We have a baby!

Ok, we’ve had a baby for 2 weeks. Productivity and blogging pretty much hit a brick wall made of baby meat after Critter arrived. Hang on, that sounds wrong. Anyway, he’s a 10-fingered and -toed little creature, easily the most disgusting mammal I’ve shared a house with, but absolutely wonderful. More posts to come covering labor, delivery, the hospital stay, recovery, and keeping the baby alive.

5-1-1

This morning we went to the hospital. Well, we left for the hospital at noon, precisely, which is about right for us. Anyway, we went to the hospital because Ms had been having contractions every five minutes, lasting for at least a minute, for an hour — four hours, actually. This is the 5-1-1 “rule” the doctors gave us to determine when to head to the hospital. So here’s the thing about the rule: it’s bullshit. Or, at least, it’s woefully incomplete, because it doesn’t include an intensity component.  They didn’t admit us, which is fine. Ms isn’t far enough along for that, apparently, and that’s fine too. The child will come when he comes, and I’ll err on the side of getting Ms professional care over anecdotal care any day of the week. What was frustrating was that this was the first time we’d gotten any sort of clear description from anyone in an official medical capacity of the effect that a “real” contraction would have. “Hard to stand upright,” “difficult to walk,” “you can’t catch your breath.” It’s frustrating that this is the first time anyone with professional credentials has put the concepts into words (no offense to anyone without professional credentials, but there’s enough variation in your reports—from “you’ll know when you know” to “you won’t be able to see and you might puke”—that it’s hard to draw effective lessons other than “this will suck”). So I have a suggestion. I mean, as a society we could expose boys and girls to childbirth at a young age (er, other than the obvious exposure to it that everyone has one way or another) so that we have an intuitive understanding of what the process is like. I’m all for that, but the fuddy duddies who make up this country would never allow it. Absent that, we could try not leaving the patient to fend for herself. Let me explain. The patient, Ms, has never done this before, has no professional experience with labor, has extensive anecdotal experience of questionable accuracy. She is supposed to make the decision to go to the hospital on the basis of “you’ll know” and “it’ll be different”? Well, shit, this morning was different. It’s just another case of the abysmal state of American medical care, because patients are prevented from enjoying comprehensive treatment by, no doubt, insurance companies. What should happen is … well it could be a number of things. First, they could admit the patient when she feels like she’s ready (i.e., consistent, regular contractions) and let her enjoy professional care until the baby arrives, even if it’s a couple of days. Second, they could admit the patient under the same circumstances—but in this case tell the patient that when she’s having consistent, regular contractions she should come in—and then take the opportunity to walk through what the next few hours or days could involve, the signs to look for, etc. Maybe give us a checklist. I’m sure there are many on the Internet, but the Internet is full of conflicting, biased, and incomplete information. In other words, eliminate the fucking shame many patients doubtless feel at being too wimpy or having a false alarm.  Third, and this is a bigger social engineering project, try to hook mothers-to-be up as teammates, perhaps assigning someone at 20 weeks to someone at 38 weeks, so the “younger” mom-to-be can see the endgame. Explain that no two people are the same, of course, but give...

For a Girl Like You

See what I did there? I’ve been absent too. As Ms says, it’s not for lack of things to do and say. Except that it is in a way. Most of what’s happened in the last few weeks is building on what came before. Ms has gotten progressively more vulnerable to cheetah attack. I’ve done a few things more often than I expected I ever would, like “hanging blinds” and “picking shit up off the floor after Ms dropped it but still needs it.”  I’m driving a lot. Which is good, because I enjoy driving Ms’ car (a convenient result of a parking geometry conundrum).  I’ve assembled various furniture items. I’ve installed car seats.  I’ve attained a very close and personal connection with the Amazon delivery drivers. A note on that: thank you. It’s likely most of you who gave us stuff will never see this (and you’ve been thanked personally anyway), but … thank you. Ms and I didn’t do any registry for our wedding because our problem was—is—too much stuff, not a shortage, and neither of us is the “throw out all the old stuff just to get new stuff” person. So it’s been a pleasant revelation just how endlessly kind people are since we did have a baby registry (because we had zero baby equipment). People have been … so generous. So unbelievably generous. And it’s not just the stuff that comes in boxes. People have given us recipes for magic baby foods. People have handed down baby clothes. People have given us babysitting coupons. It’s wonderful. I’m writing this with zero sarcasm or irony: people don’t suck. I’m sure there’s an element of “oh you poor, poor dears you don’t know what’s coming” as well. Heh. Anyway, getting back on track, yes, I’ve done quite a lot in the last few weeks. I say that not to pat myself on the back, but to note that it’s just … it’s all stuff you’d expect to do when equipping a home for a baby. And, as far as documenting Ms’ trials, hell, the third trimester is without a doubt the trimester that most accurately and consistently adheres to the pregnancy stereotypes, so there’s not much to report there either.  No, the one thing I’ve done that I’ll note that I’m proud of I did today. Ms was feeling like crap. Neil Peart could’ve drummed out a solo on her belly it was so tight (this is on top of the contractions). She was, literally, moaning and swaying in a chair in the kitchen (she was going to help me make some food). So I said, “Hey, you want to try an experiment?” She said yes. So we put on her shoes and we walked laps of the back yard. She started to perk up a bit. So I got her talking about something that I knew she’d feel strongly about. By the end of it, from where I was standing anyway, she seemed to be more or less back to normal.  The point? Partners of pregnant people need to get very good at pregnant person hacking. Pay attention to what they need and the effects that things have on them. It’s a toolkit. Your toolkit may not be my toolkit, but you need a toolkit. And notice I didn’t say “Listen to what they need.” Don’t do that. Or at least don’t only do that. You’ve got to watch, listen, and apply. Occasionally you have to give orders....

Waiting

Being pregnant means never having to say you’re sorry. So I’m not. I’m not sorry that I haven’t posted once in my third trimester. I’m not sorry that I have drafts I never published in my third trimester. I’m not sorry that I just wasn’t in the mood to write in my third trimester. So there. Why haven’t I written? I’m not sure. I’ve had thoughts. Lots of thoughts. I probably will look back and wish I had written. They say that the mind will forget what the body goes through during pregnancy. Perhaps I was sparing myself the documentation. I also pushed myself (I know, I know, you’re sooooo surprised) due to work events that were out of my control (and in a few cases, just out of control) and so since about mid-April on, I’ve been beyond busy and physically destroyed. The Braxton-Hicks started shortly after a week of 15-hour days (don’t ask, just don’t say the word “Bollywood” around me). That was week 32. That was 6 weeks ago. Last Wednesday, they became the “real-deal” in terms of intensity and discomfort. And 6 days later – they’re about the same. It sucks. It also comes with horrifying hormones that I can’t control.  This is hard for me. Mr. Forty would tell you that for a pregnant lady, I’ve been fairly level. My default is a bit feisty (everyone who knows me is now rolling their eyes and saying, “A bit feisty?!?!” And those people can fuck off), but all things being equal, I’ve been pretty good.  My instinct is to laugh at damn near everything (inability to bend over and pick something up, inability to get out the car, inability to form words that makes sense, inability to fit into any clothing, inability to fit into any shoes, inability to walk for more than a few feet without needing a sit-down for myself, inability to recognize my own reflection, etc.). Lately, as in the past week, the hormones have gone in the other direction. After a bout of really bad contractions (but never so many that we can say “Go Time!”) I couldn’t stop crying. I just wasn’t quite ready to leave the amazing twosome that Mr. Forty and I have made. I think there’s another post in me about just how amazing this man is and how very much in awe of him I am several times a day. I regret so very little in life, but there is a part of me that does wish he and I could have had just a bit more time together before we made the biologically responsible choice to start a family while we could still pick the kid up. Point? The crying jags suck balls. I hate hormones. BUT… I’m going to miss stuffing my face.  I hear that breastfeeding allows you  a calorie free-for-all and I certainly hope so. I don’t know what magic has occurred in my third trimester, but no matter how much I shovel into my face hole, I show up to my doctor’s appt. only putting on my allowed “one pound per week.” It’s fucking delightful and I don’t care if that’s a humble brag or not. I’m going to take the small pieces of grace I have gotten. I think the weirdest thing is that I stopped driving.  Completely. Haven’t been behind the wheel of a car in over three weeks. Because I’m only 5′ and I have legs the length of a...

Where We Are

We are on the couch, eating pho, and watching March Madness. Ms. Forty: *brrraaaaaaaap* Oh god, I’m disgusting. Mr. Forty: It’s feeding time for Jabba. Yeah, I gotta say, that’s exactly what it’s like. Jesus I don’t even know me anymore. And just like that, while typing this, I just unexpectedly sneezed and snotted myself. I’m fucking Slimer.

Developments

Ms: I can make my belly button pop out a little bit. Mr: Don’t freak your husband out, dear. Ms: *disturbingly evil laugh*