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Category Archives: Babby

December Baby

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In hindsight,  it’s a good thing I didn’t go to my 39-week OB appointment alone; I don’t think GP would have believed me when I returned home and told him we were going to have a baby in the next 36 hours or so. As it happened,  he was there,  sitting next to me as my doctor told me that,  because my blood pressure had been consistently high for much of my pregnancy and because I was full-term,  she wanted to go ahead and induce.  At first, I thought she’d set us up to go to the hospital the following week (this conversation happened Friday afternoon),  but nope,  we’d head over that night. So, we heard home to panic a little,  finish packing our bags, and take one last shower before approaching the desk in L&D and telling them we were there to have a baby.  (Yes,  totally nonchalant, not at all the way I expected.)

My doctor had been able to get me admitted because of pre-eclampsia (though I never had any proteinuria…you’re welcome for that detail), which meant that a cavalcade of drugs was in my near future. First came a beta blocker, then the magnesium sulfate, and then the Cervidil to soften my cervix (the insertion of which was…not a treat). Aside from 20-30 minutes during which I felt like hot garbage because of the magnesium, these weren’t so bad. The Cervidil needed 12 hours to work,  so they told us to get some sleep. GP and I stretched out on our respective beds (both uncomfortable,  but it was easier said than done, for sure.

The next morning,  the Cervidil had done its work and it was time for Pitocin. I’d heard alarming things about Pitocin contractions (intense, and with small breaks in between), but I had no frame of reference for contractions, so I was ready to roll without an epidural for as long as I could stand it. As it turned out, I was able to go about 4 hours before I accepted the fentanyl that was offered as a temporary relief, then finally had the epidural put in not long after (maybe 2 hours or so). With the epidural in, I was still aware of contractions but wasn’t crippled by them; the nurses advised us to get some sleep– the big show wasn’t too far off now.

After a nap (oh, I was so grateful for that nap!), I woke up and was told I was complete,  so I could start pushing anytime I was ready. My doctor had arrived, and she, a nurse,  and GP would coach me through the delivery of our daughter. Aside from a few weird interruptions in the epidural line– during which I was so distracted by pain that I count focus on pushing– I would say that this was the most… satisfying (?) part. They wheeled in a mirror so I could see what was going on (an idea which had previously seemed sort of gross to me), and that was a huge motivator. At one point, when we could first see her head (and all that hair!), my doctor told me to reach down and feel my baby’s head. I did, and it was still entirely surreal that any of this was happening.

We had a good laugh when my doctor suggested she might be a redhead, like me. (“Oh, that’s not your natural color?”) And, eventually, we’d done the old three-big-pushes-per-contraction routine enough to deliver the head, and her body tumbled out immediately after. I was vaguely aware of them suctioning out her nose and mouth, and I remember hearing her cry for the first time. (GP confessed to some worry because she was a little blue at first, but she pinked right up and had 9/9 Apgars.) I lost a fair (but not concerning) amount of blood, but was fine after chewing some Cytotec (more drugs, please), and got to “enjoy” the “vigorous massage” administered to help my uterus contract.

I had expected that I would be completely overcome with emotion and absolutely sobbing by the time they placed her on my chest; instead, we just looked at each other. It seemed (and still sort of seems) impossible that she was finally here, this person that I already knew so well,  but was only meeting for the first time.


Now that she’s been here for over two weeks,  it’s already impossible to remember what life was like before her. Sure,  my life at the moment is loved in roughly three-hour increments, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.



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I am laying on a yoga mat in the front of the auditorium, in the midst of about eight other similarly-sized and -shaped women and their partners. Last week, when the lights were turned down and the music started, we were encouraged to close our eyes and just breathe as our partners used various massage techniques over our burdened bodies. Given that I hadn’t slept through the night in months and that it was just about bedtime, I nearly drifted off, and only just barely was able to peel myself off the mat and drive home.

This week, however, is apparently Discomfort Week. After two and a half hours of listening to and watching stories of interventions ranging from narcotic injections (mildly scary) to episiotomies (pretty frightening) and monitors that are screwed into the top of a baby’s skull (actually pretty terrifying), we again recline on the floor for “relaxation.” Except this time, it’s not just about massage and breathing; oh no, they’re handing out clothespins. These clothespins, we learn, are to simulate contractions.

“Partners,” says the RN/doula who leads the class, “find a place that will cause some pain but not leave a mark.” Great, I think, she’s setting us up for a little light domestic abuse. We agree that I won’t be able to feel much in the way of discomfort on my hands, fingers, or earlobes, and decide that the tip of my nose is a prime candidate for clothespinning.

As the “contractions” build, peak, and dissipate, my nose is pinched and my eyes involuntarily water, regardless of the presence or absence of music, touch, and soothing encouragement. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I accuse. He assures me that he isn’t, and clips the clothespin to his own nose in solidarity. Finally, after about five of these simulated labor pains, we’re allowed to collect ourselves and belongings and head home.

We’re almost done with our childbirth prep class, within five weeks or so of my due date, and nearly prepared, equipment-wise, to welcome a baby into our house. I’m willing to bet that contractions are going to be a little different from the old nose-in-a-clothespin trick, but hey, at least they tried to prepare us, right?

Friday Five

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Get ready! It’s a parenthetical sort of day.

1. My sleep over the last couple months has been pretty meager, to say the least. I’m not exactly falling asleep at my desk, but I have been tucking myself into bed around 8:00 or so (yup, I am a party animal). This early bedtime has been pretty great, with a couple exceptions: we started our childbirth prep classes on Monday, and they run until 9:30 (and one of the “supplies” for the class is a pillow! So cruel); a couple Saturdays ago, my middle-of-the-night wakeup was around 2:00 (a little earlier than usual), so I got to peruse all the pictures on Facebook and Instagram of my friends’ Halloween festivities (again, party animal). I suppose this is my body’s way of preparing me to become No Sleep Jones come December, but damn…it’s also making me feel pretty uncool. (Is step one of parenthood admitting that I probably wasn’t very cool in the first place?)

2. This weekend will consist of our usual College Football Saturday (in which we DVR every single game and fast-forward through/watch the interesting bits of whatever we please), interrupted briefly by a breastfeeding class. This contrast strikes me as sort of hilarious, but that’s what you get with a baby that’s going to be born on the cusp of bowl season. (Hopefully we’ve conditioned her in utero not to be alarmed when we start shouting at the television. If not, well…sorry, baby.)

3. I’ve been reviewing my 30 Before 30 list – with about a month to go, there are some pretty clear “not gonna happen” items…and I’m ok with that. Some of the items will be easily rolled over into whatever Adult To-Do List comes after turning 30– horseback riding, summiting Mt. Tallac, taking a photo a day for a year– and some I’m willing to just let go. This is probably a post unto itself, but let me say for now that I originally intended for my 30 Before 30 to be more aspirational than a straight “must-do” list.

4. The number of televisions in our house is (finally?) equal to the number of adults. No tv in the nursery means I’ll have to have something to keep me entertained during what I understand will likely be months of erratic sleep, so we’re in the market for a tablet. Any suggestions? We’re not an Apple family, and spending the amount of money an iPad would require seems fairly ridiculous, so tell me what you know about the Samsung Galaxy, the Kindle Fire, and their ilk.

5. Being in “countdown” mode isn’t exactly a new thing to me (I like to have a finish line in sight, whether it’s a vacation or other event), but it seems pretty momentous to have only four weeks left before I go on maternity leave, and only six weeks (SIX WEEKS WHAT) before my due date. I still can’t really wrap my head around the fact that they’re just going to LET us leave the hospital with a baby that we CREATED (magic, got it)…but I guess that’s what happens, isn’t it?

What are you up to this weekend?

Gearing up

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Thank you for all your kind words after my big “reveal”– I am not often thrilled by others’ ultrasound images, so thanks for humoring me. 🙂 The nice part of waiting until nearly halftime to share pregnancy news is carrying around this little secret for so long, but now that we’re officially “out” (and how!), I’m beginning to see just how long the list of Important Plans to Be Made is. Of course, I’ve been surreptitiously adding my preliminary favorites to a hidden Amazon shopping list, which helped prepare us slightly for the gauntlet of Buy Buy Baby (whose name I find unbearably crass)– but only slightly. The danger of an enormous store filled to the brim with every conceivable piece of baby equipment is that you will inevitably walk out somewhat cross-eyed. We were able to leave having been able to lay eyes and hands on the stroller/carseat combo that I thought we’d like, and with a fuller understanding of just how widely tastes in furnishings can vary (surely someone is buying that cow-print carseat, but it certainly won’t be me).

I’m sure we’ll be back in another such store soon, but for now I’m cowering near the computer, which contains plenty of helpful information and reviews, plus an occasional gem such as this one (click to embiggen; I promise it’s worth it):


Christmas in July

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There comes a point every single summer at which I just cannot bear anymore, well…summer. Even as a kid and as a student, I was able to get all my “Woo! Summer! FREEDOM!” wiggles out within June and early July; when the second half of the season is in full swing, I’m thinking only of school supplies and crisp evenings. Am I a total weirdo for not loving summer? I like popsicles and swimming pools as much as the next lady, but enough already.

Our summer began with a few long weekends we’d planned immediately after returning from HK and Thailand, knowing we’d need something to look forward to after the end of a pretty fantastic break from regular life: a “camping cabin” in Lassen, a weekend in a rented lake house with friends, a pre-July/mid-heatwave visit to Yosemite (where there was no AC, so cold showers were among the top five highlights). Though we’ve recently found our weekends a little less booked– we’ve managed to plow through both House of Cards and Orange is the New Black– there are plenty of in-town activities with friends occupying our Saturday nights. As these activities tend more and more toward sedate evenings in, rather than packed cars and multi-hour drives, I’m getting more and more ready to be in the midst of college football season, sweater weather, and sub-80-degree temperatures.

Oh, and another reason to look forward to the final months of this year? We get to meet her in December.

(Yes, I’m showing. Yes, sometimes she sort of looks like Skeletor. Adventures!)


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WARNING: Uterus talk ahead. Also, feelings.


So. We’re “trying” again. After having been told by the doctor who did the D&E that we’d have to wait six months, which was confirmed by my regular lady doc (as I called her from the gate of our departing flight to Hong Kong, desperate to hear her say, “Go for it! Procreate!”), the six months are nearly up. In these six months, I’ve felt, well…all the feelings. But, finally, we’re ready to carry on. So we are, in much the same way we approached attempts to parenthood in the past: with a plan, a thermometer, and a metric ton of ovulation and pregnancy tests. I’ve read the books, listened to the podcasts, and lurk constantly on discussion boards that sometimes look more like MySpace than medicine. For someone who rarely studied in an intense way (English majors don’t really do that, see), I have been examining all the materials available for way longer than necessary. And yet! There is a time in each month of trying in which all you can do is wait. Sit there and wait, with pregnancy tests in one hand and tampons in the other, waiting to see if anything has happened. (While seething over discussion board posts that read, “well we decided like last minute that we were trying to get pregnant lol.” WHAT EVEN.)

I promise it isn’t going to be all ladyparts talk, all the time around here until…what, until a person comes out of me? No, I’m still also a reasonably normal person. Just…one who adds maternity jeans to her online orders before she’s knocked up. That kind of reasonably normal person.


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Once it became clear that there was something going awry with my previously calm pregnancy, I began to mentally prepare for the worst. It was as agonizing as you might imagine, but also involved the thought, “If this goes as poorly as it could…I’m going to need a major fucking vacation.” This was helpful (and has continued to be) because it gave me a sense of a happy future even without the baby we were so anxiously anticipating. Sure, maybe it wasn’t a vision of what the everyday would be like– convince yourself to get out of bed, smile and interact with people appropriately, truly appreciate what a supportive network of family, friends, coworkers, and internet strangers you have– but just imagining this escape was, for a time, escape enough.

When we got the official diagnosis, one of the things that GP said to me was, “Let’s go away. Like, far away.” Mind you, this happened without any suggestion from me that we might want to skip town to momentarily take our minds off All the Terrible; it was a good reminder that I married exactly the right man.

And so, just under a week from today, we’ll take that Big Fucking Trip to a Faraway Place. We’re going to be spending about two and a half weeks in Hong Kong and Thailand, courtesy of our joint wanderlust, my company’s generous PTO-donation program, and a desire to be far away from home when the day that was to be my due date passes. Yes, rather than finishing up a nursery and fighting for some decent sleep, I’ll be spending about sixteen hours on an A380,  getting a couple more stamps on my passport, and living the shit out of my (currently baby-free, as the doctor said to wait six effing months) present.