well, I'm assuming it's still there, but this is the first Tuesday since the day o' the cerclage that I haven't been to the doctors for a check on the great incompetent one...we are scheduled to go in for an ultrasound on the little man on Thursday, so I get a full 9 days in bed without the respite of those two hours of "free time"...ah well. At least I get to see him in all his glory on Thursday. And hopefully the cervix is maintaining a reasonable measurement and I won't have to stand on my head for the next eleven weeks.
So it's been brought to my attention that there may have been a freudian slip in my post from Friday--I mentioned that my parents were coming into town and apparently I said "to pain" rather than "to painT", which was my real intention. Ooops. Thanks for finding that slip, Dad. I was just testing you...
The parents DID come to town and did PAINT the bedroom with husband, so now I sit in a fabulously relaxing room, painted a lovely shade of green called "Rejuvenate"--so much better than the two layers of primer we had covering up a nasty burgandy/purple color left by the previous circus people, I mean, home owners.
This means that there are no pre-purchase paint colors left in our house. The sunburst yellow is gone from the diningroom, the powder blue is gone from the livingroom, there is no more flourescent green in our hallway and stairwell, and no tomato red in our bathroom...I can feel the house starting to relax. I sense its gratitude and am happy to oblige...
speaking of physical improvements, I am relieved to announce that the travesty of nature that was my eyebrows has been tamed somewhat, thanks to my mother bringing me a magnifying hand-held mirror; I was able to sit in bed and pluck, pluck, pluck away. So now I no longer look Albert Einstein-esque in the eyebrow region..
As for the little man, I have come to the conclusion that I am indeed already a soccer mom. The star player, in fact, the only player--my baby. The field--my uterus. He is bending it like Beckham in there on a daily basis at this point. Fortunately, each game only lasts a few minutes and then he needs a big old power nap for a couple of hours.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Friday, February 24, 2006
starbucks fantasies...
It's getting bad. Even the "thrill" of getting to watch Ellen everyday is starting to wear thin. She tells a lot of the same jokes over and over. Maybe the show isn't meant to be watched everyday. Maybe once or twice a week is considered adequate? Oh well, I'm going for the record.
I'm starting to fantasize about trips to Starbucks and Target. That's it. That's as far as my imagination can take me these days. Anything farther into the realm of the exotic is too depressing to contemplate. But really, right now the Starbucks down the street would be a satisfying "vacation".
Husband and I used to go to Starbucks every Saturday and Sunday; tall, no foam latte and tall soy, "extra chai" chai. crossword puzzles and business sections. I was a prize-winning starer--there's never enough seating in Starbucks, so you always have find the people who look the most "done" with their coffee, their pastry, their reading, their studying, their conversation, and then just stand there, looking sad and forlorn until they get up and leave you their seat. You have to look around and away from them a little bit, so as not to seem "creepy" or too accusatory ("hey, mr. 'i'm done with my coffee and just taking up space'; I've got a whole latte and a muffin and nowhere to park it--get movin'!"). It works like a charm and in 5 years, we've almost always ended up with a seat within a few minutes in an otherwise crowded Starbucks. What can I say, I have the gift.
Our new, local Starbucks is so small and "local" there are some regulars that I am sure think, "ugh--here comes that girl" when they see me walk through the door. They seem to be onto me and I can sometimes see them shift in their seats, as though planting themselves more firmly in place. So actually, this bed "arrest" might actually work to my advantage---by the time I am actually allowed back to Starbucks, they may have forgotten me and my magical "give me your seat" vibe will be renewed. Or perhaps my new, post-pregnancy chubbiness (which I am just assuming I will have to deal with) will throw them off and they won't be able to place me; it'll be like a whole new "give me your seat" girl as sprung up in my wake...And, also---the next time I am allowed to spend a Saturday morning at Starbucks, we will be toting a screaming, pooping newborn with us; that should clear the room. We will have our pick of seats! Maybe even one by the window....
Until then, I guess I will be content to have fabulous, wonderful husband make the trip to the coffee mecca on his own and bring me my tall soy extra hot, extra chai chai and crossword puzzle to me, in bed. In a lot of ways, it is much nicer. I'm in my jammies, there's always a pen for the crossword and the only other patron taking up space on our bed is the cat.
I'm starting to fantasize about trips to Starbucks and Target. That's it. That's as far as my imagination can take me these days. Anything farther into the realm of the exotic is too depressing to contemplate. But really, right now the Starbucks down the street would be a satisfying "vacation".
Husband and I used to go to Starbucks every Saturday and Sunday; tall, no foam latte and tall soy, "extra chai" chai. crossword puzzles and business sections. I was a prize-winning starer--there's never enough seating in Starbucks, so you always have find the people who look the most "done" with their coffee, their pastry, their reading, their studying, their conversation, and then just stand there, looking sad and forlorn until they get up and leave you their seat. You have to look around and away from them a little bit, so as not to seem "creepy" or too accusatory ("hey, mr. 'i'm done with my coffee and just taking up space'; I've got a whole latte and a muffin and nowhere to park it--get movin'!"). It works like a charm and in 5 years, we've almost always ended up with a seat within a few minutes in an otherwise crowded Starbucks. What can I say, I have the gift.
Our new, local Starbucks is so small and "local" there are some regulars that I am sure think, "ugh--here comes that girl" when they see me walk through the door. They seem to be onto me and I can sometimes see them shift in their seats, as though planting themselves more firmly in place. So actually, this bed "arrest" might actually work to my advantage---by the time I am actually allowed back to Starbucks, they may have forgotten me and my magical "give me your seat" vibe will be renewed. Or perhaps my new, post-pregnancy chubbiness (which I am just assuming I will have to deal with) will throw them off and they won't be able to place me; it'll be like a whole new "give me your seat" girl as sprung up in my wake...And, also---the next time I am allowed to spend a Saturday morning at Starbucks, we will be toting a screaming, pooping newborn with us; that should clear the room. We will have our pick of seats! Maybe even one by the window....
Until then, I guess I will be content to have fabulous, wonderful husband make the trip to the coffee mecca on his own and bring me my tall soy extra hot, extra chai chai and crossword puzzle to me, in bed. In a lot of ways, it is much nicer. I'm in my jammies, there's always a pen for the crossword and the only other patron taking up space on our bed is the cat.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Random thoughts...
1. CHOCOLATE. I have to lay off the chocolate. A friend of mine brought me gourmet cupcakes earlier this week and I have been lusting after them all week...and by 'lusting', I mean eating them constantly. *Hanging head in shame* I even snuck 1/2 of one this morning for breakfast. That can't be good.
I don't know how chocolate finds its way into our house. We don't buy it. We don't ask for it (okay, I ask for it occassionally, usually in the form of cheesecake). As a general rule, it's never been a major part of our lives. But now...
I have to stop, though. This poor child, aside from all the sugar-induced bouncing he does in utero, is going to be sorely disappointed when he pops out in 14 weeks time and realizes that he is not the son of Willy Wonka. There's a joke in here somewhere about chocolate breast milk, but I'm on too much of a sugar rush to wait for it...
2. BELLY BUTTON. Exactly WHOSE belly button is this on my stomach? Because I'll tell you, it's not mine. I haven't seen mine in weeks--mine was nice and deep; I wouldn't say "sleek" looking, because nothing associated with my belly has ever been "sleek", but it was a clearly identifiable "innie". I don't know what's going on now. It is weird and round and the bottom of it is starting to bulge out. The scar below my belly button has decided to get in on the action and joined in all the growing and stretching...it's lovely, really. Maybe if I cut back on the chocolate, some of this stretching might abate.
3. TV. It sucks. The news sucks. Oprah sucks. Soap operas suck. Dr. Phil sucks. Commercials suck. I am even growing weary of the Olympics and you know how I was salivating for them to begin. I need more books, because i can't watch 12 more weeks of TV...I will lose every last functioning brain cell if I do...
4. BEING USELESS. Last weekend, friends came over to help husband tear down a couple of ridiculous built-in closets in our bedroom. Parents are coming this weekend to pain the bedroom. Three different people have done our dishes for us this week. And for all this activity, I was either in bed or on the couch, just listening to the sound of crashing pressboard or running water. Yes, I know, I'm growing a person. But still...
I guess the key is to focus on my gratitude rather than my own feelings of uselessness.
sigh--I've been in bed for 39 days...that's allota days...
I don't know how chocolate finds its way into our house. We don't buy it. We don't ask for it (okay, I ask for it occassionally, usually in the form of cheesecake). As a general rule, it's never been a major part of our lives. But now...
I have to stop, though. This poor child, aside from all the sugar-induced bouncing he does in utero, is going to be sorely disappointed when he pops out in 14 weeks time and realizes that he is not the son of Willy Wonka. There's a joke in here somewhere about chocolate breast milk, but I'm on too much of a sugar rush to wait for it...
2. BELLY BUTTON. Exactly WHOSE belly button is this on my stomach? Because I'll tell you, it's not mine. I haven't seen mine in weeks--mine was nice and deep; I wouldn't say "sleek" looking, because nothing associated with my belly has ever been "sleek", but it was a clearly identifiable "innie". I don't know what's going on now. It is weird and round and the bottom of it is starting to bulge out. The scar below my belly button has decided to get in on the action and joined in all the growing and stretching...it's lovely, really. Maybe if I cut back on the chocolate, some of this stretching might abate.
3. TV. It sucks. The news sucks. Oprah sucks. Soap operas suck. Dr. Phil sucks. Commercials suck. I am even growing weary of the Olympics and you know how I was salivating for them to begin. I need more books, because i can't watch 12 more weeks of TV...I will lose every last functioning brain cell if I do...
4. BEING USELESS. Last weekend, friends came over to help husband tear down a couple of ridiculous built-in closets in our bedroom. Parents are coming this weekend to pain the bedroom. Three different people have done our dishes for us this week. And for all this activity, I was either in bed or on the couch, just listening to the sound of crashing pressboard or running water. Yes, I know, I'm growing a person. But still...
I guess the key is to focus on my gratitude rather than my own feelings of uselessness.
sigh--I've been in bed for 39 days...that's allota days...
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
We've got rhythm...
So the man in my bed snores and the little man in my belly gets hiccups. Both at about 3am. And I am the exclusive audience--I feel very special.
Both the hiccupping and the snoring are new. In almost 5 years with the husband, there was never any snoring. I was amazed--had I met the one man on earth who wasn't going to keep me awake for the rest of my life with the nasal symphony? I think I snored more than him during the first four years and I'm just a dainty little girl ( ha ha).
Then something tragic happened. On the first night of our honeymoon, if you can even believe it, the man I have committed my life to starts with the buzz-saw. I almost got up and walked around the room to see where the noise was coming from (perhaps some rare Hawaiian bug or bird was trapped in our room); it could not be coming from my husband's nose!!!
It was. And it has, almost every night since. What the hell is THAT???? Was he tricking me? How could someone turn it off for years, then, once the deal was sealed, let 'er rip?! I believe him, if somewhat warily, when he says that the snoring thing really IS new. But it is a real head-scratcher...
The hiccupping, on the other hand, is delightful. Delightful in a "this would be better at 3pm than at 3am" way, but delightful nonetheless...I have heard of it, and I knew it would be coming once I got used to the kicking. I was terrified that I wouldn't be able to identify it and would that mean I was destined to be a bad mother? There are all these pregnant women who say, "Oh, his foot is right here" and point with absolute certainty to a spot on their belly. How do they KNOW??!! Couldn't it be a hand? Or an elbow? Are they making it up to sound like they are that in touch with their babies? Or can they really tell?
I"m not there yet--I know when I am being pushed and shoved from within, but I still am not certain what is a kick and what is a punch. I have a really good idea of where my bladder is at all times, and I definitley knew that the rhythmic bouncing in my belly was hiccups.
And if he could have heard over his snoring, husband probably would have been woken up by my giggling...
Both the hiccupping and the snoring are new. In almost 5 years with the husband, there was never any snoring. I was amazed--had I met the one man on earth who wasn't going to keep me awake for the rest of my life with the nasal symphony? I think I snored more than him during the first four years and I'm just a dainty little girl ( ha ha).
Then something tragic happened. On the first night of our honeymoon, if you can even believe it, the man I have committed my life to starts with the buzz-saw. I almost got up and walked around the room to see where the noise was coming from (perhaps some rare Hawaiian bug or bird was trapped in our room); it could not be coming from my husband's nose!!!
It was. And it has, almost every night since. What the hell is THAT???? Was he tricking me? How could someone turn it off for years, then, once the deal was sealed, let 'er rip?! I believe him, if somewhat warily, when he says that the snoring thing really IS new. But it is a real head-scratcher...
The hiccupping, on the other hand, is delightful. Delightful in a "this would be better at 3pm than at 3am" way, but delightful nonetheless...I have heard of it, and I knew it would be coming once I got used to the kicking. I was terrified that I wouldn't be able to identify it and would that mean I was destined to be a bad mother? There are all these pregnant women who say, "Oh, his foot is right here" and point with absolute certainty to a spot on their belly. How do they KNOW??!! Couldn't it be a hand? Or an elbow? Are they making it up to sound like they are that in touch with their babies? Or can they really tell?
I"m not there yet--I know when I am being pushed and shoved from within, but I still am not certain what is a kick and what is a punch. I have a really good idea of where my bladder is at all times, and I definitley knew that the rhythmic bouncing in my belly was hiccups.
And if he could have heard over his snoring, husband probably would have been woken up by my giggling...
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
The Countdown Begins...
I'm pretty certain that at some point today I am going to either a.) cry or b.) have a panic attack (or at least a sissified version of one). That stinks considering I haven't done either in a couple of weeks.
Today at my weekly trip to the doctor (ah, the fresh air, the morning radio, the speed of the cars zooming by on the highway, interacting with people I don't know, the covert trip to Starbucks on the way home--hey, it's been 6 weeks since I stepped inside a Starbucks), he actually started talking about the end of my pregnancy. After the poking and the measuring, we went to his office and he said, "So we're probably going to get you in there at 38 weeks".
Wow. I'm assuming they aren't expecting my body to spontaneously start labor at 38 weeks, so I guess that means they are going to induce me. And then, I will have a baby. This is when the tears and sissy panic attack start.
Obviously, I know rationally that at some point, the little man in my belly is coming out and is going to be the little man in my arms. That is, of course, the moment that all pregnant ladies wait for and dream about. But there's something very different about the dream and the impending reality.
I mean, I'm going to be responsible for another human being's life...and yes, I know that I am responsible for said human's life already, but in a much more passive way and let's face it, the team of doctors I have monitoring my every drop of pee and every movement of my cervix are way more responsible for my son's well-being right now than I am...I am an incubator that takes prenatal vitamins, avoids alcohol and deli meat.
But in fourteen weeks, oh...my....god...in fourteen weeks, somehow or other this baby is coming out of my body and they will hand him over to me and stop offering to take care of me or him!! I don't think my perinatologist is going to need to see me every other week once he's born, right? Damn.
So apart from stuff like the bliss of feeling a little foot kicking my bladder and the contentment of rubbing my expanding belly, I am now also starting to realize how finite pregnancy is. And the truth is, even with the boredom of bedrest, I love, like I've never loved anything before, being pregnant. As much as I am sure I will love being a mother even more, the thought of not being pregnant in fourteen weeks sends me into little girly fits of tears.
I have heard that the last few weeks of pregnancy are so uncomfortable that most women are begging to have the baby removed from their bodies by whatever means possible. I think perhaps that is nature's way of erasing (at least temporarily) this pregnancy bliss I have right now. I hope so. But I guess between now and then I am going to try to soak up every last second of "glow". Even if I can only glow at a forty-five degree angle...
Today at my weekly trip to the doctor (ah, the fresh air, the morning radio, the speed of the cars zooming by on the highway, interacting with people I don't know, the covert trip to Starbucks on the way home--hey, it's been 6 weeks since I stepped inside a Starbucks), he actually started talking about the end of my pregnancy. After the poking and the measuring, we went to his office and he said, "So we're probably going to get you in there at 38 weeks".
Wow. I'm assuming they aren't expecting my body to spontaneously start labor at 38 weeks, so I guess that means they are going to induce me. And then, I will have a baby. This is when the tears and sissy panic attack start.
Obviously, I know rationally that at some point, the little man in my belly is coming out and is going to be the little man in my arms. That is, of course, the moment that all pregnant ladies wait for and dream about. But there's something very different about the dream and the impending reality.
I mean, I'm going to be responsible for another human being's life...and yes, I know that I am responsible for said human's life already, but in a much more passive way and let's face it, the team of doctors I have monitoring my every drop of pee and every movement of my cervix are way more responsible for my son's well-being right now than I am...I am an incubator that takes prenatal vitamins, avoids alcohol and deli meat.
But in fourteen weeks, oh...my....god...in fourteen weeks, somehow or other this baby is coming out of my body and they will hand him over to me and stop offering to take care of me or him!! I don't think my perinatologist is going to need to see me every other week once he's born, right? Damn.
So apart from stuff like the bliss of feeling a little foot kicking my bladder and the contentment of rubbing my expanding belly, I am now also starting to realize how finite pregnancy is. And the truth is, even with the boredom of bedrest, I love, like I've never loved anything before, being pregnant. As much as I am sure I will love being a mother even more, the thought of not being pregnant in fourteen weeks sends me into little girly fits of tears.
I have heard that the last few weeks of pregnancy are so uncomfortable that most women are begging to have the baby removed from their bodies by whatever means possible. I think perhaps that is nature's way of erasing (at least temporarily) this pregnancy bliss I have right now. I hope so. But I guess between now and then I am going to try to soak up every last second of "glow". Even if I can only glow at a forty-five degree angle...
Monday, February 20, 2006
Monday...
It's Monday, and you know what that means--tomorrow I get to leave the house! I get to put on shoes, slap on some lipstick and go pee in a cup! It's a "boring" appointment tomorrow--just "how's things?", take the blood pressure, "any questions?" and then, back home. Next Thursday is the ultrasound with the perinatalogist, but I guess my regular OB wants in on some of the post-cerclage action, so I go see them every other week, too...
Usually before a doctor's appointment, I obsess about shaving my legs and trying to look presentable under the little flimsy sheet they give you to "wear" while you wait, and wait...and wait for the doctor. But today, looking in the mirror, my focus moved significantly north to another rough spot that no sheet at the doctor's office is going to cover.
My eyebrows...oh my god, what has become of me? They are practically growing from eyeball to hair line. I wish I were exaggerating.
I discovered the magic of plucking and waxing way back in the comfort of the "helicopter-landing pad yellow" bathroom of my teeny tiny NH apartment. It was a moment of pure joy---who knew that a little pluck here and a bit of carefully placed wax there could open and lift the eye; I looked like a different person (at least to myself). I have even paid a few gruff-voiced spa professionals to shape and perfect my brows, although I generally appreciate it more if I do the work myself.
But what is going on now??? It has been six weeks since I was allowed to stand up for more than a few minutes at a time and those few precious minutes are usually spent on something more seemingly significant, like...oh, i don't know, walking back and forth to the bathroom, standing in the shower, putting on my clothes. I guess in my desire to limit those "above 45 degrees" moments, I have neglected the finer things, like my tweezers and mirror. That's a good 10 minutes of standing, sometimes on tip-toes, and leaning forward over the sink to get a good view in the mirror.
Sigh. I simply can't afford that kind of foot-time. And so the little eyebrow hairs that I have so stubbornly beaten back for years on end are cautiously making their way back to the surface and then, much to my horror and chagrin, finding no challenge, they grow and grow.
It doesn't seem like a big deal and perhaps I am being overwhelmed by my own vanity today. But when you consider I am the first face this child will see, it suddenly becomes more significant. I don't want this kid's first thought to be, "Wow, my mom looks like a mad scientist. Check out that uni-brow"....
Usually before a doctor's appointment, I obsess about shaving my legs and trying to look presentable under the little flimsy sheet they give you to "wear" while you wait, and wait...and wait for the doctor. But today, looking in the mirror, my focus moved significantly north to another rough spot that no sheet at the doctor's office is going to cover.
My eyebrows...oh my god, what has become of me? They are practically growing from eyeball to hair line. I wish I were exaggerating.
I discovered the magic of plucking and waxing way back in the comfort of the "helicopter-landing pad yellow" bathroom of my teeny tiny NH apartment. It was a moment of pure joy---who knew that a little pluck here and a bit of carefully placed wax there could open and lift the eye; I looked like a different person (at least to myself). I have even paid a few gruff-voiced spa professionals to shape and perfect my brows, although I generally appreciate it more if I do the work myself.
But what is going on now??? It has been six weeks since I was allowed to stand up for more than a few minutes at a time and those few precious minutes are usually spent on something more seemingly significant, like...oh, i don't know, walking back and forth to the bathroom, standing in the shower, putting on my clothes. I guess in my desire to limit those "above 45 degrees" moments, I have neglected the finer things, like my tweezers and mirror. That's a good 10 minutes of standing, sometimes on tip-toes, and leaning forward over the sink to get a good view in the mirror.
Sigh. I simply can't afford that kind of foot-time. And so the little eyebrow hairs that I have so stubbornly beaten back for years on end are cautiously making their way back to the surface and then, much to my horror and chagrin, finding no challenge, they grow and grow.
It doesn't seem like a big deal and perhaps I am being overwhelmed by my own vanity today. But when you consider I am the first face this child will see, it suddenly becomes more significant. I don't want this kid's first thought to be, "Wow, my mom looks like a mad scientist. Check out that uni-brow"....
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Happy Anniversary, Cerclage...
It's been one whole month since I met my friend, cerclage. Bizarre how life has changed in the past 30 days...
I used to get up at 6am, shower, drive to work, spend my day being irritated by teenagers (and adults alike), grocery shop, pick up a bit around the house, get coffee with my girlfriends, go out to dinner with my husband and watch a little (okay, a lot) TV...
Now, when I get up at 6am to pee, it seems like the middle of the night and I think "how uncivilized" to have to roll out of bed at this hour. I am so grateful to crawl back in between my warm covers, with DH snoring next to me, feeling the little man in my belly kick his good morning as I fall back to sleep for another 2 (at least) hours.
Work? I admit that I was burnt out to begin with this year; getting pregnant was such a welcome excuse to let my mind wander. Having only one class to teach and administrative duties made "pregnancy brain" that much easier. After eleven years of dealing with teens, I don't really even feel guilty admitting that I am, to some degree, relishing the idea that I don't have to put up with them in the last months of my pregnancy.
Don't get me wrong; I do, God help me, enjoy teenagers--they crack me up with their developing personalities and their passionate belief systems that seem to be based in vanishing quick sand rather than real life experience. They make my heart ache with their angst, real or imagined, because it doesn't take too much effort for me to dig down and recall my own teen-angst (almost entirely imagined, but ferociously real to me at the time). And I love that, even when they spent the majority of their time with me talking back and blowing off my instruction as so much useless drivel, I hear now from my colleagues that they miss me and want me to come back--they are such fickle creatures that they are loveable in spite of themselves...
So back to "the way it used to be" vs. "life a la cerclage"....
grocery shopping? Yeah, Dante from Safeway delivered our groceries to our front door this week, 24 hours after I ordered them online. Convenient, yes. It spared my sanity a bit to know that husband didn't have to work 10 hours and then go out to the grocery store to buy our food for the week. Of course, there were some complications---the sugar free popcicles somehow magically turned into sugar-bomb pops; same flavors, 100% more sugar and calories. My own fault for allowing substitution...The ice cream also showed up as low-cal, low-fat. ugh. Perhaps that is the universe's way of saying, "Lay off the regular Breyers, fatty"....maybe I will do a week of fake ice cream and then a week of real ice cream, because right now--i CAN'T go without the ice cream. The baby neeeeeeeds it.
Coffee with the girlfriends still happens, but instead of meeting at Starbucks, we sit in my livingroom. What I need is a barista bar in my diningroom. I miss the "whissssssh" of the foaming milk and the clunking of whatever the hell it is they clunk around behind the espresso machine...
My perinatologist has promised me the possibility of "going out to dinner once a week" when I get further on in my pregnancy. I guess that all depends on my good friends, Cervix and Cerclage. If they behave, they'll be allowed out of the house at some point. Of course, the doctor is talking about weeks and weeks in the future. Like April...late April.
But all in all, the last month hasn't been that bad. I mean, I'm still pregnant, right?! I"m not in any real pain (which never ceases to amaze me considering I basically have a length of fishing wire holding a part of my body together), and I am constantly amazed by how many people come to visit or call, or offer to help in any way possible.
As husband and i were saying the other day--we always seem to get handed these incredibly raw deals, some more dire in nature than others, but raw nonetheless. But, we always get through. We always find a way to strengthen ourselves, as a couple and as individuals through whatever the universe throws at us. This is no different...one month down, and if all goes according to "plan", three to go...
I used to get up at 6am, shower, drive to work, spend my day being irritated by teenagers (and adults alike), grocery shop, pick up a bit around the house, get coffee with my girlfriends, go out to dinner with my husband and watch a little (okay, a lot) TV...
Now, when I get up at 6am to pee, it seems like the middle of the night and I think "how uncivilized" to have to roll out of bed at this hour. I am so grateful to crawl back in between my warm covers, with DH snoring next to me, feeling the little man in my belly kick his good morning as I fall back to sleep for another 2 (at least) hours.
Work? I admit that I was burnt out to begin with this year; getting pregnant was such a welcome excuse to let my mind wander. Having only one class to teach and administrative duties made "pregnancy brain" that much easier. After eleven years of dealing with teens, I don't really even feel guilty admitting that I am, to some degree, relishing the idea that I don't have to put up with them in the last months of my pregnancy.
Don't get me wrong; I do, God help me, enjoy teenagers--they crack me up with their developing personalities and their passionate belief systems that seem to be based in vanishing quick sand rather than real life experience. They make my heart ache with their angst, real or imagined, because it doesn't take too much effort for me to dig down and recall my own teen-angst (almost entirely imagined, but ferociously real to me at the time). And I love that, even when they spent the majority of their time with me talking back and blowing off my instruction as so much useless drivel, I hear now from my colleagues that they miss me and want me to come back--they are such fickle creatures that they are loveable in spite of themselves...
So back to "the way it used to be" vs. "life a la cerclage"....
grocery shopping? Yeah, Dante from Safeway delivered our groceries to our front door this week, 24 hours after I ordered them online. Convenient, yes. It spared my sanity a bit to know that husband didn't have to work 10 hours and then go out to the grocery store to buy our food for the week. Of course, there were some complications---the sugar free popcicles somehow magically turned into sugar-bomb pops; same flavors, 100% more sugar and calories. My own fault for allowing substitution...The ice cream also showed up as low-cal, low-fat. ugh. Perhaps that is the universe's way of saying, "Lay off the regular Breyers, fatty"....maybe I will do a week of fake ice cream and then a week of real ice cream, because right now--i CAN'T go without the ice cream. The baby neeeeeeeds it.
Coffee with the girlfriends still happens, but instead of meeting at Starbucks, we sit in my livingroom. What I need is a barista bar in my diningroom. I miss the "whissssssh" of the foaming milk and the clunking of whatever the hell it is they clunk around behind the espresso machine...
My perinatologist has promised me the possibility of "going out to dinner once a week" when I get further on in my pregnancy. I guess that all depends on my good friends, Cervix and Cerclage. If they behave, they'll be allowed out of the house at some point. Of course, the doctor is talking about weeks and weeks in the future. Like April...late April.
But all in all, the last month hasn't been that bad. I mean, I'm still pregnant, right?! I"m not in any real pain (which never ceases to amaze me considering I basically have a length of fishing wire holding a part of my body together), and I am constantly amazed by how many people come to visit or call, or offer to help in any way possible.
As husband and i were saying the other day--we always seem to get handed these incredibly raw deals, some more dire in nature than others, but raw nonetheless. But, we always get through. We always find a way to strengthen ourselves, as a couple and as individuals through whatever the universe throws at us. This is no different...one month down, and if all goes according to "plan", three to go...
Saturday, February 18, 2006
What the...?
Another Saturday, another ho-hum. Sadly, the most beloved and eagerly anticipated day of the week for normal people is the bane of existence for the bed-ridden. While the rest of the world is out doing, I am in, sitting.
No grocery shopping, no day-trips, no mindless roaming the aisles of Target like The Jerk (not "a", The"), "All I need is this picture frame....and this anti-wrinkle cream. That's all I need. .......and I need this (insert mindless, useless impulse-buy here)." My bank account is very happy about my bedrest.
Nope. My Saturday consists of flipping through the channels until my remote-finger has gone completely numb. How many times can one bear to sit through "Ghost Busters II" (who could tolerate it the first time around??) or bad sci-fi (much to husband's chagrin, I can hardly stomach really good sci-fi)? Every once in awhile there will be a fabulous movie--a "Say Anything" or a "When Harry Met Sally" type flick on, and then for two hours, I can relax and pretend that I chose to spend my day supine and lazy.
But today---wow. I am faced with a new head-scratcher of a sight on my television screen. It is the Olympics. The world's foremost authority on civilized sports. And what am I watching? The "biathalon"...and what does this said biathalon consist of? Skiing and skating? Maybe skating and luging? No. Apparently the two sports that compliment eachother in this case are--skiing and shooting. SHOOTING??? Really? On skis? In the snow? They actually have .22 caliber rifles strapped to their backs as they x-country ski, then fall to the ground and shoot little targets.
It must be incredibly challenging because the commentators are besides themselves with girlish glee as they describe the scene; one of these guys is a hoarse shout away from an embolism. But somehow I can't quite get into it. All I can wonder is "who ever thought this up???" Truly, after how many drinks did someone say, "You know what I feel like doing??" And how hard did his friends laugh at him as he strapped on his skis and loaded his gun? Or better, yet, could it be that this Olympic sport is actually the result of a drunken dare? Either way--I am willing to bet an excessive amount of alcohol was involved in its creation. There is no other reasonable explanation.
I guess there's nothing wrong with it, per se...its not like they are shooting at little Alpine woodland bunnies or anything, but really---skiing and shooting???? I can't wrap my head around that one.
I find amusement where I can, though. In my mind's eye, I keep replacing the face of the biathalon leader with that of Dick Cheney...considering recent events, this might be an Olympic sport he could really get into--one can't argue the cardiovascular benefits of skiing and clearly, he's a dead-on shot. Maybe the 2010 Olympics?
No grocery shopping, no day-trips, no mindless roaming the aisles of Target like The Jerk (not "a", The"), "All I need is this picture frame....and this anti-wrinkle cream. That's all I need. .......and I need this (insert mindless, useless impulse-buy here)." My bank account is very happy about my bedrest.
Nope. My Saturday consists of flipping through the channels until my remote-finger has gone completely numb. How many times can one bear to sit through "Ghost Busters II" (who could tolerate it the first time around??) or bad sci-fi (much to husband's chagrin, I can hardly stomach really good sci-fi)? Every once in awhile there will be a fabulous movie--a "Say Anything" or a "When Harry Met Sally" type flick on, and then for two hours, I can relax and pretend that I chose to spend my day supine and lazy.
But today---wow. I am faced with a new head-scratcher of a sight on my television screen. It is the Olympics. The world's foremost authority on civilized sports. And what am I watching? The "biathalon"...and what does this said biathalon consist of? Skiing and skating? Maybe skating and luging? No. Apparently the two sports that compliment eachother in this case are--skiing and shooting. SHOOTING??? Really? On skis? In the snow? They actually have .22 caliber rifles strapped to their backs as they x-country ski, then fall to the ground and shoot little targets.
It must be incredibly challenging because the commentators are besides themselves with girlish glee as they describe the scene; one of these guys is a hoarse shout away from an embolism. But somehow I can't quite get into it. All I can wonder is "who ever thought this up???" Truly, after how many drinks did someone say, "You know what I feel like doing??" And how hard did his friends laugh at him as he strapped on his skis and loaded his gun? Or better, yet, could it be that this Olympic sport is actually the result of a drunken dare? Either way--I am willing to bet an excessive amount of alcohol was involved in its creation. There is no other reasonable explanation.
I guess there's nothing wrong with it, per se...its not like they are shooting at little Alpine woodland bunnies or anything, but really---skiing and shooting???? I can't wrap my head around that one.
I find amusement where I can, though. In my mind's eye, I keep replacing the face of the biathalon leader with that of Dick Cheney...considering recent events, this might be an Olympic sport he could really get into--one can't argue the cardiovascular benefits of skiing and clearly, he's a dead-on shot. Maybe the 2010 Olympics?
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Ahh, the Olympics...
I may have mentioned in an earlier entry that the Winter Olympics in Turino (or is it Turin?) have been a life-saver for me. I looked forward to the opening ceremonies even before the 4-month sentence was imposed upon me. And now, I can be even be found watching curling in the middle of the afternoon. Sure, my eyes are glazing over and I am constantly wondering what the hell they are even doing, but at least I feel connected in some way to something historical, something bigger than me and my bed.
It's the snow-boarding and the skiing that really get me, though. Especially now that they have "ski-cams" on the backs of some skiers during non-event runs. As someone who get outside once a week for a doctor's appointment, the fantasy of racing down a mountain and flying through the air is almost sweet enough to make me cry (and I have no idea where that comes from--I don't even ski...I fall). I think perhaps my suddent urge to strap on a snowboard and take flight down a mountain is either insanity (wouldn't doubt it) or a calling from the womb here that the little man in my belly is destined for winter athletic greatness...
Of course, I have discovered my own Olympic sports in the past few days...or at least, what would be Olympic sports, if there were such a thing as the "Pregnant Olympics".
Let's talk shaving, shall we? I have been shaving my legs since 6th grade...that is more than 20 years. I know how to do it. It's not challenging. Until you put a basketball between your boobs and your crotch...then it becomes somewhat of an obstacle course. I think pregnant womens' arms should elongate by a couple of inches to make up for the lack of flexibility in the mid-section during the 2nd and 3rd trimesters. I sense that before long, husband will be lending a hand in this department, so as an Olympic sport, it will be a relay of sorts.
Sleep tossing is another potential competition. I think I burn most of my calories in my "sleep" (quotations because it really can't be classified as sleep in its truest sense), as I toss and turn, trying to find a spot comfortable enough to stay in until I wake up in another pool of sweat. This tossing is especially challenging when hauling the previously mentioned basketball belly around with you. The winner would be the person who could stay in one position for the longest--this is a true test of endurance.
Kegels would be an interesting Pregnant Olympics competition, but I'm not sure how it would be judged. It could be the first olympic sport ever where the judges just had to take the word of the athletes..."Yes, I'm doing my Kegels...and I"m doing a LOT of them"
My favorite Pregnant Olympics sport would be one that must be reserved for the bedrest-bound....eating at a 45 degree angle. This is the fabulously fun sport of trying to get food into your mouth when the plate is on the table and your mouth is about 2 feet farther back than usual. It involves a careful combination of getting the right amount of food on your fork or spoon so that it is stable and then balancing it on said utensil all the way to your mouth, waiting far far away from the food source. This requires a tremendous amount of concentration, coordination and patience. Get too cocky, and you're wearing more chow than you're eating.
Sadly, I'm not sure if I would qualify for the "eating at a 45 degree angle" competition. As is evidenced by my collection of maternity shirts, I tend to end up with drops of each meal on my shirt as the day goes on. Sometimes I even have to change mid-day so as to maintain the appearance of a civilized person. I like to think I am just bonding with my baby--he, too, will end up wearing more than he actually keeps in his mouth. It's my small way of trying to "get inside his head" and "BE the baby", to be a better mother. That, and I think I look really silly tucking a napkin into my collar while I eat my cereal.
It's the snow-boarding and the skiing that really get me, though. Especially now that they have "ski-cams" on the backs of some skiers during non-event runs. As someone who get outside once a week for a doctor's appointment, the fantasy of racing down a mountain and flying through the air is almost sweet enough to make me cry (and I have no idea where that comes from--I don't even ski...I fall). I think perhaps my suddent urge to strap on a snowboard and take flight down a mountain is either insanity (wouldn't doubt it) or a calling from the womb here that the little man in my belly is destined for winter athletic greatness...
Of course, I have discovered my own Olympic sports in the past few days...or at least, what would be Olympic sports, if there were such a thing as the "Pregnant Olympics".
Let's talk shaving, shall we? I have been shaving my legs since 6th grade...that is more than 20 years. I know how to do it. It's not challenging. Until you put a basketball between your boobs and your crotch...then it becomes somewhat of an obstacle course. I think pregnant womens' arms should elongate by a couple of inches to make up for the lack of flexibility in the mid-section during the 2nd and 3rd trimesters. I sense that before long, husband will be lending a hand in this department, so as an Olympic sport, it will be a relay of sorts.
Sleep tossing is another potential competition. I think I burn most of my calories in my "sleep" (quotations because it really can't be classified as sleep in its truest sense), as I toss and turn, trying to find a spot comfortable enough to stay in until I wake up in another pool of sweat. This tossing is especially challenging when hauling the previously mentioned basketball belly around with you. The winner would be the person who could stay in one position for the longest--this is a true test of endurance.
Kegels would be an interesting Pregnant Olympics competition, but I'm not sure how it would be judged. It could be the first olympic sport ever where the judges just had to take the word of the athletes..."Yes, I'm doing my Kegels...and I"m doing a LOT of them"
My favorite Pregnant Olympics sport would be one that must be reserved for the bedrest-bound....eating at a 45 degree angle. This is the fabulously fun sport of trying to get food into your mouth when the plate is on the table and your mouth is about 2 feet farther back than usual. It involves a careful combination of getting the right amount of food on your fork or spoon so that it is stable and then balancing it on said utensil all the way to your mouth, waiting far far away from the food source. This requires a tremendous amount of concentration, coordination and patience. Get too cocky, and you're wearing more chow than you're eating.
Sadly, I'm not sure if I would qualify for the "eating at a 45 degree angle" competition. As is evidenced by my collection of maternity shirts, I tend to end up with drops of each meal on my shirt as the day goes on. Sometimes I even have to change mid-day so as to maintain the appearance of a civilized person. I like to think I am just bonding with my baby--he, too, will end up wearing more than he actually keeps in his mouth. It's my small way of trying to "get inside his head" and "BE the baby", to be a better mother. That, and I think I look really silly tucking a napkin into my collar while I eat my cereal.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Extreme Knitting....
Well, it is a good thing I can purchase clothing for my child in stores (or online, as the case may be in my immobile state at the moment). For I fear that I am not, nor will I ever be, an accomplished knitter...
Two days ago my friend Sandi came over to teach me the "art" of knitting. Very sweet of her. Very ambitious of her. As my husband will attest, I "don't take direction well." But I desperately need something to do with my time, so I was willing to be a good student and watch her cast loops, thread the needle in an upward fashion through the knot, bring the yarn over and thread it through again, this time in a downward fashion, then lift the loop up and off of the first needle onto the second...See, I know the steps. I'm good at verbalizing the steps...
What I'm not so good at is actually DOING the steps. I am currently blaming it on the fact that I am a leftie and Sandi is a rightie and therefore was unable (through no fault of her own) to teach me effectively. Truly, I could go all the way back to St. Christopher elementary school and blame the nuns--weren't they supposed to whack my knuckles with a ruler when I wrote with my left hand, to avoid just this type of calamity later in life? To ensure that when a right-handed person tried to teach me how to play the guitar or knit, I would meet with something closer to success than utter frustration and emminent failure?? Wasn't it their responsibility to beat the "leftie" out of me?
Yes, I blame them. I blame the nuns. Because I can't allow myself to believe that I am truly as bad at this as I am...I mean, this is something that little old ladies do (no offense to any little old ladies out there.) How is it possible that I can't get my fingers to control the needles? Grrrrr....apparently my cervix isn't the only thing that's incompetent...
The cats are, of course, fascinated by the ball of yarn. They sit patiently waiting for the moment when I give up and they can lay claim to the spoils. Abby hunches down, her eyes following the tops of the needles as I fumble them to and fro, attempting to make the yarn jump from one needle to the next. Penny cocks her head and watches the strand of yarn "gliding" (in quotation because that description is wishful thinking--it's a very jerky "glide", at best) from the giant ball to the needles. They look at each other, taking bets on how long it will be, and then back at me.
Yes, I will continue trying. I'm not ready to concede defeat yet to a big ball of blue yarn and a couple of long skinny needles. I will sit and cast and thread and pull and thread again until I get it right; even if I only end up with a little patch of knitted yarn--baby's first yarmulke.
Somehow though, I have a feeling that the majority of that pretty blue yarn is going to end up strewn across the floors of our house when the cats finally lose their patience. And I will order pretty blue blankets in bulk from Babies R Us...
Two days ago my friend Sandi came over to teach me the "art" of knitting. Very sweet of her. Very ambitious of her. As my husband will attest, I "don't take direction well." But I desperately need something to do with my time, so I was willing to be a good student and watch her cast loops, thread the needle in an upward fashion through the knot, bring the yarn over and thread it through again, this time in a downward fashion, then lift the loop up and off of the first needle onto the second...See, I know the steps. I'm good at verbalizing the steps...
What I'm not so good at is actually DOING the steps. I am currently blaming it on the fact that I am a leftie and Sandi is a rightie and therefore was unable (through no fault of her own) to teach me effectively. Truly, I could go all the way back to St. Christopher elementary school and blame the nuns--weren't they supposed to whack my knuckles with a ruler when I wrote with my left hand, to avoid just this type of calamity later in life? To ensure that when a right-handed person tried to teach me how to play the guitar or knit, I would meet with something closer to success than utter frustration and emminent failure?? Wasn't it their responsibility to beat the "leftie" out of me?
Yes, I blame them. I blame the nuns. Because I can't allow myself to believe that I am truly as bad at this as I am...I mean, this is something that little old ladies do (no offense to any little old ladies out there.) How is it possible that I can't get my fingers to control the needles? Grrrrr....apparently my cervix isn't the only thing that's incompetent...
The cats are, of course, fascinated by the ball of yarn. They sit patiently waiting for the moment when I give up and they can lay claim to the spoils. Abby hunches down, her eyes following the tops of the needles as I fumble them to and fro, attempting to make the yarn jump from one needle to the next. Penny cocks her head and watches the strand of yarn "gliding" (in quotation because that description is wishful thinking--it's a very jerky "glide", at best) from the giant ball to the needles. They look at each other, taking bets on how long it will be, and then back at me.
Yes, I will continue trying. I'm not ready to concede defeat yet to a big ball of blue yarn and a couple of long skinny needles. I will sit and cast and thread and pull and thread again until I get it right; even if I only end up with a little patch of knitted yarn--baby's first yarmulke.
Somehow though, I have a feeling that the majority of that pretty blue yarn is going to end up strewn across the floors of our house when the cats finally lose their patience. And I will order pretty blue blankets in bulk from Babies R Us...
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Got Cervix?
I do, thank you, very much. "Check your cervix" day was an all around success, much to my relief. Although, I have to say, I am a bit disturbed by the actual length reading. 3.14cm...Now, there's nothing wrong with that reading--as a matter of fact, it is .14cm longer than it was 2 weeks ago (not much, admittedly, but every centimeter is a mile in the land of cervix...) What is disconcerting to me about that reading, is that it's Pi...
Anyone who knows me, knows that math and I are not friends. No, that's an understatement. It would not be hyperbole to say that my relationship with math would rival all the arch-nemisis relationships throughout history...the Montegues and Capulets, Ahab and the whale, the Yankees and the Red Sox...yes, it is that bad.
Ever since the introduction of long division (are you kidding me, with remainders?!) sometime in 3rd grade, I have known that math would have no good place in my life; it tormented me through my education. Algebra with Sr. Eleanor and her "I wish I had "x" all by itself" mantra could have driven me to drink if I hadn't been such a goodie-goodie. As a lover of the written word, I have to say that word problems are an abomination and a complete waste of the English language. When the hell am I going to get on a train in Chicago, going a certain speed and time it so that I can wave to someone in another train, going to opposite direction, at a different speed. Ugh. Who are these people?
In college it was "The Evolution of Mathematics"--a course designed for "non-math majors"---hello, "non-math major" is my middle name. The first few weeks were a breeze; it was a study of ancinet hyrogliphics--Cave-writing 101. I was actually getting an A in a math class. I should have known there was something askew in the fabric of the universe. Four weeks in, the professor started speaking in some math-ese foreign language that only the math freaks in class understood. The rest of us failed. I took a year off from my illustrious studies of math and pursued things I could actually accomplish--like ANYthing else. Then I took Finite math with a mad professor and his Igor-teaching assistant. I got a 42 on the final exam, but so did everyone else, so with the scale, I actually got a 72. I passed. That was it. The last I've seen of Math. We agreed long ago to just stay away from eachother and leave it at that....
So now, the universe's "perfect number" (ugh, gag), is actually at work inside my body. I am torn. Obviously I am grateful for the good reading; the reading that is up from 2 weeks ago (although my perinatalogist cautions me not to "get cocky" because of it--the cervix is a fickle little thing and could change it's mind at any time). I am so relieved that I dont' have to pack a bag and go "live" at the hospital for the next 13 weeks, with my feet up above my head and paging the nurse every time I have to pee (it could happen). And of course, knowing that the little peapod is safe and secure and feels comfortable enough in there to tap dance on the questionable cervix is a definite plus.
But does this mean I have to make peace with my arch-enemy and it's archetypal symbol--Pi? Can I possibly take this as a sign that my math teachers, who always used to say in response to my admittedly flippant, "when will I ever use this in the real world?", "You will..." in a knowing and cryptic sort of way, were actually right? Can that BE? I guess I have to re-assess...
And those other arch-rivalries? Can I learn anything from them? Well, the Montegues and the Capulets did bury the hatchet, so to speak...the Sox did win the world series...and Ahab? I can't remember how that one ends (cut me some slack, people--I read it in 3 days, 10 years ago...) But I guess the saga of Sarah and math has to come to some sort of amicable resolution, since right now, Pi is keeping my baby safe and protected from the harsh world on the other side of the cervix...
Anyone who knows me, knows that math and I are not friends. No, that's an understatement. It would not be hyperbole to say that my relationship with math would rival all the arch-nemisis relationships throughout history...the Montegues and Capulets, Ahab and the whale, the Yankees and the Red Sox...yes, it is that bad.
Ever since the introduction of long division (are you kidding me, with remainders?!) sometime in 3rd grade, I have known that math would have no good place in my life; it tormented me through my education. Algebra with Sr. Eleanor and her "I wish I had "x" all by itself" mantra could have driven me to drink if I hadn't been such a goodie-goodie. As a lover of the written word, I have to say that word problems are an abomination and a complete waste of the English language. When the hell am I going to get on a train in Chicago, going a certain speed and time it so that I can wave to someone in another train, going to opposite direction, at a different speed. Ugh. Who are these people?
In college it was "The Evolution of Mathematics"--a course designed for "non-math majors"---hello, "non-math major" is my middle name. The first few weeks were a breeze; it was a study of ancinet hyrogliphics--Cave-writing 101. I was actually getting an A in a math class. I should have known there was something askew in the fabric of the universe. Four weeks in, the professor started speaking in some math-ese foreign language that only the math freaks in class understood. The rest of us failed. I took a year off from my illustrious studies of math and pursued things I could actually accomplish--like ANYthing else. Then I took Finite math with a mad professor and his Igor-teaching assistant. I got a 42 on the final exam, but so did everyone else, so with the scale, I actually got a 72. I passed. That was it. The last I've seen of Math. We agreed long ago to just stay away from eachother and leave it at that....
So now, the universe's "perfect number" (ugh, gag), is actually at work inside my body. I am torn. Obviously I am grateful for the good reading; the reading that is up from 2 weeks ago (although my perinatalogist cautions me not to "get cocky" because of it--the cervix is a fickle little thing and could change it's mind at any time). I am so relieved that I dont' have to pack a bag and go "live" at the hospital for the next 13 weeks, with my feet up above my head and paging the nurse every time I have to pee (it could happen). And of course, knowing that the little peapod is safe and secure and feels comfortable enough in there to tap dance on the questionable cervix is a definite plus.
But does this mean I have to make peace with my arch-enemy and it's archetypal symbol--Pi? Can I possibly take this as a sign that my math teachers, who always used to say in response to my admittedly flippant, "when will I ever use this in the real world?", "You will..." in a knowing and cryptic sort of way, were actually right? Can that BE? I guess I have to re-assess...
And those other arch-rivalries? Can I learn anything from them? Well, the Montegues and the Capulets did bury the hatchet, so to speak...the Sox did win the world series...and Ahab? I can't remember how that one ends (cut me some slack, people--I read it in 3 days, 10 years ago...) But I guess the saga of Sarah and math has to come to some sort of amicable resolution, since right now, Pi is keeping my baby safe and protected from the harsh world on the other side of the cervix...
Monday, February 13, 2006
welcome to week five...
It's Monday--the beginning of an exciting new adventure in laying around! Actually, Mondays are generally good days--it's when the anticipation of the weekly doctor's appointment begin; Tuesday is "check in with your cervix" day. The magic wand of the ultrasound world (I will never forget my husband's face when he first saw the nurse pull that thing out, lube it up and slip a condom on it--it could have been a mastercard commercial--"transvaginal ultrasound wand--$500; ky jelly for wand--$2.50; condom for wand--$1.75; the look of horror on your husband's face when the nurse whips it out---priceless"
So tomorrow I am hoping to hear those 4 little words that make my week: "It's still 3 centimeters"...and yes, I begin thinking about it the moment I wake up on Monday morning. Only 24 hours until I get a few breaths of fresh air; only 24 hours until I am allowed to walk around in the outside world like a regular person (even if it is at a new, slower speed--old ladies in walkers can zip by me now); only 24 hours until I get to put shoes on! And, if we're really lucky and the doctor isn't totally swamped, she might even let us see the peapod dancing around in there.
And, as if that weren't enough excitement, I am going to learn how to knit today. Yes, I said knit. A friend of mine is coming over to teach me the finer arts of "knit one, perl two" and hopefully that will occupy my time and maybe even serve the practical purpose of clothing my son. Okay, really, I can't type that without giggling--I am going to end up knitting in one continuous line for the next three months, and we all know it...
So tomorrow I am hoping to hear those 4 little words that make my week: "It's still 3 centimeters"...and yes, I begin thinking about it the moment I wake up on Monday morning. Only 24 hours until I get a few breaths of fresh air; only 24 hours until I am allowed to walk around in the outside world like a regular person (even if it is at a new, slower speed--old ladies in walkers can zip by me now); only 24 hours until I get to put shoes on! And, if we're really lucky and the doctor isn't totally swamped, she might even let us see the peapod dancing around in there.
And, as if that weren't enough excitement, I am going to learn how to knit today. Yes, I said knit. A friend of mine is coming over to teach me the finer arts of "knit one, perl two" and hopefully that will occupy my time and maybe even serve the practical purpose of clothing my son. Okay, really, I can't type that without giggling--I am going to end up knitting in one continuous line for the next three months, and we all know it...
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Pioneer Woman....
So the power went out last night. The 4 inches of snow we got apparently pushed the power company to it's limit and at 11:45 pm, as I surfed the web and watched some Olympic speed skating (have I mentioned that the Olympics are saving me?), the world around me went dark (minus my computer screen; but really, without an internet connection, what good is a computer?).
Hm. What does a woman on bedrest do when the lights go out all around her and she's home alone? Oh, yeah, Pedro was on a "get out of prison" evening-pass, so it was me, the cats and the little man in my belly.
I'll tell you what she does. She sits there. Eventually she decides to feel around for some matches to light a candle and make peace with the dark, like a pioneer woman. If a pioneer woman had a cell phone. Fat lot of good it did me.
Husband was at a party where apparently his phone was invited, but cell phone service---not so much. So I left increasingly frantic messages on his voice mail..."hey there, just wanted to let you know the power has gone out here and it's a little freaky to be alone. Coming home soon?"
Nothing. Fifteen minutes later, a simple text message "Power is out".
Nothing. Twenty minutes later, it occurs to me that the power being out might not be my biggest problem (or a problem at all--I mean, really). Next voice mail, "Ummm, it's been a half hour since I last called and now its not only freaky to be in the dark; I"m thinking you might be in a ditch somehwere. Maybe you give me a call when you get this"...
Thankfully, Pedro was not in a ditch at all, but just toting around a fairly useless cell phone. He was home shortly after and I didn't even have to go into my crazy pregnant lady, "What if I had needed you for something? What if I had gone into labor or needed to go to the hospital?!" shpiel....He was already way ahead of me and we agreed that from now on, a land-line would always be involved in his travels away from home.
Note to self---when the power goes out at night, turn off everything that WAS on....2:45am turned into a freaking disco at our home when lights, tvs, clock radios, answering machines, EVERYTHING turned back on...
Hm. What does a woman on bedrest do when the lights go out all around her and she's home alone? Oh, yeah, Pedro was on a "get out of prison" evening-pass, so it was me, the cats and the little man in my belly.
I'll tell you what she does. She sits there. Eventually she decides to feel around for some matches to light a candle and make peace with the dark, like a pioneer woman. If a pioneer woman had a cell phone. Fat lot of good it did me.
Husband was at a party where apparently his phone was invited, but cell phone service---not so much. So I left increasingly frantic messages on his voice mail..."hey there, just wanted to let you know the power has gone out here and it's a little freaky to be alone. Coming home soon?"
Nothing. Fifteen minutes later, a simple text message "Power is out".
Nothing. Twenty minutes later, it occurs to me that the power being out might not be my biggest problem (or a problem at all--I mean, really). Next voice mail, "Ummm, it's been a half hour since I last called and now its not only freaky to be in the dark; I"m thinking you might be in a ditch somehwere. Maybe you give me a call when you get this"...
Thankfully, Pedro was not in a ditch at all, but just toting around a fairly useless cell phone. He was home shortly after and I didn't even have to go into my crazy pregnant lady, "What if I had needed you for something? What if I had gone into labor or needed to go to the hospital?!" shpiel....He was already way ahead of me and we agreed that from now on, a land-line would always be involved in his travels away from home.
Note to self---when the power goes out at night, turn off everything that WAS on....2:45am turned into a freaking disco at our home when lights, tvs, clock radios, answering machines, EVERYTHING turned back on...
Friday, February 10, 2006
You wanna piece of this???
All right--here it is. The big "I'm hormonal and pissy" post. After almost 4 weeks on bedrest, I feel qualified to say that the most infuriating thing a non-bed-ridden person can say to me, or any other bed-arrest prisoner is, "Oh, that sounds so nice. I wish I were on bedrest!!!"
Let me explain, to the idiots who think this is an appropriate thing to say to me, why it is sooooooo not.
1. Bedrest is not a vacation. I am not lounging in a bathing suit, sipping umbrella drinks and being fanned by scantily clad cabana boys. It is a prison-sentence. I am not supposed to sit up above 45 degrees and I am only allowed out of bed to relieve myself and bathe myself. Whoever thinks that is a vacation, needs to consider some therapy to overcome their masochistic tendencies.
2. It is boring. This is sort of the same as reason #1, but I have more to say. There is no para-sailing, or touring of ancient ruins. It is hours of watching Ellen, the news, bad Lifetime movies, and tossing and turning to find a comfortable position that doesn't require you to actually sit up. It is noticing that there is a chip in the wood of your ceiling fan. It is counting the number of days left on bedrest (94.5 days) and how many hours (2268 hours). It is watching your fingernails grow boring...
3. And the most important reason why you should never, ever say "Oh, I wish I were on bedrest" to a bed-ridden woman is because she is ONLY ON BEDREST BECAUSE THE LIFE OF HER UNBORN CHILD IS IN JEOPARDY!! Why can people not realize that? How is it possible that people think I am just a bit tired and therefore get to kick back and relax? Your job may suck, you might be exhausted, you might desperately need a vacation and be in general unhappy with your place in life--but if you aren't desperate to carry a baby to term, YOU DO NOT NEED BEDREST. so shut the f*ck up about how tired you are and how lucky I am!!!
I have had strangers and friends and even other pregnant women say this to me...I know, know, know that they mean no harm and it hasn't even crossed their mind that it might be a hurtful thing to say. They have not done the research on incompetent cervix. They have not had their doctor tell them that if their child is born before 24 weeks, there is nothing they can even try to do to save him. They do not read week-by-week updates on fetal development so they will know what kind of treatment their baby would need if he were born this week, or next week. They do not live with the reality that if this stupid stitch in their tiny cervix does not hold and they go into labor too soon, they are not going to be raising this child--they are going to be burying him.
Most of the time I am very positive and upbeat about this whole thing; my prognosis is excellent and my baby keeps growing and is apparently decorating (there are definitely hammers and maybe a sledgehammer involved) in there, so I imagine he plans on staying. But this comment sends me over the edge (really?! Hadn't noticed....)
Let me explain, to the idiots who think this is an appropriate thing to say to me, why it is sooooooo not.
1. Bedrest is not a vacation. I am not lounging in a bathing suit, sipping umbrella drinks and being fanned by scantily clad cabana boys. It is a prison-sentence. I am not supposed to sit up above 45 degrees and I am only allowed out of bed to relieve myself and bathe myself. Whoever thinks that is a vacation, needs to consider some therapy to overcome their masochistic tendencies.
2. It is boring. This is sort of the same as reason #1, but I have more to say. There is no para-sailing, or touring of ancient ruins. It is hours of watching Ellen, the news, bad Lifetime movies, and tossing and turning to find a comfortable position that doesn't require you to actually sit up. It is noticing that there is a chip in the wood of your ceiling fan. It is counting the number of days left on bedrest (94.5 days) and how many hours (2268 hours). It is watching your fingernails grow boring...
3. And the most important reason why you should never, ever say "Oh, I wish I were on bedrest" to a bed-ridden woman is because she is ONLY ON BEDREST BECAUSE THE LIFE OF HER UNBORN CHILD IS IN JEOPARDY!! Why can people not realize that? How is it possible that people think I am just a bit tired and therefore get to kick back and relax? Your job may suck, you might be exhausted, you might desperately need a vacation and be in general unhappy with your place in life--but if you aren't desperate to carry a baby to term, YOU DO NOT NEED BEDREST. so shut the f*ck up about how tired you are and how lucky I am!!!
I have had strangers and friends and even other pregnant women say this to me...I know, know, know that they mean no harm and it hasn't even crossed their mind that it might be a hurtful thing to say. They have not done the research on incompetent cervix. They have not had their doctor tell them that if their child is born before 24 weeks, there is nothing they can even try to do to save him. They do not read week-by-week updates on fetal development so they will know what kind of treatment their baby would need if he were born this week, or next week. They do not live with the reality that if this stupid stitch in their tiny cervix does not hold and they go into labor too soon, they are not going to be raising this child--they are going to be burying him.
Most of the time I am very positive and upbeat about this whole thing; my prognosis is excellent and my baby keeps growing and is apparently decorating (there are definitely hammers and maybe a sledgehammer involved) in there, so I imagine he plans on staying. But this comment sends me over the edge (really?! Hadn't noticed....)
Thursday, February 09, 2006
The ups and the downs...
Netflix came to my rescue today. Pedro brought the DVD upstairs and I mellowed out to "Must Love Dogs" (who doesn't love John Cusak, all awkward and charming?). Before I knew it, two hours had been magically eaten up and I didn't have to wonder "what am I going to do between noon and 2pm?" I was actually thinking, "this isn't that bad. I can definitely watch movies for thirteen weeks." I had visions of doing theme weeks--an Audrey Hepburn week, a John Hughes/Molly Ringwald tribute week, a foreign film week, a Woody Allen week...what a way to pass the time! The possibilities seemed endless.
until the remote control died.
Suddenly, all of my optimism and positive thinking went flushing down the toilet (did I mention that I've been to the bathroom at least a dozen times today? thanks for sitting on my bladder, little man). How was I going to get through this crisis?? A television across the room without a working remote control is just a cruel symbol of mockery to a bed-ridden pregnant woman.
I pressed buttons. I shook the remote (it worked for the Fonz, no?), I pressed more buttons. I took the batteries out and looked at them (helpful, doubtless) and put them back in. More buttons were pressed, until my knuckles turned white.
Finally I gave in and called my long-suffering husband who had already gotten me breakfast, medicines and lunch for me today. I hate having to do that. He works so hard, does so much and really, making a remote control work seems above and beyond the call....couldn't I just watch Food TV for all of eternity? I decided that if I did that, in the long run, I would make more trouble for him than simply asking him to fix the remote---how can you watch Food TV without needing a little nosh? If that's all I could watch, I would need a LOT of snacks and that's a lot of trips up and down the stairs for him...
So, my hero went out to get more AAA batteries; came home and replaced the deceased ones presently taking up space inside the remote. Pointed it towards the television, pressed a button.
Nothing...ummmmmmm.
Is it okay to start panicking now??? My visions of mini-film festivals in my own bedroom was suddenly transformed into images of me talking to myself and staring at the blank tv screen for the next 91 days. Yes, that's 91 days...
Fortunately, my husband is still a bit more in touch with reality than am I, and it occurred to him that perhaps the addition of the DVD player to the remote might have messed up the TV/remote programming. A few simple moments later....
relief. Ahhhhhhhhhh, sweet, sweet TV...
if only there was something on worth watching. :)
until the remote control died.
Suddenly, all of my optimism and positive thinking went flushing down the toilet (did I mention that I've been to the bathroom at least a dozen times today? thanks for sitting on my bladder, little man). How was I going to get through this crisis?? A television across the room without a working remote control is just a cruel symbol of mockery to a bed-ridden pregnant woman.
I pressed buttons. I shook the remote (it worked for the Fonz, no?), I pressed more buttons. I took the batteries out and looked at them (helpful, doubtless) and put them back in. More buttons were pressed, until my knuckles turned white.
Finally I gave in and called my long-suffering husband who had already gotten me breakfast, medicines and lunch for me today. I hate having to do that. He works so hard, does so much and really, making a remote control work seems above and beyond the call....couldn't I just watch Food TV for all of eternity? I decided that if I did that, in the long run, I would make more trouble for him than simply asking him to fix the remote---how can you watch Food TV without needing a little nosh? If that's all I could watch, I would need a LOT of snacks and that's a lot of trips up and down the stairs for him...
So, my hero went out to get more AAA batteries; came home and replaced the deceased ones presently taking up space inside the remote. Pointed it towards the television, pressed a button.
Nothing...ummmmmmm.
Is it okay to start panicking now??? My visions of mini-film festivals in my own bedroom was suddenly transformed into images of me talking to myself and staring at the blank tv screen for the next 91 days. Yes, that's 91 days...
Fortunately, my husband is still a bit more in touch with reality than am I, and it occurred to him that perhaps the addition of the DVD player to the remote might have messed up the TV/remote programming. A few simple moments later....
relief. Ahhhhhhhhhh, sweet, sweet TV...
if only there was something on worth watching. :)
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Who Knew???
"Don't do too much research online; you'll scare yourself!" I usually listen to the advice of my dad. This time, thankfully, curiousity got the better of me and about two weeks after I found out I was pregnant, I started the whole, "what's the worst that could happen...." game with myself. ALL pregnant women know this game--it's the fun, 2 am game we like to play when that crazy weird dream wakes you up and we can't get back to sleep.
So, in my anxiety-surfing, I stumbled across the laughable term, "incompetent cervix". I actually chuckled out loud. I have incompetent co-workers, I have dealt with incompetent sales and customer service people. I have definitely had my hair cut by incompetent stylists....but a tiny little donut hole of muscle in the reproductive system? Just how "competent" did it need to be? What skill, spefically, did it need to perform to be considered qualified to do it's job? How would one even know if their cervix was qualified for the job or not?
Apparently, a competent cervix is that over-achieving donut hole that stays closed and longer than 3cms for the entire duration of one's pregnancy...apparently, if you've had anything done to it at any other time in your life, it might just not want to fulfill that responsibility later in life. It's kind of a one-trick pony--it can either stay closed and long during pregnancy, or you can fuss around with it earlier in life. Not both, I guess...
Hey, didn't I have laser surgery twice back in the 90's after some wonky pap results? Yeah, I did. Maybe I should tell my doctor...
So the anxiety-surfing found it's way into my 12w check up with my doctor. It didn't occur to me to make a big deal of it ( ie: mention it at all) until during the pap, he commented, "wow, you have a tough cervix to find. It's way up there." Just what every girl wants to hear about her cervix (does a girl ever want to hear anything about her cervix, really??) I mentioned the laser surgeries from my 'past life' and he decided that I should be monitored by ultrasound (the fabulous "transvaginal" kind) from week 16-24 to see if my cervix was up for the job.
The first trip to the perinatologist was...fun. My mom went with me, we got to see the peapod (disgustingly sappy nickname assigned to the baby by my husband and I) in his first "I look like a real baby now" appearance and truly, I was kind of enjoying being "high risk"--it meant a LOT of attention and several chances to see my baby in action. My cervix was 2.8cm. Not great (see aforementioned definition of "competent"), but not red-flashing-light alarm bad. "We'll keep monitoring it". I wasn't even told not to have sex....if only I had taken advantage of it when I could (but the 2nd trimester horny-hormones hadn't kicked in yet....)
At 19w, my husband and I went to see our peapod at the "big" ultrasound--anatomy, length, weight, gender--all those things parents get all hopped up about. And hopped up we were. Between 16 and 19w, we had seen the cervix one other time and been told that it was well over 3cm (highly, highly competent, thank you, very much). So it never occurred to me to be concerned; I was all in love with my baby and that was all I was focusing on...
The doctor, however, was focusing on my teeny, tiny cervix. 2.1cm tiny to be exact. How did that happen? Seriously, how? How does a cervix get small, get big, get small again. they sent us to the "bad news room" (my name for it, not theirs--can you imagine?!) and had us wait for a call from my regular OB. So we sat on the "early french whore" settee amid the calming neutral patterned wall-paper, the side table with a box of tissues on it and the "we have some bad news" chair for the doctor.
When my OB did call, he asked us to be at his office within the hour and we would talk about our "options". Ha haha, options. There were two: insert a cerclage (read: gigantic fishing wire type stitch) into the cervix OR wait to see if the baby spontaneously falls out of my uterus as I go about my life...hmmmmmmm; you don't have to be in the running for mother of the year to realize that there is no option there, especially when you are in your 19th week of pregnancy.
I will spare you the details of the cerclage procedure. If you are interested, I strongly recommend reading Amy's blog (http://www.thesprengers.com/blog/sprengblingbling.html), as she went through the same thing and describes the procedure down to the smallest detail (I also remember trying to see what was going on by looking at the reflections in the OR ceiling.
That started on January 16th. The cerclage was put in on January 19th. It is February 8th, now, the middle of my 4th week at a 45-degree angle. I am not supposed to sit up beyond that during the day. I am allowed to use the bathroom and take showers. Oh, and go to the doctor's office once a week (hurray--I get to wear shoes one day a week!!). Work (English teacher) is now a thing of the past; although I still check in daily via email to see how the department is doing.
here's a list of the things I do to occupy my time:
1. Watch way too much TLC and Discovery Health--you can watch a baby being born almost every hour if you switch back and forth at the right times...
2. Read---but not as much as you'd think for an out-of-work English teacher. I think I am still in the "I don't have to work and you can't make me" mindset...
3. Surf the web; I spend far too much time reading message boards.
4. Try to write in my journal--difficult for the same reason that I'm not reading enough.
5. Talk on the phone. And I hate talking on the phone.
6. Feel guilty that my husband has to work 10 hours a day in his home office, make me breakfast, lunch and dinner as well as clean the house and do the shopping.
7. Cuddle with the cats, who I swear, think they have died and gone to kitty heaven that I am home and, even better, in bed ALL day, every day.
8. Contemplate and organize a pregnancy scrapbook. Not sure if I have the "artistic" ability to pull it off and right now I"m not allowed to sit up straight enough to really do the work on it.
9. Vist with friends who come over bringing food and magazines to entertain me
and that's about it...
I will say one thing about bed rest--everytime this little baby moves inside of me, I get to feel it. Granted, I'm sure there's a lot I don't feel (and some I wish I didn't--stop kicking my cervix!!), but rather than missing most of it due to running around and going about life as usual, I get to feel even the lightest little taps b/c I have nothing else going on in my life. I have to admit, i LOVE that...
All right; for a first post, that is enough. I have 3 movies to watch (hurray Netflix!), a kitty to cuddle and a book to ignore. My day is complete...
So, in my anxiety-surfing, I stumbled across the laughable term, "incompetent cervix". I actually chuckled out loud. I have incompetent co-workers, I have dealt with incompetent sales and customer service people. I have definitely had my hair cut by incompetent stylists....but a tiny little donut hole of muscle in the reproductive system? Just how "competent" did it need to be? What skill, spefically, did it need to perform to be considered qualified to do it's job? How would one even know if their cervix was qualified for the job or not?
Apparently, a competent cervix is that over-achieving donut hole that stays closed and longer than 3cms for the entire duration of one's pregnancy...apparently, if you've had anything done to it at any other time in your life, it might just not want to fulfill that responsibility later in life. It's kind of a one-trick pony--it can either stay closed and long during pregnancy, or you can fuss around with it earlier in life. Not both, I guess...
Hey, didn't I have laser surgery twice back in the 90's after some wonky pap results? Yeah, I did. Maybe I should tell my doctor...
So the anxiety-surfing found it's way into my 12w check up with my doctor. It didn't occur to me to make a big deal of it ( ie: mention it at all) until during the pap, he commented, "wow, you have a tough cervix to find. It's way up there." Just what every girl wants to hear about her cervix (does a girl ever want to hear anything about her cervix, really??) I mentioned the laser surgeries from my 'past life' and he decided that I should be monitored by ultrasound (the fabulous "transvaginal" kind) from week 16-24 to see if my cervix was up for the job.
The first trip to the perinatologist was...fun. My mom went with me, we got to see the peapod (disgustingly sappy nickname assigned to the baby by my husband and I) in his first "I look like a real baby now" appearance and truly, I was kind of enjoying being "high risk"--it meant a LOT of attention and several chances to see my baby in action. My cervix was 2.8cm. Not great (see aforementioned definition of "competent"), but not red-flashing-light alarm bad. "We'll keep monitoring it". I wasn't even told not to have sex....if only I had taken advantage of it when I could (but the 2nd trimester horny-hormones hadn't kicked in yet....)
At 19w, my husband and I went to see our peapod at the "big" ultrasound--anatomy, length, weight, gender--all those things parents get all hopped up about. And hopped up we were. Between 16 and 19w, we had seen the cervix one other time and been told that it was well over 3cm (highly, highly competent, thank you, very much). So it never occurred to me to be concerned; I was all in love with my baby and that was all I was focusing on...
The doctor, however, was focusing on my teeny, tiny cervix. 2.1cm tiny to be exact. How did that happen? Seriously, how? How does a cervix get small, get big, get small again. they sent us to the "bad news room" (my name for it, not theirs--can you imagine?!) and had us wait for a call from my regular OB. So we sat on the "early french whore" settee amid the calming neutral patterned wall-paper, the side table with a box of tissues on it and the "we have some bad news" chair for the doctor.
When my OB did call, he asked us to be at his office within the hour and we would talk about our "options". Ha haha, options. There were two: insert a cerclage (read: gigantic fishing wire type stitch) into the cervix OR wait to see if the baby spontaneously falls out of my uterus as I go about my life...hmmmmmmm; you don't have to be in the running for mother of the year to realize that there is no option there, especially when you are in your 19th week of pregnancy.
I will spare you the details of the cerclage procedure. If you are interested, I strongly recommend reading Amy's blog (http://www.thesprengers.com/blog/sprengblingbling.html), as she went through the same thing and describes the procedure down to the smallest detail (I also remember trying to see what was going on by looking at the reflections in the OR ceiling.
That started on January 16th. The cerclage was put in on January 19th. It is February 8th, now, the middle of my 4th week at a 45-degree angle. I am not supposed to sit up beyond that during the day. I am allowed to use the bathroom and take showers. Oh, and go to the doctor's office once a week (hurray--I get to wear shoes one day a week!!). Work (English teacher) is now a thing of the past; although I still check in daily via email to see how the department is doing.
here's a list of the things I do to occupy my time:
1. Watch way too much TLC and Discovery Health--you can watch a baby being born almost every hour if you switch back and forth at the right times...
2. Read---but not as much as you'd think for an out-of-work English teacher. I think I am still in the "I don't have to work and you can't make me" mindset...
3. Surf the web; I spend far too much time reading message boards.
4. Try to write in my journal--difficult for the same reason that I'm not reading enough.
5. Talk on the phone. And I hate talking on the phone.
6. Feel guilty that my husband has to work 10 hours a day in his home office, make me breakfast, lunch and dinner as well as clean the house and do the shopping.
7. Cuddle with the cats, who I swear, think they have died and gone to kitty heaven that I am home and, even better, in bed ALL day, every day.
8. Contemplate and organize a pregnancy scrapbook. Not sure if I have the "artistic" ability to pull it off and right now I"m not allowed to sit up straight enough to really do the work on it.
9. Vist with friends who come over bringing food and magazines to entertain me
and that's about it...
I will say one thing about bed rest--everytime this little baby moves inside of me, I get to feel it. Granted, I'm sure there's a lot I don't feel (and some I wish I didn't--stop kicking my cervix!!), but rather than missing most of it due to running around and going about life as usual, I get to feel even the lightest little taps b/c I have nothing else going on in my life. I have to admit, i LOVE that...
All right; for a first post, that is enough. I have 3 movies to watch (hurray Netflix!), a kitty to cuddle and a book to ignore. My day is complete...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)