Today I:
GB calls this "whirling dervish" mode. I hope this advanced nesting doesn't mean I'm about to go into labor prematurely, because I would love to think I have another month and a half of this kind of efficiency, as long as it doesn't cause me to drop dead of exhaustion with a Swiffer in my hands.
GB & I spent last Saturday at our labor & delivery class at the hospital, and I'm pleased to say that neither of us passed out during the graphic videos. Actually, I think we both enjoyed it and found it to be a bonding experience. Our hospital has a nice little classroom building on its campus, under the big green trees, and they brought in lunch for us, which was a big hit for me as in recent weeks Snoopy has moved out from underneath my stomach and I have been able to gradually but steadily increase my food consumption without fear of intense back pain.
We got to meet several other couples in various stages of pregnancy. It was a real mixed bag. We could tell who was there for the labor and delivery class because like us, they were carrying pillows. When we pulled into the parking lot, we passed a big lanky kid wearing a rumpled t-shirt and too-big shorts, a visor over his spiky hair and a set of big wooden beads around his neck, carrying pillows for his wife. "At least I'm dressed better than THAT GUY," GB said. Well, in a great example of stereotypes being turned on their ear, that kid ended up being a resident at the hospital. Rounding out the cast of characters was a guy wearing a Marvin Gaye t-shirt who slept through most of the class and woke up only to text on his Blackberry; a nice Indian couple who were in my breastfeeding class a few days earlier; and an oddly silent pair who showed up fifteen minutes late (thus forever disgracing themselves in my eyes) who looked like they might be brother and sister. The husband was thin and fretful-looking, wearing a pair of brand new white tennis shoes; his too-short pants flapped around his skinny ankles and were hitched up under his nipples. By the end of the class I deeply suspected that he might have bodies hidden under his porch. I'm also suspecting that given my luck, his wife will go into labor at the same time I will, and we will have birthing rooms right next to each other.
Apart from the people-watching, we were given the chance to play with a birthing ball, learn some massage and relaxation techniques, and learn more about the actual birthing processes. They covered a wide range of topics such as natural birth, c-sections, epidurals, pain management, etc. We got to see a glassy-eyed baby doll shoved into a plaster casting of female pelvic bones to demonstrate how they have to squeeze through, and it disturbed me greatly that the doll seemed rather small compared to a real newborn, whereas the plaster pelvic bones were far larger than me when I held them up to my hips during a break. I don't quite see how this is going to work.
They split the men and women up to answer some questions -- what are the best / worst parts of pregnancy, the scariest, etc. The men went next door and five minutes later were pressing their noses to the glass, done, while the women hadn't even finished discussing the first question.
"Hormones are the worst thing," one woman said decidedly. She was both merry and scary in an enormous grey tracksuit and her partner or husband sported full-sleeve tattoes, a Mohawk, and a complete unwillingness to make eye contact with anyone. "I threatened to STAB him a few weeks ago. We were in the kitchen. I had a knife in my hand. I don't think I really would have, though," she finished hurriedly, as the rest of us regarded her with open mouths.
When the men came back, their answers disappointed the nurse. "In my last class, the men's group said that the best thing about pregnancy was having a designated driver for nine months," she said, and GB snorted out loud. "Not that I'm man-bashing or anything," she told him. He looked skeptical, even more so when part of the class was dedicated to the men giving the women massages and being told to help with housework. Not that I minded that part.
In other news:
It's going to rain for the next five days.
I'm very tired, and my legs look quite fat. (Note I say "look" as though it might be an optical illusion. I think this is just wishful thinking.)
Snoop has taken to kicking me in the ribcage with great vigor. It actually takes my breath away, and that's a good thing, because it HURTS and if I had breath I would probably either yelp or whimper. The other day she was pummeling me whilst a high level manager sat at my desk showing me a variety of charts and graphs, and explaining such things as the Standard Deviation, and all I could do was nod weakly and hope I wasn't turning white as a sheet.
I've lost track of how many weeks I am, but the other day someone gleefully advised me that I had been a topic of conversation in the Widget Central cafeteria, where someone said (I imagine in horror, although it might have been in a completely different tone of voice, which could render the words less grievous, although I don't really think this is the case,) "I never in a million years thought I would see her looking like THAT."
I stonily regarded the person regaling me with the tale.
"He didn't mean it like THAT," she said quickly. "YOU know. You just used to be so -- LITTLE."
Bleah.
- I was out way past my bedtime last night, attending a "Breastfeeding Basics" class at our hospital. I am very keen on being committed to breastfeeding, at least for the first 3-6 months, longer if I can. However, the class was a bit cringeworthy...GB is out of town, so he missed out on the slide show that I silently dubbed "Parade of Boobs", the ragged old stuffed one they hauled out to pass around (bit surreal to watch the surprisingly annoying, eager beaver husbands in attendance poking at it with great interest) and the practice dolls ("are they lifelike?" GB queried via text message during one of our breaks. "not especially" I texted back). Seriously, I was glad I went, if only to know that my hospital of choice is very supportive of breastfeeding and has lots of resources available to help us get started. I'm sure GB will get ample exposure to an equally fascinating and de-mystifying slide show during our labor & delivery class this weekend.
- I just wish I'd gotten home before 10 because I am seriously knackered today. Seven hours of sleep just doesn't cut it in the third trimester.
- The cats were extremely perturbed that I was out past dark on a school night. The grey one couldn't help but follow me around as I went through my nightly bedtime routine -- she is my little shadow in the evenings -- but every time I looked at her she was sitting stonily with her back towards me, keeping one ear on my progress but ignoring me scrupulously to show her disapproval.
- I think she's the one who took her revenge by bum rushing my birthday roses sometime in the wee small hours, knocking them to the floor and chewing them into submission. The evil plan backfired when the culprit came staggering into the bedroom several minutes later and woke me up with loud and spectacular yakking all over the floor. Of course I didn't get out of bed to clean it up. I just prayed that it wasn't in a traffic pattern where I might step on it if I had to go to the bathroom at some later time, and went back to sleep. I did however take care of it before I went to work, making it clear where my priorities are lately: Sleep --> Cleaning Up Nasty Messes --> Widget Central.
- I am currently cooking a comforting casserole to ward off what has been a surprisingly chilly day here in Detroit, and watching "After the Thin Man" on Turner Classic Movies. I don't know who's more beautiful in this movie, Myrna Loy or a cherubic-looking Jimmy Stewart.
It's certainly not William Powell.
In non-baby news, you can accomplish an inordinate amount when you wake up at 6 AM on a Saturday:
Throughout my pregnancy, I have been very entertained by the pregnancy week-by-week websites that compare the size of the fetus to various fruits and vegetables. At first I thought it was just a handy reference, but later on, I realized, they're really working at this.
When you first start out, the natural first comparison is a blueberry. "This week, your baby is the size of a blueberry!" I think that was around 7 weeks.
I could understand that -- it seemed a sensible comparison.
Then, they got a little more flamboyant. By week 10, Snoop was the size of a kumquat. Neither GB nor I knew quite what a kumquat really looks like, or how big it is.
Then we passed through the traditional fruits -- your baby is the size of a lemon, lime, apple, etc.
At 17 weeks, she was a turnip.
22 weeks was very specific -- a spaghetti squash. Not just any kind of squash, but a spaghetti squash. I don't know if I buy this because a spaghetti squash is pretty big -- bigger, it would seem, than the next major comparison, below.
At 25 weeks, Snoop was the size of "an average rutabaga." Again, GB & I were stumped. And then, after some research, horrified. I certainly hope she turns out cuter than an "average rutabaga." Hopefully she'll be more like an "exceptional rutabaga."
The following week, she was an English hothouse cucumber, and this week, I am pleased to report that she is a Chinese cabbage.
Isn't she the cutest thing?
...I am not making any of this up.
**
In other news, GB & I are attempting to reduce our television intake. We typically only watch about an hour or so a night but even that seems excessive; so we have decided that from now on, rather than making dinner and plunking down in front of a rerun of "Three and a Half Men" (which really is a pretty funny show) to eat, we are going to keep the television off and eat dinner together sitting at the table. We've always wanted to adhere to sit-down dinnertime when we had kids, so now is a good time to get into the habit. We will also cut back on weekend television viewing (a problem for me as I can frequently pass through a room, turn on the TV on a Sunday afternoon, and become sucked into a marathon of "Rock of Love" or some such nonsense, or worse, a Lifetime Made for TV Movie.)
Of course, accommodations will be made for special viewing, such as tonight's Stanley Cup playoff game in which we are fervently hoping the Red Wings continue their blistering performance and ultimately bring the cup back home to Michigan!
Go Wings!!
I think that's what LM Montgomery's heroine Emily used to call them, anyway.
One of my work friends told me that in the last trimester your body begins to ready you for sleepless nights. She said that with her two kids, the number of times she got up in the night to go to the bathroom was pretty indicative of how often she got up with them when they were infants. I'm only up about 2-3 times a night, but a more regular pattern is developing. I fall asleep quickly around 10, sleep well until 3 or 4, get up to use the facilities, and then can't fall back to sleep. My mind becomes occupied with work or gardening or knitting or, like this morning, nursery furniture. Rockers, dressers.
Maggie came up and stared at me for awhile and it wasn't long before the other goofy stripey one figured out that I was awake as well, and came bumbling up to see why I was playing possum. I finally got out of bed to make some tea, and GB got up to go to early morning hockey. The moon was bright as a new penny and absolutely luminous, turning the cloud-rimmed sky around it a delicate, wispy shade of blue-gold. Maggie sat next to me looking at the moon, too, and I thought that in a few months, the two of us would be at the window with Miss Snoop, showing her a wakeful early morning sky for the first time.
The good news?
The nursery closet is now empty; I have seven bags of clothes to take to the Salvos; I have baby hangers & closet dividers and wicker baskets en route from Baby Supe R Store.
The bad news?
There's nothing else in the nursery.
The good news?
I get to eat a full-size candy bar every day for the next three days under orders from my doctor!
The bad news?
This is because I flunked my last glucose test and have to go back in for the three-hour version, and the candy bars are part of the 'special diet' to prepare for that.
Oh well. It's still a candy bar a day, right?
I am a little panicked that we are coming into the third trimester home stretch and I feel completely unprepared for Miss Snoop. The nursery is painted and the trimwork done, except for replacing the old pink closet door with a nice new one, but we have not acquired any baby-specific furniture as of yet. And the closet is still jam-packed with miscellaneous gar-bahj that needs to be sorted, stored, or simply given or thrown away.
In the meantime, our living room and guest room have become receptacles for the steady flow of baby-related items coming into the house. And this is no doubt causing my panic to swell. It's amazing to be on the receiving end of such an outpouring of generosity, but right now there's nowhere to put it. I am a (fairly) organized person and right now we are completely not organized where the Little Miss is concerned.
We went to visit new Nephew 'Beans' this weekend. The little chap is thriving and despite a fervent reluctance to be anywhere except sleeping on my sister-in-law S.'s chest, he seems very happy and everyone is adjusting well. There was cake AND pie. There was much rejoicing. In addition, S. gave us the following:
A veritable treasure trove of beautiful baby girl clothes. Two laundry baskets stuffed full to teetering, and a garbage bag bursting at the seams. Her family on the East Coast brought about seven suitcases of baby clothes from S.'s sisters the last time they came to visit -- some boy, some girl. S. promised me all the girl clothes if she had a boy, and well, let's just say I hit the jackpot. Her family has wonderful taste in children's clothes and a staggering amount of it is brand new with tags still on.
Look at these little dresses!
The problem is that as of yet, I have nowhere to put it, so it sits in a grand glorious heap in our living room, right in front of the grandfather clock, patiently waiting our little girl's debut.
So my task for the week, while GB is away on yet another business trip, will be to start making headway on that nursery closet, get it cleared out, and get some hangers, dividers, and some baskets or bins for storage. Then I can start to sift through Miss Snoop's luxurious new wardrobe and get it properly categorized, hung up, or folded!
I went to the doctor earlier this week and during the course of my appointment, discussed the periodic back pain I've been experiencing lately. This is always located in the upper left quadrant of my back, near my shoulder blade, and feels like a cramp that I can't quite work out. I thought this might be some symptom of the extra weight I'm carrying, some slight strain or something, and the doctor might recommend something homeopathic and soothing, like massage, or acupuncture.
"Try eating less," she said.
Turns out my back pain is not muscle aches, it's my STOMACH. Apparently I am a hog, and when I eat too much at one sitting, with all my organs + plus Snoopette all smushed in there together, my stomach has nowhere go expand, and thus makes my back hurt.
No massage, no acupuncture?...
"You can still get those things if you want them, of course," she shrugged. "But try eating more frequently during the day, but less at a sitting. Grazing. I think you'll find that clears up your problem."
And thus the final deadly sin that I'm even vaguely interested in, that I was able to indulge in during pregnancy -- gluttony -- is snatched from my grasp.
*sigh*
I recently read a review in the NY Times for a book titled, "Parenting Inc - How We Are Sold on $800 Strollers, Fetal Education, Baby Sign Language, Sleeping Coaches, Toddler Couture, and Diaper Wipe Warmers - And What It Means for Our Children." The review wasn't quite as long as the title of the book, but it contained some interesting observations, most of which rang true for me at this stage of my pregnancy.
"Pushed by a host of factors -- the guilt and exhaustion of working parents, the dispersion of family networks that once passed knowledge from generation to generation, the pressure of admissions from preschool to college, and a culture that worships all things celebrity (including its offspring) -- we are intimidated or bamboozled into buying all sorts of goods and services that we not only don't need, but that may harm our children."
Now, believe me -- I understand the irony of reading this review in the NY Times. The book review section is sandwiched between many other sections which are fifty percent advertising -- and not just advertising, but trying to sell you on furs, diamonds, Bentleys, luxury spas, and all variety of other goods and services that I find offensive as well as socially and environmentally irresponsible. The fashion pages and the style section are absolutely ridiculous. I have a major issue with the advertising in the Times, and anytime I read anything even slightly critical of conspicuous consumption in its pages, it makes me roll my eyes and glance over at the model lounging on the deck of a million-dollar sea vessel upholstered in extinct whale fur on the opposite page.
However, I digress. The author of the review talks about going to a big baby superstore with her Depression-era mother to select her own baby registry, and how Boppy eventually sent them into such a fit of disbelieving giggles that they had to leave without registering. "I came upon the Boppy Tummy Time pillow -- which you apparently need in addition to the Boppy breast-feeding pillow, even though both are half-moon shaped pieces of foam virtually indistinguishable from each other."
It is absolutely true that since finding out we are pregnant, GB & I have been inundated with products that We Need To Have. Most of these suggestions come from well-meaning friends with children or expecting. The problem is, all of the advice seems to conflict, and in the meantime there is a staggering array of goods that promise to make your life easier and your baby happier. Some moms swear by bright colored activity mats or entertainers, others say they are worthless. Some swear by Swaddlers, others have Houdini children who wriggled out of the snuggest swaddle. Swings, Snuzzlers, Baby Einstein, travel systems in the Uptown Dots pattern. All of which will be used for approximately six months, likely less, until your child is older and needs an entire new array of Stuff. Every time I look at another mom's registry, or talk to another parent, it sends me rushing back to my own registry to make the appropriate adjustments. And wondering in the back of my head what the hell we're going to do with all of this when we don't need it any more. I can already see our already-full closets and basement becoming stacked and stuffed with outmoded baby gear.
"Everything we do is academic, even for toddlers and babies," boasts one producer of computer software for children under 2. "There's nothing in there that's purely just for fun."
Apparently, what you do with outmoded baby gear is foist it off on other unsuspecting parents or parents-to-be. The spirit of philanthropy that emerges in people when they learn you are pregnant is amazing. Don't get me wrong -- we've gotten some really wonderful and generous things from people with kids. GB's cousins sent us a big care package full of stuff we will actually use. But on the flip side, there are the moms I work with, who seem so happy to have a recipient for their old baby stuff that they bring me little miscellaneous oddities every day. Some of it is great, like the friend who gave me her old copy of "What to Expect During the First Year." However, most of this is sheer crap, which I try to accept graciously -- maternity clothes that will never fit me, or odd items like a chipped pair of yellow baby sunglasses. One even brought me her used nursing bras and proceeded to stand by my desk speaking in loud tones and at length about the different Types of Nursing Bras and Pads that worked best for her, much to the horror of the salesguys on the other side of the aisle. I know all of this is meant with the best intentions -- that it is actually an initiation rite, of sorts -- but my locker at work is filling up with voluminous maternity nightgowns.
For GB & I, who really try to avoid the spectre of conspicuous consumption, it's all pretty overwhelming. I don't want to be a family with a garage full of enormous plastic Fisher Price products that were used twice and then never looked at again. The thing is, when you are new to the parenting game, you are very vulnerable to the industrial marketing complex that exists only to separate you from your money in exchange for products. And you are vulnerable to others who have already fallen victim to that, who want you to do what they did, or have what they had, especially when they don't need it any more. Worse, it makes me fear for when our little girl is old enough to demand what she sees others have -- Bratz dolls, makeup on a four-year-old, baby cellphones, for crying out loud. If I can't say no to a Snuzzler or a Boppy Tummy Time, how am I going to be able to draw the line on glittery nail polish and the Barbie Jeep??
