Meet The Joey, or, Look What We Made! v. 2.0

Josephine Ruby Lee, 9.24.09, 1:30 p.m., 7 lbs. 7 oz., 19.5 inches

Everyone in the know, i.e., my OB and my friend Michele, who is also an OB, told me that labor the second time around would be nothing like the first. That the monstrous labor I went through with Zeke -- 25 hours of labor to get to 10 centimeters dilated, followed by 4 brutal hours of pushing out a 8 lb. 9 oz. baby with a 14 inch head -- would no way repeat itself.

And I had reason to believe them. We caught the gestational diabetes this time around and I stuck to my diet and took my medication religiously, with the result being that I basically gained no weight the last 12 weeks of the pregnancy and kept the baby's size in check, plus I was being induced a week early. I also was 3 1/2 cm. dilated before I even checked into the hospital this morning -- it took me 15 hours of hard labor, plus pitocin, to get to that point with Zeke.

So any optimism I might have had was not misplaced.

But still. When you have nothing but the experience at one end of the spectrum to compare it to, it's incredibly difficult to imagine an easy, quick, painless delivery of a reasonably-sized baby, no matter how much I was assured that this time around, I would have one of those ridiculously awesome experiences involving super-fast dilation followed by pushing the baby out in 20 minutes.

But they were right. It's still kind of surreal to me how incredible today was, how peaceful and simple and joyous having a baby can be.

We checked into the hospital at 5 in the morning. I was in my Taj Mahal of a room by 5:20.

Taking some time to catch up on blogs and read the news before getting started.

Yes, in my enormous private room I had a bathroom with a jacuzzi tub nicer than the bathrooms in most hotels I've stayed in.

It took awhile to get through the paperwork, filling in questionnaires with medical histories, signing releases, going over security procedures, etc. The nurses, who were unbelievably wonderful, started my pitocin drip at about 8:20 in the morning.

Unbeknownst to me, I had already been having contractions. I just thought the baby was kicking me really hard, but apparently a number of those jabs to the ribs were actually contractions. And they didn't really hurt much at all. So for a long time, I was feeling great, with only minor instances of contractions that, if I had to label them on a pain scale of 1 to 10, were no more than a 1.5. I knew that it would get worse -- as Doris, my main RN said, "no pain, no gain" -- but so far, so good.

Chilling out, dealing with regular but not particularly painful contractions, waiting for the fireworks to begin in earnest. Mom keeps me company and sews for the baby.

At around 11 or so, my doctor came in to check my cervix and break my water. I was still only about 3 1/2 to 4 cm dilated, but she assured me that things would start moving along after my water was broken.

And boy, was she right. Within about 1/2 an hour, the contractions went from, "hey, no big deal" to "SWEET BABY JESUS, THIS HURTS LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER!" And they were coming in rapid succession, fast and furious. My mom and Jason took turns holding my hand, and Doris and Lupe, the student nurse assisting her, helped me breathe through the contractions. I told Doris, "um, yeah, I'd like that epidural now," and she said, "no problem," and within 15 minutes the anesthesiologist was in the room hooking me up with pain meds. And 20 minutes later, I was free of pain, though still feeling the pressure of the contractions, which were continuing unabated.

The doctors and nurses told me to be sure to tell them if the pressure -- the feeling of needing to push -- started to increase, because that meant that the baby was coming soon. And I started to feel that pressure (but not pain) at around noon, so Doris checked my cervix but couldn't feel it. So an OB resident was called in, and she said, "I don't feel cervix. I feel baby hair. I think you're ready to go."

So my OB was called (her office is about 3 blocks from the hospital), and the nurses prepped me while we waited for the doctor to show up. And all this time, I was feeling fine, and kept saying, "really?? are you sure I'm ready? I'm already at 10 centimeters??"

It just didn't seem possible that it could happen that quickly, and without me being in excruciating pain.

But sure enough, Dr. Ann, my OB, arrived, and they finished prepping me and got my feet in the stirrups. I was told to push. I pushed hard.

It took 9 minutes of pushing, and a total of 5 big pushes altogether, to get the baby out. And it didn't hurt, and nobody was yelling, and it all felt very calm and easy. Dr. Ann had to give me a small episiotomy, but she warned me in advance and was very gentle and quick (unlike my OB with Zeke, who just seemed to hack at me indiscriminately while I was in agony), and then I just needed one more small push and Josephine Ruby Lee came into our lives.* And because I wasn't completely exhausted and strung out and in pain, and was gently breathing as the baby came out, I got to watch my daughter slowly emerge from my body. It was magical.

Seconds after being born, Josie was placed on my chest.

Jason is totally in love with his little girl.

The J-Team: Dr. Ann, Jason, me, Josie, Doris and Lupe

Josie squawked a little after being born and getting cleaned up, so I offered her a bottle. She scarfed down the whole thing, had a nice burp, and promptly fell asleep for 2 1/2 hours.

Jason got a nap in. Apparently, watching me give birth is exhausting.

After her snooze, Josie got a bath from the nurses, discovering the joys of having your head gently scrubbed and washed. She sighed deeply while getting a scalp massage, and was as mellow as could be. After her bath, I fed her and she passed out again.

At around 6, we were moved from the labor and delivery room to a regular mom/baby room. Just in time for Kathleen to pick Zeke up from school and bring him to meet his little sister. I think he likes her.

He kept pointing at her and saying, "baby! BABY!"

Our family unit.

Jason and my mom went home with Zeke. I indulged in some Pad Thai -- fuck you, gestational diabetes! Josie and I hung out for awhile, but now she's in the nursery so that I can have one night of decent sleep before the craziness begins. This song kind of sums it up. Cheesy, perhaps, but it touches me right now.

It's a new dawn

It's a new day

It's a new life

For me

And I'm feeling good.

And now I'm going to bed. I'm a little tired.

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*Regarding her name, "Josephine" came from "The Joey" -- it just kind of grew on us. It's a pretty, sweet name, a little old-fashioned without being overly precious, and it's not like "Madison" or "Ashley" or one of those names where it seems like you can't swing a dead cat without hitting 6 of them in your average daycare facility. If it had been a boy, I don't know what we would have done, because while we loved "Josephine," we didn't really like "Joseph" for a boy -- too many shitty Josephs in history (Stalin, Mengele, Kennedy, McCarthy -- you get the idea). "Ruby Lee" is a nod to my maternal grandparents, Ruth and Leo, both of whom died in the last year.

"Tell me about the day before I was born..."

I've written before about the tradition that my mother and I have every year on my birthday, when she calls me to wish me "happy birthday" and tells me about the day I was born.

So if I have a similar tradition with The Joey, I probably won't tell her about checking into the hospital at 5 in the morning to be administered a dose of pitocin. I'll tell her about today. About having weird anxiety dreams about going to the hospital and having the nurses all be incompetent, half naked and incapable of answering my most basic questions. About spending the morning in a frenzy of cleaning and packing and laundry. Of going to Target to stock up on diapers and other stuff, only to have one of the fuel lines in my car split and gush gas all over the road, so that Jason and I broke down on the way to the mechanic.

My mechanic is an angel, and he drove over to pick me up so I wouldn't have to sit in the rain in a car filled with petroleum fumes the day before giving birth. He also called in a favor to get the tow truck guy to pick us up quickly and charge us a bare minimum for the tow. And he gave me a loaner so I'd be able to go get Zeke and still malke it to the airport on time to pick up my mom.

And we had a nice dinner of beef stew, and played with Zeke and looked at the enormous pile of baby clothes that my mom brought.

I hadn't been nervous all day. But as it got later and later, and I was going through piles of pink onesies and washcloths and little newborn caps, I started to get this tight feeling in my chest. Anxiety.

Knowing that The Joey is coming tomorrow, I've been very aware of everything that's been happening and everything I'm feeling. It's actually very strange to have known in advance when she was going to come, because every day has felt more and more imbued with importance and significance. And today is the last day in my life that I will ever be pregnant.

The last belly shot of my life

Which is fine with me. Jason and I have talked about it and are happy with having two kids. Maybe if I had started having children earlier, I would have maybe had another, being able to space them out more. But I'm going to be 40 on my next birthday, and if I wait the amount of time to have another I'd want to wait, I'd be having my next kid at 43 or 44, and I just don't want to do that. I'm too tired.

But it's still strange to know that I'm done reproducing. It's such a basic, elemental part of being human, and now I'm done with it.

And in addition to feeling like this massive existential milestone is passing, I'm so aware of this huge change in my life and in my relationship with Zeke in particular. He's not going to be my only baby and I'm not going to be all his anymore, and it's made me emotional and weepy.

It won't be just us anymore

Since I go into the hospital so early, when I put Zeke to bed tonight, it was the last time I'll see him before giving birth. For some reason, it made my cry and cry. Everything is making me weep. What if I'm no good at parenting two kids? What if Zeke freaks out and resents us for giving him a sibling? What if I can't handle any of it?

I'm so excited to meet my daughter. But I'm also terrified.

Though I guess when I tell The Joey about the day before she was born, I'll leave that part out. Because I imagine by then, the feeling will have passed.

Reality

Tomorrow is my last day at work before I go on maternity leave.  And seriously, thank God, because I'm so fucking tired I can barely function.  I need some time to rest and finish getting organized.  I don't feel too awful, but it's very difficult to sleep comfortably, and when I'm awake, The Joey either has the hiccups (so my belly has this rhythmic pulse to it), or she's kicking the crap out of me.  I constantly have little lumps of foot or knee or butt poking out of the sides of my torso.  

And then one week from today (assuming I don't go into labor before then), I will have a new baby.

It's a very exciting but also very strange feeling.

Even as I look at the new little girl clothes and pink blankets and stuff that I've been accumulating in anticipation of The Joey's arrival, it still feels like this surreal event that "out there" in the ether somewhere.  Reality won't really set in until she actually arrives.

With Zeke, it hit me the first night after he was born.  I was asleep in my hospital bed, and he was asleep in his little bassinet next to my bed.  He woke up and started to cry, and as the noise roused me from my slumber, I thought, "what the hell is that??"  And then it dawned on me:  "oh, yeah, I have a kid.  Huh."  

When we took him home from the hospital a few days later, we walked in the house, put the baby in the Pack n' Play, and then looked at each other and though, "what on earth are we supposed to do now?"

It took almost a month for that feeling to wear off.

Soon we settled into a routine and became used to having a baby to take care of, and took great pleasure in getting to know him.  And now Zeke is such an indisputably wonderful part of my life -- such a part of me, of us, of our family -- I can't even imagine not having him around.  

But even knowing what it's like to have one child, the concept of having two is still very odd to me.  Maybe other women can wrap their heads around it more easily, but I'm very weirded out by the fact that in a week, I will meet this tiny little person who will become my complete and utter responsibility, and who will move into my house and become a permanent part of my existence.

That's just trippy.

Not today

This week has been rough for me, physically, and in ways that have made me think that labor is imminent. Not the tell-tale signs like water breaking or regularly spaced contractions -- the only sure things, really -- but other signs that mimicked the way I felt in the week leading up to Zeke's birth.

Then yesterday I found out that a number of my coworkers are essentially placing bets on my delivery date, with more than a few of them picking this weekend. One of them in particular, who claims to have a penchant for accurately picking the delivery dates of her friends and relatives, is convinced I will have the baby on Monday, September 14th.

Yesterday afternoon she was leaving the office and made a point of saying good-bye to me.

"I'm not going to see you," she said.

"Why, are you going on vacation?" I asked.

"No, but I'm not going to be here tomorrow."

"Well, then I'll see you Monday," I responded.

"I don't think so. If I see you at all, it will only be for half a day, but at around 11 or so you're going to be heading into the hospital to have your baby."

She was so matter-of-fact and certain about it.

"OK, you need to stop it, because you're seriously freaking me out," I scolded her.

But then I woke up this morning feeling very off. Sharp pains way down in my abdomen. Feelings of stretching and mild cramping. A couple of other signs that I won't go into because they're gross.

"Fuck," I thought.

Because as uncomfortable as I am, as difficult as it is to get any decent sleep, as hard as it is to chase Zeke around and get him up and dressed and off to school every morning, I really, really did not want to have a baby today. I don't want The Joey's birthday to be September 11.

The memories are still too raw and vivid.

I remember so distinctly everything about that day. I was driving to work in Atlanta, and waiting in the turn lane to go left onto Peachtree Road from Roxboro, when the second plane hit the tower, when it was obvious that this was a terrorist attack, not some weird accident as initially thought (or at least, as was being reported on the radio station I was listening to).

I got to the office and turned on the TV in our conference room. I stood there, sobbing, watching the towers burn and then crumble. Then the news and the rumors started flying. That all air traffic was being grounded. That there had been bomb threats on the State Department. That the Pentagon had been hit. That nobody knew where the President was because Air Force One was flying around avoiding attack.

At the time of the attacks, my mother, who was stationed in the U.S. Embassy in Papua New Guinea, was in the air on a flight from San Francisco to Sydney, travelling back from a visit home. I kept thinking, "what if American diplomats or diplomatic posts are being targeted?" And my dad was supposed to be in a meeting in the State Department in Washington, which as far as I knew, was under attack as well. I couldn't get through to anyone in my family. Then there was a bomb scare in my office building, so they sent everyone home. I spent the rest of the day in a daze, sitting on my couch watching the TV coverage, trying to get in touch with my brothers and my father and eventually my mother. And they were all fine, but until I knew for sure -- particularly about my mom and dad -- I was terrified.

That night I went over to Kathleen's. She and Rich were set to get married in 11 days. Mindy and Chris came over there as well, and we sat there eating pizza and talking and trying to make sense of the world. We were all shocked and horrified and saddened, but I think we all took some comfort in spending some time together.

So I didn't want to have any association between this day in history, and my daughter.

I had an appointment with my OB. Sitting there in the waiting room, there was a woman with a beautiful, tiny 2 1/2 week old baby girl. And I guess in addition to my physical discomfort, my hormones are raging, or maybe I was just nervous and more than a little tired, because I burst into tears at the sight of that baby. And then I was thinking about Zeke and how much I love him and how funny and sweet he is, and I started to cry again. And then I thought about what it would be like when I hold The Joey for the first time, and introduce her to her big brother, and I started to cry more.

But the good news is, I'm not in labor. I'm not having regular contractions, and while my cervix is certainly getting ready to open, it's not dilated to the point that I need to start heading into the hospital. After talking to my doctor, we decided to move the induction date up to September 24, so one way or another, I will be holding my new daughter 2 weeks from today. That's enough time to "respect her lung development" (as my OB put it), but also is an appropriate time to "kick her out" out respect to me and my physical needs (also as my OB put it -- have I mentioned I love her?).

So it might be Monday, as my coworker predicted. It might be next week. It might be on the 24th.

But it won't be today. Thank God.

Womb With A View 2.0

Jason and I went in for the 36 week ultrasound today. It's the last one before giving birth, the one that sort of lets you know how big the baby is and to do one last check to make sure all is well. For me, it was a way of ascertaining whether this insanely restricted diet I'm on -- I've basically been living on eggs, veggie sausage patties, veggie burgers, chicken, carrots and sugar snap peas, with the occasional bit of steak or salad thrown in for good measure -- has worked and kept The Joey's size in check.

Once or twice I've cheated. I had some of Rich's outrageously good peach cobbler, and have eaten a bite of canteloupe from time to time while fixing Zeke's lunch, but for the most part I've been really good.*

The good news -- and there was only good news -- is that The Joey is smack-dab in the 50th percentile for size, meaning she's exactly where she should be. She's about 6 1/2 pounds right now, so assuming she holds out on making her appearance until my induction date (September 29), she could still be a solid 8 pounds. But my efforts appear to have paid off and she doesn't have any indicia of being too big as a result of the gestational diabetes.

The ultrasound itself was, as ever, totally trippy. I never get over the miracle of being able to see inside my own body to look at the development of my unborn child.

Usually at this point in the pregnancy, when the baby is firmly head-down and dropping, which she is, it's very difficult to get a face shot because in order to position the ultrasound scanner thingy to see the face, you'd basically have to have it lodged in your vajayjay.

But I guess Joey has her head slightly turned to the side or something, because as the ultrasound tech was doing her thing and measuring various parts and looking at how much amniotic fluid I've got going on, all of a sudden an astoundingly clear shot of The Joey's face popped up. I was so stunned that I blurted out, "HI SWEETIE!!" Then I burst into tears.

She looks just like Zeke, but slightly more girly (or maybe I'm projecting). Pouty lips. Pretty little bone structure. Hands by her chin.

Above and below are the same shot. I've labelled parts of her face below, because I recognize that sometimes it takes a little bit of orientation to figure out what's going on in an ultrasound photo. Also, don't ask me why they have my name on the printout as "Amy Armstrong." I have no idea.

I also found out yesterday that I'm starting to dilate. I know that this can mean anything and nothing. I know so many women who were 1 or 2 centimeters dilated for weeks before going into labor. But I never dilated with Zeke in advance, so maybe it's a sign that she's coming a little early. Who knows. Again, maybe I'm projecting.

But it's all very exciting. Kathleen and I finished our massive project at work, the one that is going to help us rule the special education world in Colorado. It was a bitch to finish - I joked that The Joey is the second baby I'm giving birth to in September, but it's done and the client is happy. My dad came out this week to help out with Zeke-care, which was so incredible. He took care of pick-up and drop-off for daycare, took Zeke to the park, to the zoo, to the ice cream store, for walks. Zeke was in heaven hanging out with his Papa, and I was able to get my work done and know that things on the home front were taken care of. Jason had a chance to study for his big licensing exam (which he should be finishing up as I type this).

I love my parents. I can't say it enough.

So now I've got 3 weeks to go (at the most). I'm trying to get organized, take care of myself physically, and enjoy these last few weeks of Zeke as an only child. And then everything changes.

So scary, but so wonderful.

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*And I've lost about 7 or 8 pounds, which doesn't suck for purposes of dealing with the baby weight, post-partem.

Ostentatious Spazziosity. But I'll take it.

The belly is obviously impossible to hide. It's out there in a big way.

And the resulting waddle is unavoidable. I can't help having to slightly lean back when I walk, with my toes turned out and my steps wider than normal.

The boobs, never for the faint of heart, are reaching ridiculous proportions. When Elizabeth was visiting a few weeks ago, upon seeing me for the first time she observed, "your ass hasn't gained any weight at all, but your boobs are massive."

Yup.

And there is nothing I can do about any of these things, and they don't impede my ability to be productive at work or to interact relatively normally with the people in my life, so other than feeling a bit bulky, and not being as nimble as my non-pregnant self, I don't feel particularly self-conscious about my physical state.

But while I absolutely love feeling The Joey kick, she does it so relentlessly and so powerfully that it causes me to jump and squirm and gasp in a way that makes me feel like a complete spazz.*

I'll be sitting in a meeting with coworkers and suddenly the baby, who has been relatively still for a minute or two, throws her legs out, catches me in the ribs, and then keeps pushing so that her foot will cause my belly to visibly jump and undulate. And I'll gasp and sort of sit up suddenly, and the people I'm meeting with will get these concerned looks and be all, "OH MY GOD ARE YOU OK????"

And I'll explain that it's just the baby kicking and I was a little startled and sorry let's get back to what we were talking about.

It happens A LOT. And it makes me feel really self-conscious and stupid. Like people will be annoyed because I'm drawing attention to myself, even though I try not to as much as possible. It's so silly, because I know nobody cares, but I still feel weird about it.

It's better than the alternative, though.

Last week when I was in my doctor's office for my weekly appointment, I had to wait a really long time. And when the doctor finally came into the exam room, she was unusually subdued. She explained that the patient she had seen before me was also 34 weeks pregnant and came in for a routine exam, but when they went to listen to the baby's heartbeat, there wasn't one. The baby was dead. And this poor woman would have to be induced to go into labor, so she could deliver a dead fucking baby.

As the doctor was telling me this, I started to cry. The doctor said, "I don't want to alarm you by telling you this."

And I said, "no, I'm not upset for myself. Believe me, if this baby doesn't have a heartbeat, there is something really strange going on, because she never stops moving. I'm not worried."

So I guess feeling like a goober at work for the next few weeks isn't such a big deal after all.

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*And yes, I know that word is politically incorrect and inappropriate. Don't email me.

Reaching rock bottom, but hey, at least we have a date certain!

I read somewhere about a recent study concluding that the myth of pregnancy brain, i.e., that pregnancy makes you stupid, is just that -- a myth.  That there is no evidence that the phenomenon actually exists.

Au contraire, bitches.

Because I know I'm a smart girl.  Not a genius, maybe, but certainly smarter than your average bear.  My major accomplishments in life have largely been based on brain-power.*  

But I am certifiably stupid these days, and the only thing I can surmise is that The Joey is just sucking all of the brain cells right out of my head.  I get things in my hand and then lose them immediately.  I can't remember basic words.  I'll go to work having only remembered to put one earring on, or with socks that don't match.

This morning I reached into the fridge to get some cream for my coffee, and even though I could clearly see that the lid on the little carton wasn't on (God knows what I did with it), I grabbed it and tilted it waaaay over to the side so that it would fit over whatever was in front of it on the shelf .... and proceeded to spill cream all over the inside of the fridge and the floor.   Later when I went to take a sip of the coffee, I forgot that I had only gently placed the lid on the cup, but hadn't firmly affixed it onto the cup, so I spilled coffee all over myself.  

Then I couldn't find my glucose monitoring kit, which was really frustrating because I always put it in the exact same place in my briefcase.  I found it 10 minutes later stuck in a cupboard in the kitchen.  I have no recollection of putting it there.

Jason could only gape at me in astonishment.

The other day I was driving home from the grocery store.  I missed one turn that I was supposed to make, and didn't realize it for at least 3/4 of a mile.  So I wound my way back through the neighborhood (much winding is required because there are many one-way streets, so I couldn't just turn around), and then missed another turn-off.  And I wasn't talking on the phone or even listening to the radio or anything.  I was just completely spaced out.

I have at least three or four incidents like this a day.

At least it provides a good excuse.  I was talking to a guy at our health insurance company about getting replacement cards set out, because even though they just send new ones out to us, of course I immediately lost them and have no idea where they are.

"I know we just got them, but you have to understand, I'm 7 1/2 months pregnant and my brain doesn't work right now."

He laughed and said, "I completely understand.  I'll send new ones out today, don't worry about it."

Standards seem to be slipping in other areas as well.  

I went to wash my face this morning and couldn't find my headband that I use to keep my hair from getting wet.  So I used a pair of thong underwear from the back of my undies drawer -- hell, they're not getting any other use these days.

My sex life consists of having hot dreams about my husband and then telling him about them when I wake up, because God knows I couldn't be bothered to muster up the energy to actually have sex with him.  Poor bastard.

I'm constantly a mess, with crumbs and stains on my clothes, things stuck in my hair, stray pen marks on my skin.

But there is a light at the end of the tunnel.  

Technically, my due date was October 2.  But because of the gestational diabetes and my difficulty delivering Zeke, my OB has talked about inducing after I hit 39 weeks, just to make sure the baby doesn't get too big (though I delivered Zeke at 39 weeks and 3 days, so I might be in for a rough ride nonetheless).  

At my appointment yesterday, we were talking about scheduling, and I said, "my last day of work is September 25, which is a Friday.  Why don't I take the weekend to get organized and we can induce that following Monday or Tuesday."

"That Monday is Yom Kippur," she remarked after looking at the calendar.

"Hmm," I said.  "I don't know why, but it feels weird to plan to induce labor on Yom Kippur.  Let's do it Tuesday."

So, assuming I haven't already gone into labor by then, The Joey will make her appearance on September 29, 2009.  Only 5 1/2 more weeks of The Stupid.

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*OK, the tits haven't hurt, but they didn't write the briefs that won me cases at the court of appeals.  Not all of them, anyway. 

The Pregnancy Skinny

Who knew that it would take getting pregnant to hit on the surest, fastest weight-loss regimen I've ever used?  Not that the whole low-carb/high protein diet is a mystery to anyone, but even when I've done it in the past (with some success), I've never had an incentive quite as powerful as "no, you can't eat that or YOU'LL HURT THE BABY, YOU IRRESPONSIBLE HAG!!!"

So in the past week, since seeing the doctor and going on medication, I've been super, super vigilant (except for the ice cream cone I ate when Elizabeth and her family were in town, and we went with Kathleen and Rich and their monkeys up to Boulder to hang out for the day -- and believe me, I was shamed straight by my sky-rocketing glucose levels afterwards).  My breakfasts have consisted of either EggBeaters omelettes or protein shakes (made with water rather than milk).  I've snacked on protein bars and diabetes-friendly shakes.  My lunches and dinners are meat or fish with veggies.  I eat alot of Cobb salads.  I haven't had a piece of fruit or bread in what feels like dog years.

In the process, I've lost 4 pounds in a week.  And while it's not great to lose weight while you're pregnant, apparently it's not unusual for women monitoring their glucose intake to have some incidental weight loss in the process.  I'm still in the normal range as far as weight gain, so my doctor wasn't too worried.

And hell, it's nice to know what works, for purposes of losing baby weight.  I figure at that point I'll be so used the regimen that it won't be too difficult to continue it, assuming I can resist the urge to have Philly cheesesteak subs and strawberry rhubarb pies delivered to my hospital room the minute The Joey is out of my body.

In any event, I got my reward (or at least, some of it -- the true reward will be a reasonably-sized baby that I can deliver with 1 or 2 pushes).  I went in for an ultrasound this morning to check The Joey's growth, and she is perfect.  Like, exactly the size she should be, to the day.  And her brain is forming properly and her spine looks beautiful and all four chambers of her heart are doing what they should be doing and her little bones are the right size.  Her girl parts are still girl parts.*  Just like her older brother, she likes to hang out with her hands up by her face.  She's already head down and the placenta is up at the top of my uterus (and thus not blocking the cervix).   Perfect perfect perfect.

When you're pregnant, and particularly when you're pregnant and you've practiced special education law for 10 years, you become hyper-aware of all the things that can go wrong. Genetic abormalities.  Down Syndrome.  Malformed limbs.  Spina bifida.  The list goes on and on.  And even though the odds of everything going just fine are overwhelmingly high, it seems miraculous to me when the wonders of modern medicine allow me to go into a doctor's office and have the nice ultrasound technician show me my perfectly formed, perfectly developing little girl.  

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*Apparently, when they determine the sex at 16 weeks, they make no guarantees, though with The Joey it was unlikely that the "it's a girl" verdict was going to turn out wrong.

TMI Thursday: You might want to skip this one if you've never had a baby but plan on having one someday...

The lovely, talented and hilarious LiLu does a weekly segment called TMI Thursdays involving (over)shares of embarrassing, humiliating stories about her life (and if you're thinking of clicking over there, just know that it's not for the faint of heart).  Readers and fellow bloggers are invited to join in. I admire her and her readers' willingness to just put it all out there.  

I've never participated, not because I don't have ridiculous and embarrassing stories to share, but because my mother reads this blog. And my brothers. And some of my cousins. And many of my friends. And the friends I generally don't worry about so much, but there are some things that my mommy just doesn't need to read about on the internets about her precious baby.

But today I'm going to jump into the fray (and I actually already did earlier today -- on Lisa's blog, she and I had a lovely discussion about the consistency of pregnancy poo and the relative merits of Metamucil).   My mother won't mind this one. My brothers might, but whatevs. They'll deal. My friends will likely think to themselves, "Jesus, TMI!"  (Though Elizabeth, dearest, you might want to skip this one.)  But that's kind of the point. In any event, if you're squeamish and don't feel like you can handle the nitty-gritty of what actually goes on during childbirth, you might want to come back and visit another day. 

Seriously. You've been warned.

I was sitting in the break room at work today having something to eat, when one of my coworkers walked in.  We said "hello," and she asked me how I was feeling.

"Are you doing OK in this heat?"

"Yeah, I'm fine.  The heat doesn't really bother me.  I did my first pregnancy in Hawaii, so I'm pretty well used to it."

No, the problem isn't the heat.

The problem is that I think this baby is breaking my vagina.

I don't mean just the part from which babies actually emerge -- Zeke already broke that part. I have vivid recollections of the last 20 minutes or so of labor (in other words, 3 hours and 40 minutes into the actual pushing part -- yeah, that's not a typo, I pushed for 4 fucking hours), when Zeke was way down in the birth canal but stuck behind my pelvic bone because even though the ultrasound tech told me he was only about 7 pounds, he was actually almost 9 pounds and was basically too big for my body. And through the pain of feeling like my nether regions were going to split in two, I could hear the sound of scissors, because the doctor was cutting my vajajay open to make way for Zeke's ginormous head. The good news was, I was already in so much pain that I couldn't actually distinguish the pain of having someone cutting me open in that manner from the other pain I was feeling, so in that sense, it didn't really hurt. And he stitched me back up and it healed and whatever. But still, I'm not exactly intact down there.

Anyway, back to the Joey.

Conventional wisdom has it that with boys, you gain less weight and you carry the baby low and out in front, like a basketball. Supposedly, with girls, you carry more weight all over your midsection, and the baby sits higher up on your torso.

I call bullshit. 

Because while I've definitely gained a little bit more weight with the Joey than I did with Zeke (and starting 10 pounds heavier this time around didn't help), I feel like she is sitting -- no, make that pushing -- on the absolute lowest part of my pelvic floor, as if she's trying to crack the bone right in two.  It's different from the typical lower abdominal muscle stretching that goes on as the baby grows.  This is lower down, and feels like the stretching of the muscles and the weight of the baby are putting too much pressure on the bone itself.

So in addition to the standard pregnant-lady waddle, I've got kind of a gimpy thing going on.  I sometimes want to just put my hands down there and walk around holding my cooter together.  I don't  -- well, not most of the time, anyway.  Sometimes when I'm home alone I'll walk around looking like a 5-year-old who's trying to find a bathroom.  But out in public, I haven't lost all sense of decorum (not yet, anyway).

So if you see me and stop to chat, and I get this sort of distracted, vacant look in my eyes, it's not that I'm bored or blowing you off.  It's just that my vagina hurts.

Bump pictures -- week 23

I put up all three pictures so you could see the progression.

I'm starting to feel really huge and cumbersome. I say "oof" alot when I'm getting up or sitting down. I frequently find myself short of breath because I think my internal organs are squishing up against my diaphragm. Zeke gets a little frustrated when he wants to sit on my lap to read a book, and I don't have much of a lap left.

But, the Joey has started really kicking up a storm in the past week and a half. Not just the little flutters that I was feeling, but lots of "thump thump thump"-ing against the wall of my abdomen. I love it. Except for when she keeps popping me in the bladder.

A womb with a view (I know, I KNOW, it's been done to death, but I still think it's funny)

Bump pictures

I know I promised pictures of the belly bump, and I've posted a bunch on Facebook, but not everyone here is on Facebook. So here are pics from weeks 17 and 19.

Huh.

(The Joey at 18 weeks)

I guess I'm not as savvy or clairvoyant or clued-in to the inner workings of my uterus as I thought.

The Joey is a girl. When we saw the (exceedingly clear) image on the ultrasound, Jason burst into tears of happiness. I said, "huh. How about that."

(There's a lady in my office who's pregnant, but who doesn't know what she's having because during the ultrasound, every time they got close to getting a good shot of what was between the baby's legs, the baby moved or pulled up its legs so that there was no way to tell the sex. Not so much with The Joey. She was like the drunk secretary at the Christmas party sitting panty-less on the copy machine.)

I was convinced we were having another boy, for a number of reasons. The fact that going back about three or four generations, the men in Jason's family have managed to sire exactly one girl (Jason's half-sister). The fact that, according to all of my ultrasounds, the baby was measuring bigger than its actual gestational age, which suggested to me early (in the cycle) conception, which suggested a boy, because boy sperm are faster swimmers than girl sperm.

And I was kind of hoping for another boy. Zeke could grow up with a brother, and they could play and rough-house and go through boy stuff together. I've got mountains and mountains of boy clothes and baby accoutrement. I'm familiar with the boy parts, diaper-changing-wise.

Plus, I'm afraid of girls. Or at least, afraid of raising one.

I worry about our hyper-sexualized society, and the pressure on women (and girls) to be skinny and hot and sexually available. I worry about being able to raise a girl with enough confidence and self-esteem to know that she doesn't have to give in to that pressure.

And to be honest, girls kind of scare me.

They're so much more emotionally manipulative and volatile than most boys. I know it's a long way off, but I dread the early teen years. I know what a bitch I was.*

(A 4-D shot in which you can see her face. She's already grinning manaically as she thinks of all the ways she's going to torment her mother when she's older.)

But as I've had a few days to think about it, I've grown accustomed to the idea of having a daughter, and the feelings of happiness and excitement are creeping in and edging out the feelings of doubt and uncertainty. I have such a wonderful relationship with my mother, and have for most of my life, and I'm hopeful that Joey and I can have that as well.

And as my mom pointed out, having a boy and a girl means that they won't be in competition quite the same way that same sex siblings are. Boys tend to constantly compare each others' accomplishments in sports and the like. Girls fight over clothes and who's prettier.

Or maybe I'm just engaging in massive stereotyping on the whole thing.

The truth is, she'll be who'll she'll be. All I can do is hope that she's sweet and smart and funny and happy -- all the same hopes I had for Zeke before he was born. And that turned out pretty well.

So I guess I should stop worrying.

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*My torment of my dear mother was relatively short-lived -- I grew out of my monster phase by the time I was about 16 or so. But still. It wasn't pleasant for her while it lasted, the moodiness and crying and general teenage-girl-ness that was my 13- and 14-year-old self.

The second time around

So many friends and family who live far away or whom I don't often see have sent Passover and Easter wishes lately, many of them asking how the pregnancy is going and how I'm feeling.

The short answer is, I'm feeling fine. I don't have any nausea anymore, and aside from some pregnancy-related hypersensitivity in my teeth (I'm going to the dentist tomorrow), I don't feel uncomfortable or cumbersome (yet) at all. My belly is starting to pooch, but other than my boobs getting a little bigger (oy!), I haven't really gained weight anywhere else and my clothes mostly fit and all is well.

The long answer is, it's alot more exhausting to be pregnant and work a full-time job and take care of a toddler, as compared to when I went through it the first time. Particularly when that first time, I was living in Hawaii and working from home and had a super-flexible schedule, so I could nap when I wanted and hang out at my desk in a tank top and pajama bottoms. And every afternoon, Jason would come home from work and we would go to the beach for an hour or so. He would surf and I would sit in the sun and read a book. So in addition to having a rocking tan, I was plowing through 3 or 4 library books a week, sleeping as much as I needed to, and generally feeling pretty relaxed. Life definitely didn't suck.

And it's not that life now sucks -- far from it -- but I'm tired all the time. Zeke hasn't slept through the night since we arrived in Colorado. At first I thought it was the climate -- I was waking up completely parched in the middle of the night, and so was he -- but it was also the temperature. If he woke up after 4 or 5 in the morning (after going to bed at 7:30 or 8), I would get up and give him a bottle, and then bring him into my room and let him sleep the rest of the night snuggled up between Jason and me.

But sometimes he would wake up at 1 or 2 in the morning, and I just wasn't willing to let him off the hook that early. So he would stand up in his crib and cry for awhile, and eventually he would lie back down and go to sleep.

And I realized that he hasn't learned how to pull the covers back up over himself once he's gotten out from under them. So he'll go back to sleep, but then he'll wake up in a couple of hours, freezing.  I'll bring him into bed with me and curl my body around him, as he presses his ice-cold hands and feet against me to warm up. So then I feel mean letting him cry.

Not to mention that regardless of whether or not I go to him when he cries during the night, I wake up. So I'm tired all the time, because I never, never get a decent night's sleep.

All I can say is, thank God for Jason. Because when Zeke starts tugging on my hand because he wants to go downstairs and play with his trucks, or go to the park and run around and go down the slide and swing on the swings, I don't always have the energy. And I feel inadequate as a parent. So Jason has picked up an enormous amount of slack, willing to run around with him until they're both exhausted.

So on the one hand, the pregnancy is going fine. But on the other, I'm tired, and I don't have the time anymore to just lounge around and relax in the sun to my heart's content. It's much harder this time around.

Help! My body has been invaded by a space alien!

The pregnancy is going well. I'm feeling fine and all seems to be progressing appropriately. Last week I went in for a 14 week ultrasound. We got some 4-D shots in addition to standard ultrasound images.

(The space alien, hand to forehead, proclaims "woe is me!")

(Profile shot -- nice strong spine, cute button nose)

I'm still at the point where the baby is too small for me to feel any kicks, so when I saw him (I don't know that it's a boy, but I don't feel like saying "him/her" every time) bopping around like he was attending a rave, it was thrilling. When I start to show a little bit more (right now I still look chesty and chubby rather than pregnant), I'll start posting "bump" pictures.

Babies, babies, everywhere

I feel like it's the season of pregnancy.

My friend Lisa is about 7 weeks ahead of me. My friend Elizabeth just gave birth to a bee-yoo-tee-ful baby boy, Elliot. Seriously, he's gorgeous. My friend Christi is about a month or so ahead of me.

Seeing Elizabeth's pictures of Elliot have made me more excited about The Joey. Not that I'm not looking forward to another baby, but strangely, this pregnancy has been very different than my last one, in that I don't feel consumed by it in a psychological sense.

With Zeke, I was constantly aware of being pregnant. I thought about it non-stop. I had my Babycenter.com pregnancy tracker as my internet home page.

With Joey, I was very, very happy to have a good 7-week ultrasound, because I had a miscarriage before Zeke, so I was skittish. In fact, when I saw the heartbeat, and the fact that the fetus measured exactly the right size based on how old it was, I started to cry.

But after that, I didn't think about it so much, except when I was puking. I get a weekly email from Babycenter.com updating me on Joey's progress, and every Friday morning, when it pops into my inbox, I'm surprised.

"Oh, yeah. I'm pregnant!"

But seeing Elizabeth's pictures of Elliot made my heart skip a beat, not only because I love my friend and am so happy for her, but also because it reminded me of what I have to look forward to in about 6 1/2 months.

And I'm really, really looking forward to it.

What Joey's up to:

Moving Hell

We're in the middle of it right now. Boxes everywhere. Clothes everywhere. Little bits of paper and debris everywhere. The house is in shambles. And we're out of here in two days.

In the meantime, Joey is kicking my ass in ways that Zeke never did. I had some very mild nausea at this point in the first trimester with Zeke, but these days I'm like an involuntary bulemic. I'll be hungry, so I'll eat something that seems appetizing, and I'll be all, "yay! it's staying down!" And then half an hour later I'll be on my knees, hugging the toilet. Or I'll be hungry, and absolutely nothing appeals to me -- all I feel is queasy. Or I'll pass a Chinese restaurant and all of a sudden I'll think to myself, "if I don't have some beef with broccoli, I'm going to die." So, essentially, I'm either puking, scarfing, or sneering at the refrigerator with narrowed eyes, as if to say, "Et tu?"

The movers are coming tomorrow, and then we clean and finish up and fly out on Friday. So I probably won't post anything until we're in Denver. It feels very strange to think that as of Saturday, my life with be very, very different.

Joey

There's a tendency among my close friends to name their fetuses (feti?) in utero. Kathleen's was Fergus. Mindy's was The Bean. Elizabeth's is Pickle. Once we knew that Zeke was a boy, we called him Zeke, but before then we called him The Little Monkey (which we still call him from time to time).

It imbues the baby-to-be with a sense of identity. And makes it easier to blame him if you really decide to indulge in that craving for cheesecake with raspberry sauce.

"Don't blame me, the Monkey is the one that really wants it. I'm just feeding your child."

I got a positive pregnancy test 3 weeks ago. Today I went in for an ultrasound to make sure the fetus's growth and heartrate are where they should be. Before Zeke, I miscarried right at around 6 1/2 weeks, so I've been a little skittish and nervous.

But the fetus measured a perfect 7 weeks 0 days -- exactly right -- and the heartbeat is nice and strong. When I saw the picture on the ultrasound screen, I burst into tears. Jason did too, I think.

I like to think of this baby as a little kangaroo in my pouch. So we're calling him Joey.*

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*Because of the strong tendency towards boys in Jason's family (he's got a brother, his brother has 2 sons, his father has 5 brothers, and on and on), I'm assuming it's a boy until proven otherwise. But Joey is cute for a girl, too.