As of today, I completed 34 weeks of pregnancy, leaving me with only six weeks to go. Six weeks. 42 days. One and-a-half months. In other words, not really all that long. On one hand, it's an eternity from now. On the other, it's practically tomorrow. Of course there's plenty to be done before that six weeks passes, and that's if the Weeble even waits that long.
Looking back, there have been a couple other times where "six weeks" has been significant. I was six weeks pregnant around Christmastime, when we told my family in North Dakota that we were expecting. Earlier than we would have liked to make that news public, but since it was the only opportunity we'd have to share the good news in person, we took it.
Six weeks after that, I was in Germany for a business trip, and gearing up for my first ultrasound and the opportunity to start telling other people in our life about the baby. It took another six weeks to let everyone know.
So here we are, getting near the end of things. My feet and ankles aren't too swollen for the most part, but I can't wear my wedding ring anymore - something that I said from the beginning I hoped would never happen. Up until this point, my pregnancy showed almost exclusively up front. But now my butt, hips, and thighs have gotten in on the action. My glorious stretch marks (or "love branches" as I don't actually call them, but that strikes me as an amusingly sarcastic thing to say) continue their march up and around my belly. Speaking of the belly, I don't know how it can get any bigger - or how I'll stay upright when it does. Because all signs point to I am not yet as big as I will be. Which is scary, considering that when strangers ask me when I'm due and I tell them August 19th, they look shocked and make some comment that usually results in me being pissed and/or paranoid for the rest of the day. Some strangers don't bother to ask, and simply say, "Wow, you must be ready to go, huh?" Urge to kill, RISING.
But there's no way around it. I'm getting close. Weeble is big, active, and ready, as her soon-to-be father believes, "to mess stuff up" (he uses a few alternate words I'll let you fill in on your own). So let the countdown begin. It is ON.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Saturday, July 7, 2007
Childbirth Learnin'
We are so totally ready to have this kid. Oh, yeah. We know exactly what to expect, where to go, who will be there, why, and what comes next. All this thanks to the joy of childbirth education classes, of which we had four over the course of the last month. We just finished our last one this week, and we couldn't possibly be more prepared.
Let's recap what we learned. I know you'd all like to share in our extensive knowledge.
Week one: Getting to know you
Our educator spent a good 45 minutes blathering on about her pregnancies (some 30+ years ago) and a couple of her daughter's pregnancies. One class participant, who was serving as labor coach to her daughter, also felt the need to chime in every five minutes with details of her own experiences with her four kids. The latter half of the class was spent watching a video about what happens when sperm enters the vagina and fertilizes an egg. Holy shit, so that's what happened?? I had been wondering how I got into this condition! There was also some discussion about how to breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth, as well as how to give hand massages (as a potential relaxation technique for the laboring mother - lucky M!).
Week two: Video Mayhem
I can't tell you a damn thing about our second class beyond the instructor repeating half of what she'd said in the first class, another breathing technique (the "sniff huff"), more "insights" from annoying coach-mother. And The Video. I knew it was going to be rough going the second our instructor started it and everyone in it had that vague ugliness that everyone in the 70s had (hey, I'm not knocking it - I was an ugly child by virtue of my birth in 1974). Everyone in the class giggled their way through several parts - especially us. Then M started getting a little out of control. The laboring 70s woman, with her feathered hair and horse-like teeth, was simply too much. Her geometry teacher husband made it even worse. When he asked her if she wanted anything, she said she'd like juice. His response: "Yeah? Juice?... Yeah." M nearly passed out from trying not to laugh out loud. Then all hell broke loose when ugly 70s lady let out a big grunt and geometry-teacher man responded with, "That was a BIG ONE!" Note to self: don't try to stop yourself from laughing by simply listening to the video instead of watching it. It won't work.
Week Three: Not Your Typical Labor
M and I were quite trepidatious about returning to class, thinking perhaps we would not be able to control our amusement. This was the class where we learned about good stuff like cesarean sections and epidurals. We got another video, too, which showed a "normal" labor along with a few women having non-"normal" labors. Thankfully, M and I were far more mature than usual and hysterical laughing was kept to a minimum. There was also a repeat of just about everything our instructor had shared in the first two classes, and possibly another breathing technique. But frankly, I can't remember at this point. Hooray, annoying mother-coach was not there - presumably because her daughter was busy requiring coaching for her birth.
Week Four: Hospital Tour and Swaddling Your Hideously Ugly Baby
This was easily our most interesting class. After only 10 minutes of repeated information and anecdotes heard in the first three classes, we got to take a stroll through the labor and delivery floor to see where all the "magic" happens. At least places where babies are born have a little more personality than other parts of hospitals, which as a general rule, I dislike immensely. After the tour (during which a few anecdotes were repeated again), we returned to our usual classroom to learn how to bathe and swaddle our babies. When it came to the swaddling, each couple was given its own practice baby. Ours was the ugliest thing you've ever seen. Made out of material similar to that of a Cabbage Patch Kid, it had a pair of painted-on crossed blue eyes, a disgusting tuft of brown hair, a suspicious stain on the back of its head, body-builder shoulders, and a face about a quarter the size of its head. This is the opposite of what I hope comes out of me next month. But hey, we learned how to swaddle our little thing-baby, and what's not good about that?
So, four childbirth education classes, three breathing techniques, countless repetitions of previously discussed pieces of information and anecdotes, and one out-of-control laughing fit, and we graduated with flying colors. Oh, yeah. We're ready for what comes next. No problem.
Let's recap what we learned. I know you'd all like to share in our extensive knowledge.
Week one: Getting to know you
Our educator spent a good 45 minutes blathering on about her pregnancies (some 30+ years ago) and a couple of her daughter's pregnancies. One class participant, who was serving as labor coach to her daughter, also felt the need to chime in every five minutes with details of her own experiences with her four kids. The latter half of the class was spent watching a video about what happens when sperm enters the vagina and fertilizes an egg. Holy shit, so that's what happened?? I had been wondering how I got into this condition! There was also some discussion about how to breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth, as well as how to give hand massages (as a potential relaxation technique for the laboring mother - lucky M!).
Week two: Video Mayhem
I can't tell you a damn thing about our second class beyond the instructor repeating half of what she'd said in the first class, another breathing technique (the "sniff huff"), more "insights" from annoying coach-mother. And The Video. I knew it was going to be rough going the second our instructor started it and everyone in it had that vague ugliness that everyone in the 70s had (hey, I'm not knocking it - I was an ugly child by virtue of my birth in 1974). Everyone in the class giggled their way through several parts - especially us. Then M started getting a little out of control. The laboring 70s woman, with her feathered hair and horse-like teeth, was simply too much. Her geometry teacher husband made it even worse. When he asked her if she wanted anything, she said she'd like juice. His response: "Yeah? Juice?... Yeah." M nearly passed out from trying not to laugh out loud. Then all hell broke loose when ugly 70s lady let out a big grunt and geometry-teacher man responded with, "That was a BIG ONE!" Note to self: don't try to stop yourself from laughing by simply listening to the video instead of watching it. It won't work.
Week Three: Not Your Typical Labor
M and I were quite trepidatious about returning to class, thinking perhaps we would not be able to control our amusement. This was the class where we learned about good stuff like cesarean sections and epidurals. We got another video, too, which showed a "normal" labor along with a few women having non-"normal" labors. Thankfully, M and I were far more mature than usual and hysterical laughing was kept to a minimum. There was also a repeat of just about everything our instructor had shared in the first two classes, and possibly another breathing technique. But frankly, I can't remember at this point. Hooray, annoying mother-coach was not there - presumably because her daughter was busy requiring coaching for her birth.
Week Four: Hospital Tour and Swaddling Your Hideously Ugly Baby
This was easily our most interesting class. After only 10 minutes of repeated information and anecdotes heard in the first three classes, we got to take a stroll through the labor and delivery floor to see where all the "magic" happens. At least places where babies are born have a little more personality than other parts of hospitals, which as a general rule, I dislike immensely. After the tour (during which a few anecdotes were repeated again), we returned to our usual classroom to learn how to bathe and swaddle our babies. When it came to the swaddling, each couple was given its own practice baby. Ours was the ugliest thing you've ever seen. Made out of material similar to that of a Cabbage Patch Kid, it had a pair of painted-on crossed blue eyes, a disgusting tuft of brown hair, a suspicious stain on the back of its head, body-builder shoulders, and a face about a quarter the size of its head. This is the opposite of what I hope comes out of me next month. But hey, we learned how to swaddle our little thing-baby, and what's not good about that?
So, four childbirth education classes, three breathing techniques, countless repetitions of previously discussed pieces of information and anecdotes, and one out-of-control laughing fit, and we graduated with flying colors. Oh, yeah. We're ready for what comes next. No problem.
Monday, July 2, 2007
The Name Game
As any pregnant woman will tell you, the first question she always gets when someone learns she is pregnant (or the protruding belly is so obvious there's no way it's simple weight gain) is "When are you due?" The next two questions will inevitably follow, and almost always in this order:
"Do you know what the gender is?"
and, my favorite,
"Do you have a name picked out?"
In our case, we don't. We're testing out a list of four A-list names and four B-list names (ones we're not entirely sold on). We're taking each name and using it for a full week whenever we are referring to Weeble. We probably won't make our final decision on what it is until she's born and we've all been properly introduced. But it's nice to be able to try names out, even if we don't do it in public. We're one of those annoying couples who refuse to share the names, or even the potential list, with anyone else. It's our one last secret.
Thankfully, this policy didn't prevent one of my dear friends from providing a list of "suggestions." She's more or less settled on her favorite (Metallica - perfect for a girl or boy!), but I thought there were some other gems in there that are worth our consideration:
Aphrodesiac - Lovely, but this is how we got into this mess in the first place. I think no.
Bedonkadonk - Also what got us into this mess (as in, my awesome bedonkadonk that M simply couldn't resist).
Diamonique - Now this one has merit. Not only do I love diamonique jewelry, it's just so pretty as a name!
Filistina - Fine, but she'll inevitably end up with the very pedestrian "Tina."
Gayna - Isn't this the woman who sang that song, "I Will Survive"? Sure, Gloria Gayna.
Hambonia - Isn't this a region in Germany?
Iphagania - Pretty sure this is an itchy condition of the nether regions. No thanks.
Jean-Bobby - The 50s called - they want their crappy hyphenated, gender-neutral name back.
Lambycakes - I can totally see our kid going through life with this name being totally respected by men and non-strip club-oriented employers.
Rusty - I think not. I had a boyfriend in 9th grade for about 10 minutes named Rusty. His mother called the cops on me when two friends and I were breaking and entering a school. That bitch. How could she? Of course, this was on Mother's Day. Yep, I got brought home by the cops for breaking and entering on Mother's Day. This is not a memory I cherish (although I'm certain my mother does).
Shaniqua - As if every other baby girl being born these days isn't named Shaniqua already.
Tamborino - Built-in circus stage name! "The Great Tamborina will now thrill you with her daredevil antics high above the rings!!!"
Uvula - Mulva?
Xyla - Well, at least it's unique.
Yummy - No, I'd rather not tempt anyone inclined to snack on children.
OK, so they're not all winners. But I think, in the end, we'll end up with something a bit more on the traditional side. Like Thelma or Myrtle. Either way, we'll all know for sure when she's born. And that's only 7 weeks from now (give or take).
"Do you know what the gender is?"
and, my favorite,
"Do you have a name picked out?"
In our case, we don't. We're testing out a list of four A-list names and four B-list names (ones we're not entirely sold on). We're taking each name and using it for a full week whenever we are referring to Weeble. We probably won't make our final decision on what it is until she's born and we've all been properly introduced. But it's nice to be able to try names out, even if we don't do it in public. We're one of those annoying couples who refuse to share the names, or even the potential list, with anyone else. It's our one last secret.
Thankfully, this policy didn't prevent one of my dear friends from providing a list of "suggestions." She's more or less settled on her favorite (Metallica - perfect for a girl or boy!), but I thought there were some other gems in there that are worth our consideration:
Aphrodesiac - Lovely, but this is how we got into this mess in the first place. I think no.
Bedonkadonk - Also what got us into this mess (as in, my awesome bedonkadonk that M simply couldn't resist).
Diamonique - Now this one has merit. Not only do I love diamonique jewelry, it's just so pretty as a name!
Filistina - Fine, but she'll inevitably end up with the very pedestrian "Tina."
Gayna - Isn't this the woman who sang that song, "I Will Survive"? Sure, Gloria Gayna.
Hambonia - Isn't this a region in Germany?
Iphagania - Pretty sure this is an itchy condition of the nether regions. No thanks.
Jean-Bobby - The 50s called - they want their crappy hyphenated, gender-neutral name back.
Lambycakes - I can totally see our kid going through life with this name being totally respected by men and non-strip club-oriented employers.
Rusty - I think not. I had a boyfriend in 9th grade for about 10 minutes named Rusty. His mother called the cops on me when two friends and I were breaking and entering a school. That bitch. How could she? Of course, this was on Mother's Day. Yep, I got brought home by the cops for breaking and entering on Mother's Day. This is not a memory I cherish (although I'm certain my mother does).
Shaniqua - As if every other baby girl being born these days isn't named Shaniqua already.
Tamborino - Built-in circus stage name! "The Great Tamborina will now thrill you with her daredevil antics high above the rings!!!"
Uvula - Mulva?
Xyla - Well, at least it's unique.
Yummy - No, I'd rather not tempt anyone inclined to snack on children.
OK, so they're not all winners. But I think, in the end, we'll end up with something a bit more on the traditional side. Like Thelma or Myrtle. Either way, we'll all know for sure when she's born. And that's only 7 weeks from now (give or take).
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Stats - 32 Weeks
I had my final 4-week appointment the other day. From here on out, I'll go in every two weeks. My doctor wasn't there (nor was she when I went in after the accident). But I did get to meet another doctor in the practice, and since there's a chance someone other than my usual doctor will deliver me when the time comes, I'm happy to meet the extra players.
Good news all around. I'd gained only three pounds since my previous appointment. My belly, while seemingly huge to everyone else (to the point that comments have begun to make me a little paranoid about my size), measures completely normally in terms of size.
We also had a bonus ultrasound to size Weeble up and make sure she was on track. Oh, she's on track alright. She's so on track she's passed the station and is cruising on up the mountain. What I mean by this complete nonsense is that, while my belly is measuring "normal," Weeble is a big girl as of right now. The ultrasound puts her at five pounds and some odd ounces. More than a pound plus a few ounces over what a 32-week baby would "normally" be. But my favorite nurse said that puts her in the 65th percentile for size, which sounds a lot less scary. Still, if she keeps on this particular track, she's going be out of newborn size clothing before she's even born.
All around, she looks good and healthy. Fluids - check; placenta - check; 2 arms, 2 legs, check. We got a lovely view of her face, too (second picture).
It's fairly clear from this that she's already taking after me, what with the lips. Of course, the first thing that came to my mind was "Baby fish mouth!" No offense to her whatsoever, but those are some big lips she's got.
Looking at these ultrasound pictures compared to the previous two sets (at around 14 weeks and again at about 21 weeks) is unreal. She was scarcely a blip before. Then the "baby" in there became apparent. And now she's too big to fit on the screen. If there was ever a kick in the pants I needed to convince me that, oh, yeah, this is happening and she is real, this is it.
My stretch marks, as predicted, have in no way abated. They've all but taken over. I look at them as a hedge across my lower belly, since they do look very tree-like with all their spidery branches. People try to console me with the usual, "They'll go away eventually," clearly forgetting that stretch marks don't go away if you're not a celebrity with endless funds to get laser treatments or whatever it is the beautiful people do. They simply fade to become silvery branches instead of the angry red-purple ones they are today. But I suppose I'll embrace them eventually. I'm sure it's worth it. That's what they keep telling me anyway.
Good news all around. I'd gained only three pounds since my previous appointment. My belly, while seemingly huge to everyone else (to the point that comments have begun to make me a little paranoid about my size), measures completely normally in terms of size.
We also had a bonus ultrasound to size Weeble up and make sure she was on track. Oh, she's on track alright. She's so on track she's passed the station and is cruising on up the mountain. What I mean by this complete nonsense is that, while my belly is measuring "normal," Weeble is a big girl as of right now. The ultrasound puts her at five pounds and some odd ounces. More than a pound plus a few ounces over what a 32-week baby would "normally" be. But my favorite nurse said that puts her in the 65th percentile for size, which sounds a lot less scary. Still, if she keeps on this particular track, she's going be out of newborn size clothing before she's even born.
All around, she looks good and healthy. Fluids - check; placenta - check; 2 arms, 2 legs, check. We got a lovely view of her face, too (second picture).
It's fairly clear from this that she's already taking after me, what with the lips. Of course, the first thing that came to my mind was "Baby fish mouth!" No offense to her whatsoever, but those are some big lips she's got.Looking at these ultrasound pictures compared to the previous two sets (at around 14 weeks and again at about 21 weeks) is unreal. She was scarcely a blip before. Then the "baby" in there became apparent. And now she's too big to fit on the screen. If there was ever a kick in the pants I needed to convince me that, oh, yeah, this is happening and she is real, this is it.
My stretch marks, as predicted, have in no way abated. They've all but taken over. I look at them as a hedge across my lower belly, since they do look very tree-like with all their spidery branches. People try to console me with the usual, "They'll go away eventually," clearly forgetting that stretch marks don't go away if you're not a celebrity with endless funds to get laser treatments or whatever it is the beautiful people do. They simply fade to become silvery branches instead of the angry red-purple ones they are today. But I suppose I'll embrace them eventually. I'm sure it's worth it. That's what they keep telling me anyway.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Stretch
It finally happened. After 30 weeks and 3 days of flawless, gorgeous skin covering my belly, they came. A nice little crop of stretch marks have appeared just above my bikini line. This does not please me. I'm not interested in battle wounds. I'm interested in being exceedingly pretty.
OK, I'm exaggerating a bit (a lot). But still, I really don't like it. I'm already big, cumbersome, awkward, and cranky about 98.7% of the time. Now I get some purple road maps to Crazyville to boot?
I am aware there was little to nothing I could have done to prevent this particular side-effect of pregnancy. The cocoa and shea butter I've been lathering on since the 4th month I was pregnant were nice effort, but ultimately proved futile. Of course they did. Stretch marks laugh at lotions and potions. Stretch marks answer to genetics. My mom had them when she was pregnant with me, so it was pretty likely I'd get them, too. Hell, I got them during puberty when my boobal region grew faster than my poor skin could accommodate.
Still, I had maintained the small hope I'd escape this particular fate - or that I'd at least get farther along. I have the feeling it's all downhill from here. In fact, I'm pretty sure that in the time it's taken me to write this I've gotten at least 472 more stretch marks. Clearly, I need to up the ante: from now on I use TWICE as much shea butter. See if I can stop these suckers from getting any worse. Don't hold your breath, people.
OK, I'm exaggerating a bit (a lot). But still, I really don't like it. I'm already big, cumbersome, awkward, and cranky about 98.7% of the time. Now I get some purple road maps to Crazyville to boot?
I am aware there was little to nothing I could have done to prevent this particular side-effect of pregnancy. The cocoa and shea butter I've been lathering on since the 4th month I was pregnant were nice effort, but ultimately proved futile. Of course they did. Stretch marks laugh at lotions and potions. Stretch marks answer to genetics. My mom had them when she was pregnant with me, so it was pretty likely I'd get them, too. Hell, I got them during puberty when my boobal region grew faster than my poor skin could accommodate.
Still, I had maintained the small hope I'd escape this particular fate - or that I'd at least get farther along. I have the feeling it's all downhill from here. In fact, I'm pretty sure that in the time it's taken me to write this I've gotten at least 472 more stretch marks. Clearly, I need to up the ante: from now on I use TWICE as much shea butter. See if I can stop these suckers from getting any worse. Don't hold your breath, people.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Crash
Monday was not a good day. I should have known the moment I woke up. In fact, i did toy with the idea of staying home. I was sore and sunburned from our yard sale on Sunday, and even more tired than I usually am on a Monday morning. Sign #1.
But I dragged myself out of bed, showered, and geared up for my 1.5-hour commute to the office, an 8-hour workday, and another 1.5-hour commute home. When I let Ollie out for his morning constitutional, I noticed he was fixated on something on the ground. I went to investigate only to find 5 naked little baby birds, along with one egg, scattered about the base of our birdhouse. Very sad. Poor little shavers. Who knows what happened to them - there was no sign of trauma. But it was definitely Sign #2 for me.
Sign #3 was the ridiculous traffic. Having left home at the much-later-than-usual time of 8:00, I thought perhaps I'd miss a good deal of morning rush hour traffic. I was wrong. It was taking forever. At 9:00 I was pulling off the highway off-ramp, and when I finally made it to the top of the off-ramp, the driver in front of me started, then stopped. Unfortunately, I had also started. And when I stopped, I was cheek-to-cheek with her rear bumper. Sigh.
Fortunately, the lady I hit was nice about it. But I was a mess. Couldn't think straight, couldn't function properly. Barely knew my own name well enough to give it to her. But finally, we finished the information exchange and I headed back to my car for the last half-hour of my ride to work. I was in tears before I even closed the door. I cried like a little girl the entire way to work. Not sniffles, not occasional sobs. Outright inconsolable weeping, torrential downpours of tears. It wasn't just that I had hit the girl and done actual damage to both our cars. It was that I've gone nearly 20 years of driving with only one other (very small) fender bender where my insurance company let me off clean, and one speeding ticket (for a mere $5 - those were the golden years in Montana, my friends). I've been pulled over two other times, but got away with written warnings. So this little fender bender was something of a legitimate accident that was my fault. Dammit - such a clean record for so long. Combine this despair with pregnancy hormones... bad news.
When I got to the parking garage, I decided it was time to call M and tell him what had happened. True to form, he was lovely about it. So long as I was OK and the Weeble was OK, then it was no big thing. We'd deal with the increase to my auto insurance premium, and we'd be just fine. This made me feel better. And when my manager showed up in the garage looking for me (after I'd left him a voice mail that indicated I'd been in a car accident, but failed to mention that I was OK) to make sure I was, in fact, all in one piece, made me feel even better.
I lost all mental and emotional stability progress I made in the first hour at my desk, however, when I called my OB's office and they told me they wanted to see me. This should have made me feel better, but it just made me nervous. If I didn't go to the doctor, nothing could possibly be wrong with Weeble. But if I did go... there was the possibility they'd find something they didn't like. I didn't want them to find any such thing. I like denial. Still, I went in. I was immediately hooked up for a "non-stress test," which just involved two monitors that were belted around my middle - one to listen to Weeble's heartbeat, and one to hear what was going on in her domain. I was hooked up for nearly an hour and-a-half while they waited for her to do what they wanted her to do: namely, maintain a baseline HR for a bit, then shoot up 10-15 BPM for a minute, and go back down. Little bugger is already stubborn, which is why it took so long.
Everything is fine, of course. My mental state has improved significantly. Weeble checked out normally. And my car, while a little worse for the wear, is still perfectly serviceable. Still, from now on, I'll be watching the signs and actually heeding them.
But I dragged myself out of bed, showered, and geared up for my 1.5-hour commute to the office, an 8-hour workday, and another 1.5-hour commute home. When I let Ollie out for his morning constitutional, I noticed he was fixated on something on the ground. I went to investigate only to find 5 naked little baby birds, along with one egg, scattered about the base of our birdhouse. Very sad. Poor little shavers. Who knows what happened to them - there was no sign of trauma. But it was definitely Sign #2 for me.
Sign #3 was the ridiculous traffic. Having left home at the much-later-than-usual time of 8:00, I thought perhaps I'd miss a good deal of morning rush hour traffic. I was wrong. It was taking forever. At 9:00 I was pulling off the highway off-ramp, and when I finally made it to the top of the off-ramp, the driver in front of me started, then stopped. Unfortunately, I had also started. And when I stopped, I was cheek-to-cheek with her rear bumper. Sigh.
Fortunately, the lady I hit was nice about it. But I was a mess. Couldn't think straight, couldn't function properly. Barely knew my own name well enough to give it to her. But finally, we finished the information exchange and I headed back to my car for the last half-hour of my ride to work. I was in tears before I even closed the door. I cried like a little girl the entire way to work. Not sniffles, not occasional sobs. Outright inconsolable weeping, torrential downpours of tears. It wasn't just that I had hit the girl and done actual damage to both our cars. It was that I've gone nearly 20 years of driving with only one other (very small) fender bender where my insurance company let me off clean, and one speeding ticket (for a mere $5 - those were the golden years in Montana, my friends). I've been pulled over two other times, but got away with written warnings. So this little fender bender was something of a legitimate accident that was my fault. Dammit - such a clean record for so long. Combine this despair with pregnancy hormones... bad news.
When I got to the parking garage, I decided it was time to call M and tell him what had happened. True to form, he was lovely about it. So long as I was OK and the Weeble was OK, then it was no big thing. We'd deal with the increase to my auto insurance premium, and we'd be just fine. This made me feel better. And when my manager showed up in the garage looking for me (after I'd left him a voice mail that indicated I'd been in a car accident, but failed to mention that I was OK) to make sure I was, in fact, all in one piece, made me feel even better.
I lost all mental and emotional stability progress I made in the first hour at my desk, however, when I called my OB's office and they told me they wanted to see me. This should have made me feel better, but it just made me nervous. If I didn't go to the doctor, nothing could possibly be wrong with Weeble. But if I did go... there was the possibility they'd find something they didn't like. I didn't want them to find any such thing. I like denial. Still, I went in. I was immediately hooked up for a "non-stress test," which just involved two monitors that were belted around my middle - one to listen to Weeble's heartbeat, and one to hear what was going on in her domain. I was hooked up for nearly an hour and-a-half while they waited for her to do what they wanted her to do: namely, maintain a baseline HR for a bit, then shoot up 10-15 BPM for a minute, and go back down. Little bugger is already stubborn, which is why it took so long.
Everything is fine, of course. My mental state has improved significantly. Weeble checked out normally. And my car, while a little worse for the wear, is still perfectly serviceable. Still, from now on, I'll be watching the signs and actually heeding them.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Best Husband Ever
Last night was the first child-related education class for us. This one was about breastfeeding - how it works, how it doesn't work, and basic techniques.
When I registered for this class, the form indicated that "spouses are welcome and encouraged to attend." I took this to heart, and told M I really wanted him to join me for the class. Granted, I'm the one with the equipment, and thus the one to actually do the deed of feeding Weeble. But from what I can tell, breastfeeding can be tricky business, and women doing it can use all the support they can get - especially from a spouse or partner.
M was mostly on board with the idea of coming to the class. His primary concern was that it's not really a "dad" event, that there would be only expectant mothers attending. I assured him that this couldn't possibly be the case. After all, the registration form encouraged partner participation, and everything I'd read at the threads about this topic at BabyCenter.com indicated that breastfeeding classes were definitely equal opportunity.
As last night's class approached, M had that look about him. The look I know so very well. The look that says, "I don't wanna do this and I'm going to try and get out of it." Before he could even open his mouth, I said, "No way, you are COMING to this class with me and that's it!" Turns out, his concern was putting Ollie pup back in his crate for yet a few more hours (he's not quite trustworthy for a full day of roaming the house just yet). I agreed, this is a lousy situation. But it's a one-time deal, and we don't leave him crated any more than absolutely necessary. As a compromise, we decided to leave him out of the crate for the time we were gone to test his non-destructive inclinations. So with a few pleading moments of "don't eat the couch," we took our leave and headed to the hospital for breastfeeding class.
We walked in - just a minute or two late - and it was immediately clear. I was so very, very wrong. There were no other daddies-to-be. No supportive spouses. M was it. The lone guy in a very mother-oriented class. He (kindly) didn't say anything, but cast me a sardonic sidelong glance, to which I replied, "Not a word." This, of course, was simply my guilt for having dragged him to this class. He was willing to be supportive, but I knew going in that he had his doubts about attending this particular class.
What a guy. I don't know how I got so lucky with this one. He sat through it, and he took it all in with barely any noticeable discomfort. Even the teacher had some props for him, noting that while breastfeeding might seem like strictly a "mom" thing, dads need to be as supportive, knowledgeable, and on board as possible. I couldn't have been prouder. I couldn't help but wonder if all the other expectant moms there were thinking to themselves, "My husband is a dog! Why isn't he here supporting me??" Yep. What a guy. And he's all mine.
During a brief break, I apologized profusely for making him come. I had truly believed there would be many couples there. Why shouldn't there be? Feeding a child - whether the equipment is attached to one parent or there are bottles and formula to mix - should be a family affair. M was so good about it. I couldn't make him stay for the second half. So I sent him home to figure out dinner, entertain Ollie pup, and wait for me to be ready to picked up. He didn't miss too much in the second half - nothing he can't pick up from reading a book or being told by me. And I missed only the pleasure of his presence, and the fact that we're both of the same juvenile mentality to find the same things funny.
What I walked away with from this situation is that I have an awesome, amazing, supportive husband, and I am lucky for it. Not that I didn't already know this. But it's really wonderful to be reminded of it. He put himself out there into a place that was undoubtedly uncomfortable and weird, simply because he knew I wanted him there with me. What a guy.
When I registered for this class, the form indicated that "spouses are welcome and encouraged to attend." I took this to heart, and told M I really wanted him to join me for the class. Granted, I'm the one with the equipment, and thus the one to actually do the deed of feeding Weeble. But from what I can tell, breastfeeding can be tricky business, and women doing it can use all the support they can get - especially from a spouse or partner.
M was mostly on board with the idea of coming to the class. His primary concern was that it's not really a "dad" event, that there would be only expectant mothers attending. I assured him that this couldn't possibly be the case. After all, the registration form encouraged partner participation, and everything I'd read at the threads about this topic at BabyCenter.com indicated that breastfeeding classes were definitely equal opportunity.
As last night's class approached, M had that look about him. The look I know so very well. The look that says, "I don't wanna do this and I'm going to try and get out of it." Before he could even open his mouth, I said, "No way, you are COMING to this class with me and that's it!" Turns out, his concern was putting Ollie pup back in his crate for yet a few more hours (he's not quite trustworthy for a full day of roaming the house just yet). I agreed, this is a lousy situation. But it's a one-time deal, and we don't leave him crated any more than absolutely necessary. As a compromise, we decided to leave him out of the crate for the time we were gone to test his non-destructive inclinations. So with a few pleading moments of "don't eat the couch," we took our leave and headed to the hospital for breastfeeding class.
We walked in - just a minute or two late - and it was immediately clear. I was so very, very wrong. There were no other daddies-to-be. No supportive spouses. M was it. The lone guy in a very mother-oriented class. He (kindly) didn't say anything, but cast me a sardonic sidelong glance, to which I replied, "Not a word." This, of course, was simply my guilt for having dragged him to this class. He was willing to be supportive, but I knew going in that he had his doubts about attending this particular class.
What a guy. I don't know how I got so lucky with this one. He sat through it, and he took it all in with barely any noticeable discomfort. Even the teacher had some props for him, noting that while breastfeeding might seem like strictly a "mom" thing, dads need to be as supportive, knowledgeable, and on board as possible. I couldn't have been prouder. I couldn't help but wonder if all the other expectant moms there were thinking to themselves, "My husband is a dog! Why isn't he here supporting me??" Yep. What a guy. And he's all mine.
During a brief break, I apologized profusely for making him come. I had truly believed there would be many couples there. Why shouldn't there be? Feeding a child - whether the equipment is attached to one parent or there are bottles and formula to mix - should be a family affair. M was so good about it. I couldn't make him stay for the second half. So I sent him home to figure out dinner, entertain Ollie pup, and wait for me to be ready to picked up. He didn't miss too much in the second half - nothing he can't pick up from reading a book or being told by me. And I missed only the pleasure of his presence, and the fact that we're both of the same juvenile mentality to find the same things funny.
What I walked away with from this situation is that I have an awesome, amazing, supportive husband, and I am lucky for it. Not that I didn't already know this. But it's really wonderful to be reminded of it. He put himself out there into a place that was undoubtedly uncomfortable and weird, simply because he knew I wanted him there with me. What a guy.
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