the bellybutton (easy to spot as no shirt properly hides the damn thing). I had some creepy looking dude walk up to me in the mall with barely a hello before he started rubbing the Buddha and went too low and it nearly became gynecological.
3. Due Dates. It's relatively safe to ask when the baby is due and discuss preparations of the baby room. DO NOT ask "haven't you delivered yet?" Seriously? Big belly = NO BABY. Your sarcasm is not funny and not welcome. Don't drip with sympathy either. Hey, let's talk about the weather, what you cooked for dinner last night, work, the space shuttle, status of the Euro, you know, anything BUT the fact that the pregnancy has not yet concluded?
4. Gender. Really, who cares if it is a boy or a girl or what the happy couple is wanting this go around? We're not living in a culture focused on producing male heirs so move on, okay? If it's a boy, it's a boy, if it's a girl, it's a girl. All anyone wants is a healthy, happy baby. Just erase that gender question out of your mind. Let's discuss names, okay?
5. Horror Stories. STOP! I'm guilty, I know and now I try really really hard to never bring it up. People, especially pregnant women, do not want the gory details of your sister's vomit-filled, miserable pregnancy or your coworker's long, excruciating delivery. This is a female version of war stories. The more gruesome, the better. And each telling gets grosser. Oddly, with several women in the gaggle, it turns into a game as to who has the most harrowing pregnancy and delivery story. It's bad. Really bad and nothing a man or first-timer ever wants to hear. It will scare young women right into a nunnery. For life.
6. Delivery Details. Don't feed the above beast. No one needs to know her plans for epidural or how the last visit went or plans for breastfeeding. All of these questions are lead-ins for the inquisitor to share their opinions of how the pregnant woman should proceed. It's none of your business and if she truly wanted your input, she would have asked. Right?
7. Advice. Keep it to yourself. If new momma wants your opinions, suggestions or ideas she will ask. Until then, get a blog and post it there. Be the person who treats her like a human not a walking incubator. She will love you for all eternity.
8. "When are you going to have your next one?" REALLY? No one is trying for a Duggar clan, give it a rest. This may be the one and only, or the last. None of which, is your damn business. This is a conversation strictly between husband and wife (or significant others or whatever their arrangement is). If you are the grandparent, just appreciate the little bundle already in your arms. If the couple never copulates ever again, IT.IS.NONE.OF.YOUR.BUSINESS. Get the hell out of their bedroom, because that's what your questions mean, you vicious butt-insky.
Okay, this list ought to be longer, but I have to go to work so I can pay for my internet connection and feed my blog addiction. Add your suggestions in the comments and I'll edit the list accordingly.
From SkippyMom: Dear relative [Mom, MIL, sister] or BFF, If I tell you I only want my husband in the delivery room please do not act butthurt. It isn't personal. Honest. Next to making the kid this is the most private time of our lives and I have enough of an audience as it is. Sorry other moms allow it - we don't.
As I wrote, I recalled many of the things that other people did that enraged me. Maybe there should be a guide to dealing with pregnant women? Oh okay, I'll compile a list. Please feel free to add:
1. DO NOT TOUCH! This belly is not Buddha. Rubbing it does not bring you luck. It's attractive, I know, a beacon begging for your grubby hands. You must resist. One day someone is going to rub a pregnant belly and pull back a bloody stump instead of their full arm. It ranks up there as justifiable homicide and if there were any mercy in the world, the case will come before a judge who has been pregnant with no toleration for being touched.
2. Keep it above the bellybutton. If you get permission to rub the belly (and do ask before attempting to touch), stay ABOVE the bellybutton (easy to spot as no shirt properly hides the damn thing). I had some creepy looking dude walk up to me in the mall with barely a hello before he started rubbing the Buddha and went too low and it nearly became gynecological.
3. Due Dates. It's relatively safe to ask when the baby is due and discuss preparations of the baby room. DO NOT ask "haven't you delivered yet?" Seriously? Big belly = NO BABY. Your sarcasm is not funny and not welcome. Don't drip with sympathy either. Hey, let's talk about the weather, what you cooked for dinner last night, work, the space shuttle, status of the Euro, you know, anything BUT the fact that the pregnancy has not yet concluded?
4. Gender. Really, who cares if it is a boy or a girl or what the happy couple is wanting this go around? We're not living in a culture focused on producing male heirs so move on, okay? If it's a boy, it's a boy, if it's a girl, it's a girl. All anyone wants is a healthy, happy baby. Just erase that gender question out of your mind. Let's discuss names, okay?
5. Horror Stories. STOP! I'm guilty, I know and now I try really really hard to never bring it up. People, especially pregnant women, do not want the gory details of your sister's vomit-filled, miserable pregnancy or your coworker's long, excruciating delivery. This is a female version of war stories. The more gruesome, the better. And each telling gets grosser. Oddly, with several women in the gaggle, it turns into a game as to who has the most harrowing pregnancy and delivery story. It's bad. Really bad and nothing a man or first-timer ever wants to hear. It will scare young women right into a nunnery. For life.
6. Delivery Details. Don't feed the above beast. No one needs to know her plans for epidural or how the last visit went or plans for breastfeeding. All of these questions are lead-ins for the inquisitor to share their opinions of how the pregnant woman should proceed. It's none of your business and if she truly wanted your input, she would have asked. Right?
7. Advice. Keep it to yourself. If new momma wants your opinions, suggestions or ideas she will ask. Until then, get a blog and post it there. Be the person who treats her like a human not a walking incubator. She will love you for all eternity.
8. "When are you going to have your next one?" REALLY? No one is trying for a Duggar clan, give it a rest. This may be the one and only, or the last. None of which, is your damn business. This is a conversation strictly between husband and wife (or significant others or whatever their arrangement is). If you are the grandparent, just appreciate the little bundle already in your arms. If the couple never copulates ever again, IT.IS.NONE.OF.YOUR.BUSINESS. Get the hell out of their bedroom, because that's what your questions mean, you vicious butt-insky.
Okay, this list ought to be longer, but I have to go to work so I can pay for my internet connection and feed my blog addiction. Add your suggestions in the comments and I'll edit the list accordingly.
From SkippyMom: Dear relative [Mom, MIL, sister] or BFF, If I tell you I only want my husband in the delivery room please do not act butthurt. It isn't personal. Honest. Next to making the kid this is the most private time of our lives and I have enough of an audience as it is. Sorry other moms allow it - we don't.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
February 22, 1988
There are dates in your life that will forever carry a certain significance. Of course, there is my birthday which I believe should be treated like a national holiday. July 28. Learn it, live it, love it, gimme lots of great chit. There was the day I got married. Even though I divorced the bastard, the wedding anniversary remains nostalgic. And the birthday of each of my kids always makes me a little weapy as I see how much they've grown over the years.
And then there is their due dates.
Yesterday was the due date of my first child. I don't quite get why I, and probably every other woman on the face of the earth, clings so dearly to that date. That arbitrary date, practically picked out of thin air, based on when you recall the last day of your menstrual cycle. I was told in June that I was due to deliver around... AROUND... February 22. And I held to that date like it was etched in gold.
Any woman who has carried past their 35th week of pregnancy can tell you, by that time you are DONE being pregnant. All the novelty is gone, the glowing doesn't matter, and your ankles swell. Like a prisoner in a dungeon you tick off the days until your release. The day you can stop wearing "fat clothes". The day toes stop testing the plyability of your bladder and your spleen can be pried off your spine.
Two weeks before the due date a new mentality sweeps over the expectant mother - "any time now." Bags are checked and rechecked. Meals are prepared and frozen. The house is kept incredibly clean and the car never has less than a half tank of gas.
And so we waited.
And waited.
February 22, 1988 arrived and still no baby, but surely Little Bart would be in our arms within a matter of hours.
February 23 arrived and still no baby. Mom and my husband took me out to eat. As we waited for our seat, a pair of elderly women gawked at my protuding belly and observed "honey, you've dropped!"
WHAT THE HELL? How does anyone get off telling an absolute stranger the medical state of her pregnancy? Wisely the old chicks kept their hands to themselves. I was to the point that if one more person reached out to touch me I was gunna rip their arm out! I had already had enough stranger hands pet my belly, including some really creepy guy at the mall that practically gave me an exam reserved for my gyno.
So then they ask when I was due. Rather blandly, I replied "yesterday."
I swear their eyes darted in all directions as they mentally went through a checklist for boiling water, clean sheets and scissors in case they had to do an emergency delivery right there in the middle of the restaurant.
No, no, this baby was firmly holding onto my intestines and not about to come out any time soon.
Eight days had passed since my due date. OVER a week. I was seriously looking at being induced or having a C-section - neither of which was high on my wish list.
Go look at a 1988 calendar. It happened to be leap year.
Somehow I skimmed past February 29th and started the first signs of labor on March 1st. So this was it. I had a doctor appointment in the morning which was rather pointless as I was told the signs and symptoms of labor and when to go to the hospital. To kill a little time I strolled through a department store. A baby seat caught my eye and I picked it up and tried to adjust the handle. But the damn thing would not budge. GRRRRRRRRR. Yes, this is exactly what a woman holding a baby in one arm needs, a contraption that requires fourteen hands to dislodge. I couldn't get that thing out of my hands fast enough.
Okay, I tossed it back into the display.
And then every single employee surrounded me asking if I needed any help. No. I needed help five minutes ago as I was investigating this death trap, but now I'm not interested. Your security cameras would serve better as customer service cameras so you can ward off potentially upset customers who shouldn't touch your GD precious displays of unuseful baby gear.
And then I got in the car and balled my eyes out.
I never cry.
Ever.
Hormones are hell.
And the day drug on. And on. Finally that night when my contractions were five minutes apart I promptly went to the hospital where I was told that I wasn't in full labor and I should walk around for awhile to encourage the progression. After several hours of pointless walking I was told to go home, only to return when the contractions are "really bad."
TEN PM the following night, on March 2nd, I delivered my daughter. NINE DAYS after her due date.
I resent February 22nd.
Likewise, I detest June 10th. My second child was due the following year on June 10th. Again I pegged my hopes and dreams on that special day. And again the due date came and went with no baby. And again I ticked off the days and hours and minutes until this lump would no longer do his slow motion stretch inside my ribcage. This child was a little more prompt than his sister as he arrived SEVEN days late.
Their brother, on the other hand, had completely different plans and decided to grace us with his presence three weeks early.
I think giving due dates to pregnant women should be outlawed. Never has a child arrived on their designated due date. Well, okay, I'm sure a few oddball babies do what is expected of them, but they turn out to be freaks living in their mothers' basements after the age of 25. The rest of the world is populated by babies who arrive according to their own internal clocks, not some date picked off a postcard wheel carried by every obstetric doctor, nurse and hallway flunkie.
And if you don't want your head to be ripped off my some hormone enraged woman DO NOT ask when her due date is, or speculate that she's been pregnant FOREVER. Or worse yet, that the baby is setting up house keeping and is NEVER coming out.
Have I ever told you how much I hate February 22nd?
And then there is their due dates.
Yesterday was the due date of my first child. I don't quite get why I, and probably every other woman on the face of the earth, clings so dearly to that date. That arbitrary date, practically picked out of thin air, based on when you recall the last day of your menstrual cycle. I was told in June that I was due to deliver around... AROUND... February 22. And I held to that date like it was etched in gold.
Any woman who has carried past their 35th week of pregnancy can tell you, by that time you are DONE being pregnant. All the novelty is gone, the glowing doesn't matter, and your ankles swell. Like a prisoner in a dungeon you tick off the days until your release. The day you can stop wearing "fat clothes". The day toes stop testing the plyability of your bladder and your spleen can be pried off your spine.
Two weeks before the due date a new mentality sweeps over the expectant mother - "any time now." Bags are checked and rechecked. Meals are prepared and frozen. The house is kept incredibly clean and the car never has less than a half tank of gas.
And so we waited.
And waited.
February 22, 1988 arrived and still no baby, but surely Little Bart would be in our arms within a matter of hours.
February 23 arrived and still no baby. Mom and my husband took me out to eat. As we waited for our seat, a pair of elderly women gawked at my protuding belly and observed "honey, you've dropped!"
WHAT THE HELL? How does anyone get off telling an absolute stranger the medical state of her pregnancy? Wisely the old chicks kept their hands to themselves. I was to the point that if one more person reached out to touch me I was gunna rip their arm out! I had already had enough stranger hands pet my belly, including some really creepy guy at the mall that practically gave me an exam reserved for my gyno.
So then they ask when I was due. Rather blandly, I replied "yesterday."
I swear their eyes darted in all directions as they mentally went through a checklist for boiling water, clean sheets and scissors in case they had to do an emergency delivery right there in the middle of the restaurant.
No, no, this baby was firmly holding onto my intestines and not about to come out any time soon.
Eight days had passed since my due date. OVER a week. I was seriously looking at being induced or having a C-section - neither of which was high on my wish list.
Go look at a 1988 calendar. It happened to be leap year.
Somehow I skimmed past February 29th and started the first signs of labor on March 1st. So this was it. I had a doctor appointment in the morning which was rather pointless as I was told the signs and symptoms of labor and when to go to the hospital. To kill a little time I strolled through a department store. A baby seat caught my eye and I picked it up and tried to adjust the handle. But the damn thing would not budge. GRRRRRRRRR. Yes, this is exactly what a woman holding a baby in one arm needs, a contraption that requires fourteen hands to dislodge. I couldn't get that thing out of my hands fast enough.
Okay, I tossed it back into the display.
And then every single employee surrounded me asking if I needed any help. No. I needed help five minutes ago as I was investigating this death trap, but now I'm not interested. Your security cameras would serve better as customer service cameras so you can ward off potentially upset customers who shouldn't touch your GD precious displays of unuseful baby gear.
And then I got in the car and balled my eyes out.
I never cry.
Ever.
Hormones are hell.
And the day drug on. And on. Finally that night when my contractions were five minutes apart I promptly went to the hospital where I was told that I wasn't in full labor and I should walk around for awhile to encourage the progression. After several hours of pointless walking I was told to go home, only to return when the contractions are "really bad."
TEN PM the following night, on March 2nd, I delivered my daughter. NINE DAYS after her due date.
I resent February 22nd.
Likewise, I detest June 10th. My second child was due the following year on June 10th. Again I pegged my hopes and dreams on that special day. And again the due date came and went with no baby. And again I ticked off the days and hours and minutes until this lump would no longer do his slow motion stretch inside my ribcage. This child was a little more prompt than his sister as he arrived SEVEN days late.
Their brother, on the other hand, had completely different plans and decided to grace us with his presence three weeks early.
I think giving due dates to pregnant women should be outlawed. Never has a child arrived on their designated due date. Well, okay, I'm sure a few oddball babies do what is expected of them, but they turn out to be freaks living in their mothers' basements after the age of 25. The rest of the world is populated by babies who arrive according to their own internal clocks, not some date picked off a postcard wheel carried by every obstetric doctor, nurse and hallway flunkie.
And if you don't want your head to be ripped off my some hormone enraged woman DO NOT ask when her due date is, or speculate that she's been pregnant FOREVER. Or worse yet, that the baby is setting up house keeping and is NEVER coming out.
Have I ever told you how much I hate February 22nd?
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