35 Weeks, 35 Days To Go

So...moving on.

How's October 15th sound for having a baby?

Thanks to some big new initiative to bring down c-section rates, my hospital refused to let my doctor schedule the surgery/birth/gutting/whatever on the date we'd originally planned for (October 10th). All scheduled sections must be LESS than a week before your due date, and apparently they'll even fight you on anything more than a couple DAYS ahead of time. This means I've been scheduled a mere three days before a due date that I do not even agree with (October 18th). (My wildly wonky cycle and wildly inconsistent early ultrasounds gave us dates spanning over a week apart, my doctor picked one from somewhere in the middle.)

My math puts my due date somewhere around the 13th or the 14th. Which means...

I may very well end up going into labor anyway.

*tosses up hands and laughs, panics at the realization that oh fuck, I have not done nearly enough kegels*

I don't think this baby is as big as Noah. I really don't. I have no real reason to think this, other than a vague sort of smallish vibe-feeling. I think he's head down. I THINK he's face down, or close to it. But I know second babies are more likely to be bigger, not smaller, and that my problems at Noah's birth had a lot to do with my pelvic shape (you know, IN ADDITION to the macrosomic and posterior baby who pooped in utero and had the cord wrapped around his neck), so it could all just be wishful thinking on my part.

The next few weeks will include a lot of monitoring of the baby's size and position, which is of course wildly inaccurate, but I'm hoping it will tell us enough to know whether I could safely roll with labor for a little while or if I should proceed immediately to surgery. My doctor's only concern is the physical limitations of our hospital, which gets insanely crowded (I know, since I had to labor in the triage area for HOURS last time before an actual room opened up), and there's no guarantee that an operating room will even be available if I were to run into trouble. Which, yeah, could technically be pretty bloody well likely, given my previous history of BIRTHING CLUSTERFUCK!!!1!!1

But regardless, he's up for the checking and letting me see what happens, particularly if I go into labor early, when there's a better chance for a reasonably sized baby. I doubt that will happen -- my guess is I'll start having contractions the morning of the 15th, leading to a big whole hassle as my surgery time approaches as we go back and forth and eh? Should we try? Yes, no? Maybe? Eh?

Jason seems a little wigged out all of a sudden, since he's always been in favor of keeping things as calm and controlled as possible, and now wants me to indulge in every old wives' tale out there for inducing labor to get this kid out before he qualifies for the next NFL draft.

I'm feeling very DONE, either way. My skin is stretched beyond insanity, my ribs feel bruised, the heartburn is unbearable (I get it from EVERYTHING, including WATER THAT IS TOO COLD), and I've started throwing up again. My clothes don't fit, I've graduated to the uber-sexy nursing bras, and I'm already not sleeping. Bring it, baby. Let's get the real party started.

I'll provide the footwear.

NOM.

NOM NOM.

NOM NOM NOM GET OUT HERE BABY SO I CAN EAT YOU.

My Patented Formula: Post a Half-Assed Tantrum Then Frantically Backpedal When I Get Called on the Half-Assed Tantrum

Thank you, everybody, for your comments yesterday, and for indulging my moment of triumphant self-pity. I came very close to not even mentioning the situation at all, both because I thought some stiff-upper-lipitude would make it easier for my mom (I think, in fact, she was relieved to see that I actually DID want them down, since I guess I'd been a little TOO quick to assure her that I was fine! Fine with this! Don't you dare worry about me, because I am FINE!) and because I Know How Posts Like That Sound. Get some perspective! Things could be worse! Quit whining!

Which. Of course. A couple of you pointed that out. In SUCH a nice way too.

My intention is not to win gold medals at the Pain Olympics. My intention is to...I don't know. Throw words at the Internet to see what sticks, and yesterday I was very, very sad and things were hitting me in a bizarre delayed-reaction style -- my poor dad! my poor mom! what if this doesn't get better? who is going to take care of them? I'm not ready to take care of them because I still need someone to take care of me! I want everything to be just like it was last time! I need to find a way to fix this! I don't think I can fix this! I'm tired now!

I spent most of my allotted writing time working on a funny post about my dog peeing in Noah's bed. (Seriously. RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME. Staring right at me with her beady I-know-what-you're-gestating eyes.) But...it wasn't really funny. It didn't work. It was tinged too heavily with the Stuff I Wasn't Really Writing About. So I deleted it, took a deep breath and just blurted out what was really on my mind for awhile until a nice cleansing cry came and I couldn't see the keyboard anymore.

Thus, my post was rambling, disorganized and unfinished. I knew I would get the "sack UP, ho" comments, because wah wah waaaah. I knew -- know! -- that this is a tiny, minuscule problem in light of what other families have gone through. Perhaps I should apologize for posting something raw and unfinished that dared reveal the 45-minute-long pity party I threw for myself, without spending hours making sure that I fully acknowledged that I was being a bit bratty and was aware of every single possible thing that could be worse.

(I still cringe a little, though, when I remember the shaming rebuke I got during my first pregnancy for bitching about our botched-to-total-hell kitchen remodel in the wake of Katrina, mostly because I could at least TALK about the kitchen remodel without crumpling into a little sobbing ball on the floor.)

(The floor that kept shifting and cracking. No matter how many times it was re-grouted. Because the contractor had cheaped out on the sub-floor and refused to acknowledge that he'd made a mistake and oh my God, I just wanted my canned goods out of my fucking living room.)

(ANYWAY, it stings, actually, the assumption that the simple act of devoting a few hundred words to a silly personal weblog means you truly think those hundred words are clearly the Most Terribly Important & Pressing Matter Of All Time, when really they are only a half step above inane stream-of-consciousness babble and barely scratch the surface of everything else going on in your life.)

My mom, as some of you may remember, was diagnosed with breast cancer during my first pregnancy, and for several months it certainly looked like she wasn't going to be there for Noah's birth either. But of course, I was mostly preoccupied with her being HERE, LIKE ON EARTH. My dad has had more serious health scares than I can even count at this point (cancer, aortic aneurysm, heart attacks, stroke, diabetes, multiple falls and head injuries and he actually doesn't have a voice box anymore, thanks to the cancer). And yet, they are HERE.

They were en route to the hospital with Jason's parents when Noah was born. I called my mom's cellphone from my room and didn't even recognize the trembly little-girl voice I used to ask how soon they would be there, and when they were farther away than I thought, I hung up the phone and cried. (My in-laws had decided that a not-very-quick trip to Whole Foods in PRINCETON, NEW JERSEY was absolutely essential before heading down to DC, where...you know, WE HAVE A LOT OF WHOLE FOODS.) There was absolutely no one else I wanted on earth more than my mom.

But then they were there. I remember my mom came and hugged me first before directing her attention to the baby, which took me by surprise. My dad and I watched part of a Phillies game together. I accidentally recorded over the video we shot of them holding Noah for the first time. I was happy we'd get a do-over.

After Jason went back to work, my mom came and stayed with us for a week. She was still recovering from her mastectomy -- she was worried that she wouldn't really be much of a help, which was ridiculous. We sat on the couch together, we drank coffee and ate junk food and talked about babies and watched movies. It took both of us, in our post-surgical-weakened states, to carry the stroller down the stairs and making it to the post office down the street was a huge victory. She knew exactly what I was going through with breastfeeding and offered no judgment or unsolicited advice or anything other than support. She insisted I take naps. She insisted Jason and I go out for dinner. She told me, over and over again, what a natural I was, what a good mother I was already, and how proud she was. When she left, I was strengthened and confident that I Could Do This.

So yes, I very selfishly want that again.

It's painful to watch your parents age, to get sick, to suffer.

It's painful when it's a slow, natural process, when it just sort of hits you that oh, did he always walk that slow? was her memory always that bad?

It's painful when it's a dramatic roller coaster of health scares, when you can't help but wonder if the next middle-of-the-night phone call will be the last of its kind.

It's more painful than I ever really thought it would be. I have friends who lost parents suddenly, in car accidents usually, but most of them have younger parents who are still healthy and fit. Traveling the world, inflicting the dreaded pop-in and being a giant nagging pain in their ass, year after year.

I was 25 when my dad had a massive aneurysm and almost died. Multiple times, actually, in the span of a few weeks. Jason and I had talked about MAYBE having a baby MAYBE when I was 30. WE SHALL MAYBE SEE. But then I sat next to my dad's hospital bed and had the most terrible, horrible realization -- my maybe hypothetical child might not ever know him. I thought of the few stories I knew about my grandfathers -- both of whom passed away before I was ever born -- and how little I knew about them, those men in old faded photographs who meant nothing to me, and I could barely even breathe. The thought of MY FATHER being a mostly irrelevant figure to MY CHILDREN, just another man in a faded photograph...oh my God. I went home and told Jason we needed to have a baby RIGHT THAT SECOND.

It took him a little while to get on board, and then it took my body even longer to cooperate, but let me tell you: my love and respect for my father -- and my absolute non-readiness to lose him -- are why we have Noah in the first place. And I know I should be well past the point where I let one or two trolls get under my skin and drown out the hundred other kind voices, but the accusation that my post yesterday treated him like an afterthought, that I was truly only thinking about myself and not my parents, well...that's got to be one of the most ignorant things anyone has ever said to me, and frankly, how fucking dare you. (And thanks for reading! Kisses!)

I DO take comfort in the fact that my parents are still here. It's not been an easy road to HERE, let me tell you. I know I can talk to them over the phone, over email, over a webcam, and that while a postpartum trip up to Pennsylvania is not what any of us would prefer, it's doable and by God we'll do it.   

But sometimes I still want to climb on top of something and shout that THIS IS HARD, I DON'T LIKE IT, MAKE IT STOP.

And the Village Burned to the Ground

I talked to my mom yesterday. My dad is not doing well. He's unsteady, dizzy, forgetful. A heart monitor found an arrhythmia. Everything keeps getting worse instead of better. The doctors think his symptoms are the results of his fall this past June and not the reason for his fall. They don't actually have any real clue why he fell but the fact remains that he might very well fall again. My mom stands helplessly by, knowing that she can't leave him, even though she can't catch him, either.

My head spun off in a million directions -- a million questions for the doctors, potential solutions to their living situation that would grant them the luxury of being able to leave the house, lamenting the lack of family near them, rehashing the conversation Jason and I had over the weekend wondering whether we should confront the inevitable and move back to Pennsylvania because clearly no one else will -- even though I could really only stammer my sympathies and a suggestion that Peapod might be have cheaper delivery fees for groceries than Acme. Mostly I just tried to dismissively wave off the real reason my mom had called.

I understand.

Well, obviously.

Of course he can't travel.

Of course you can't leave him.

Of course.

I understand.

I'm fine! I'll be fine. We'll figure something out. Totally fiiiiine.

...

And then today it really hit me. Like the snooze button kicked in, 12 hours later.

I'm having a baby and my mom won't be there. My dad won't be there. They won't be there at the hospital. They won't be there at my house, making the coffee or folding the laundry or picking Noah up from school or reminding me to shower.

I'm suddenly very scared. Very alone. Very heartbroken for all of us, and this loss of time and firsts that you never get back. I know they're heartbroken too -- I heard it in my mother's voice, how much this hurts her, and I'm still debating whether to publish this when I'm done because I'm afraid it will upset her -- and yet I just want to slam doors and stomp my feet and dramatically throw myself down on the furniture because I'm having a baby and my mom won't be there and I need her and it's not fair.

This Post Took 75 Hours To Type

Today's Internet connection: up, down, down. Down again. Typing this from my iPhone, which is a whole heap of fun and fussy little tap tap taps. But I soldier on! To inform the Internet! That I am still pregnant and well! Although I appear to no longer have any appetite for burritos, as I learned first-hand today when I could only stare in disgust at the one food source that has sustained me and Baby Tivo lo these past eight months.

(Eight. I could have typed 8. My ingrained devotion to the AP Stylebook apparently knows no bounds.)

Noah and I both came down with colds this weekend, but I'm happy to report that my cold mysteriously healed itself first thing Sunday morning when Jason turned to me and suggested we take a trip to the Outlets (you know, Outlets as Proper Noun, because the bargains are just that hardcore) to look for that elusive coming-home outfit.

I found it at the Carter's outlet, after rejecting at least 15 other options for various really very insane reasons that even sounded insane to me as I was saying them out loud. Jason wanted a brown and green outfit that had a goddamned MOOSE on it and I said I was willing to buy it and take it home for further consideration (yeah, I was never, ever planning to really consider it.), because I was tired of sounding so crazy, but then I realized they were sold out of the matching hat. No moose hats! Oh well! (I did buy a onesie with the moose on it. I have nothing against moose, they just aren't...you know...sponge-worthy, so to speak.)

In the end I found my sweet little blue-ish sleeper in a teddy bear pattern, complete with a matching hat and a completely pointless sweater that I will force him to wear for at least one photo, because knowing my luck it will still be 95 fucking degrees the second week of October. And now all I have to do is resist cradling the empty outfit and/or carrying it with me to the supermarket for one more month if I'd like to pass for a somewhat sane human being.

And hey! I also got a sangria pitcher. And three new lighting fixtures for the house that Jason has to install immediately, because I can't rearrange the all the picture frames in the dining room until he does.

I think I have been typing this entry for seven hours now. And I still have not even STARTED to address my real main point and reason for even bothering to update at all, in the face of such connectivity challenges.

So! All of you lovely, lovely sweet people who have sent baby gifts: THANK YOU. You have really made the last few weeks just super-fun and delightful for all of us. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Now here's the problem: quite a few things have arrived via third-party sellers instead of direct from Amazon, which means incomplete to downright non-existent sender info. A couple packages have arrived with no packing slip at all, while others have only included a first and last name that I haven't been able to match up with a blogger or commenter handle. It also appears that some of these third-party sellers are not including the gift notes that you may have typed out at Amazon. I've tried to email people a quick note to acknowledge that the gift arrived, but sometimes I've been unable to do even that. Now that I'm sitting down to write and mail actual paper thank-you notes, I'm missing a BUNCH of addresses. 

So...um, I don't know the tactful way to ask this, but if you have sent a gift that I have not emailed to thank you for (if I have, that means I have your address), could you maybe shoot me an email (amy AT amalah.com) and let me know what you sent and what your address is? I don't want to embarrass or stalk anyone -- I just want to send you a proper thank-you note, because you are as sweet as pie and I am just very touched by everyone who has sent something for the baby or Noah.

Oh my God, I have carpal tunnel in my fingertips. STOP TALKING, AMY. Nobody should ever type this much on a twee little mobile device. And I know as soon as I hit publish my Internet will suddenly come back on and then I will want to punch something in the face but my hands will be too weak and arthritic to punch anything in the face. And that will just be a shame.

I...I DON'T KNOW. I JUST DON'T KNOW.

I just wrote an entire post about a brownie. A brownie that I artfully swiped from Noah's kiddie combo meal lunch, a brownie that he did not even know existed, and that I just ate in three bites within 30 seconds of putting him down for a nap.

And then it occurred to me that really, that one sentence right there? Was STILL more words than one should really write about a brownie, no matter how sad one is that the brownie is now gone and there are no more brownies. So I deleted the first post about the brownie, only to then write this post about the brownie.

I'm really good at this blogging thing, sometimes.

Also, I have now have brownie crumbs in my cleavage, and I appear to have spilled salsa on my belly in three different places.

And...

Um...

My cat is real pretty?

One time this happened?

And then one time Noah and I found a ladybug in the house and Noah really, really loved that ladybug and then I said it was time to send the ladybug home and I opened the window to put the ladybug out on the sill but then accidentally dropped the ladybug out the window and Noah looked at me like this because OMFG YOU KILLED DAT LADYBUG?

Yeah. So that's why a brownie seemed like a pretty interesting topic at the time.

(Dear Noah, I'm so, so sorry about the ladybug. I'm sure it's okay, unless I accidentally broke all its legs when I dropped it upside down first and then flipped it off the windowsill while attempting to help it, but you know I used to pick up caterpillars on our walks and let them climb around on my hands and arms for your amusement? I think that should buy me a little forgiveness here.)

(Also, remember that FInding Nemo taught us that toilets lead to the ocean.)

(Spiders freaking LOVE the ocean! It's true!)

34 Weeks

Yes, yes, I know, I know. I'm getting dangerously close to the point where I simply cannot go a day without at least posting that yes, there is no baby yet and all is well with my womb. I'm sorry. It's just that the baby's sock drawer is not going to repeatedly arrange and rearrange itself, y'all.

I've also been blowing my writerly load via dozens of long emails to my husband, since we've learned that we are only allowed to argue about politics via electronic methods. Otherwise we get a tad...shrill with each other, as during major election years our usually happy existence as independents ends, and we retreat to our separate party corners and hiss and spit and furiously send each other links that SO TOTALLY prove that the other person is a complete fucking idiot.

And while I usually just end up defaulting to the surefire "I am never sleeping with you again unless you pull your head at least PARTWAY out of your ass," I'm thinking that's not going to be particularly effective this time.

I mean, check OUT this slammin' physique. Wouldn't YOU be okay with letting the Bush tax cuts expire as planned in 2010 for a chance at that ass?

That's what I thought, suckahs. (And that IS a maternity tank. Those extra four inches of visible fishbelly are so fierce.)

If current "plans" hold -- and oh, I do so love using the word "plans" in regard to ANYTHING birth-related, since it makes me think of "birth plans" and how all the pregnancy books list that as something one should pack for the hospital ("darling, can you please fetch me my chapstick, Yanni CD and seven-page birth plan from the suitcase? It's in the front pocket. No, that's the back-up copy, I mean the one I had laminated.") --  I'll be having this baby in about five weeks.

And...we feel ready, more or less. Oh sure, we still haven't gotten all the various baby gear down from the attic yet and I'm still only assuming that the car seat is where I think I left it, and a full inventory of Noah's infant hand-me-downs reveals a horrifying shortage of 3-6 month sized feetie jammies but...eh. We're ready. We've been gripped with crazy baby fever over the past few weeks, which is convenient! What timing!

Whenever we see someone out and about with an infant, our conversations go something like this:

NOM, I say. SMUSHY BABY THERE MMMM.

GOOD, Jason says, SQUAWKY NEWBORN CHOMP.

Then we nod and go back to gnawing on bones and bitching about Geico ads. (And short- vs. long-term solutions to the energy crisis and Iraq timetables and OH MY GOD SARAH PALIN.)

I'm not sure when it happened -- the 3D ultrasound, the crazy visible kicks and rolls and undulations of mah belleh, the discovery of baby socks that look like shoes, the temporary threat that things might in fact NOT be as perfect and surefire as we thought? I don't know. But here we are, at 34 weeks, and we are finally able to have a conversation about The Baby that doesn't involve a heaping hot dose of TERROR and WHAT HAVE WE DONE? Undo! Ctrl-Z!

My only frustration is that we don't have a name. (Jason changed his mind. Don't even get me started. He changed his mind but has not offered a single usable alternative and WOW, YOU MIGHT EVEN SAY HE FLIP-FLOPPED, MUCH LIKE A CERTAIN PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE.) (Okay, I'll stop now.) Jason wants to name the baby after he's here, in the hospital. Which is fine, except that I secretly continue to use "the name" in my head and I seriously doubt I'll be able to think of him as anything else, but I have decided to exert my energy elsewhere. The aforementioned sock drawer. The search for the perfect coming-home outfit, which is driving Jason crazy because I think I have rejected every pair of blue feetie jammies in the tri-state area as being either 1) Not special enough, 2) Too frou-frou, 3) Not boyish enough, 4) Too boyish, oh my God, my newborn is not coming home clad in MONSTER TRUCKS, and 5) I dunno, I just don't think raccoons are the statement I'd like to make on the birth announcements. Don't you have something in a teddy bear motif?

And...Jesus, I should stop before I make our household sound ANY MORE INSANE.

Quick! Look! Pet photos!

Way to keep it classy there, everybody.

Not Perfect

I was just scolded by a Borders' employee for taking my stroller on the escalator -- he spotted me absentmindedly getting on after him (him and his HANDTRUCK, by the way, but let's not split hairs about escalator-approved wheelie devices) and then proceeded to wait for his chance to school me on escalator safety at the top. I saw him, I saw what was coming, I debated clobbering him with my non-skid-proof wedge heel, but of course I just apologized instead and tried to rapidly putter away while he FOLLOWED ME to make sure I understood what a "really, really bad idea" that was, the taking of my little umbrella stroller on the escalator, and did I see those yellow bumpers there? Did I know what those yellow bumpers were for? EATING CHILDREN FROM THE ANKLES UP, THAT'S WHAT, also triggering the emergency stop, because I know, I triggered it once, back when I had a bigger stroller and less experience breaking the no-stroller rule, but dude, I'm older, taller and infinitely more pregnant than you and can't I just ride one little escalator to the Young Adult section to buy some embarassing goth vampire romance novels in peace? Confiscate my Borders Rewards Card if you must, I MUST BUY THE ENTIRE TWILIGHT SERIES RIGHT NOW! EDWAAAAARD! EITHER THIS GUY IS A VAMPIRE OR JUST DOESN'T LEAVE THE STOCKROOM MUCH SAVE ME EDWAAAAAARD!

***
After my brush with the Aqua Teen Escalator Safety Patrol Force, I took Noah to McDonald's for lunch. He enjoys the occasional meal of chocolate milk and hamburger bun (technically just the top layer of hamburger bun, the part that doesn't have ketchup or mustard or came within a few atoms of contact with the actual hamburger), and pregnancy makes me crave deep-fried sodium mccruelty nuggets. I always feel like I'm being judged there too, although I haven't a clue why, or by whom, what with the place always being packed with other people who Also Did Not Come For The Market-Fresh Salads.

So, yes. I take Noah to fast-food restaurants every once in a while. Our home is a bastion of saint-like eating, all organic and healthy and purchased directly from the farmer whenever possible. Partially-hydrogenated oils and high-fructose corn syrup never pass through our front door, and I think even our peanut butter is free-range. 

I vividly remember eating at two particular places as a little kid -- Wendy's and Friendly's. Friendly's meant clown head ice cream sundaes with Reeses Pieces on the bottom. Wendy's meant chocolate frostys and sitting at tables covered in funny old newspaper advertisements, and I would only choose my seat after I had successfully located this one particular ad for a dentist. It had a sketch of a pretty woman labeled "With My Teeth In," and then another sketch of the same woman "With My Teeth Out." And her teeth! Were indeed out! I got a huge kick out of this.

And of course, kids meals! TOYS! PRIZES! I've been fairly baffled by the toys Noah's gotten -- we keep getting these strange Star Wars bobblehead-type things that are absolutely terrifying to me, and some Indiana Jones pyramid that is supposed to be a Temple of Mystery. We have two of them now. There's some sand and a plastic skull and the Mystery appears to be how a grown woman like myself can read the enclosed instructions and still have no idea how this stupid toy is supposed to work, or maybe it's Why We Never, Ever Get The Toddler Toy We Actually Ask For.

I wonder what Noah will remember sometimes, whether he'll remember sitting next to me at a booth, oohing and aahing while I open his chocolate milk and scribble shapes and letters on the back of the tray liner for him. Whether he'll know how bored I sometimes got watching him eat a hamburger bun bit by bit by bit, or timidly trying a french fry for the dozenth time -- nope, still don't like it, okay, good trying, spit it out in Mama's hand, not on your shirt...oh, buddy, that's so gross.

***
Jason and I are both getting oddly desperate to do things with Noah lately -- I know it's because the countdown to Baby Brother / Operation Blow Everybody's Lives The Fuck Up is really and truly down to the final weeks. On Sunday Jason spent 45 minutes hunched over in a small plastic house at a playground while Noah pretended they were riding on a choo-choo -- he wouldn't say where they were going, but NO, DADA, WE NOT THERE YET. NO GET OFF. RIDE CHOO-CHOO. We're going back to the beach this weekend. There have been extra bedtime stories, a few nights up late watching movies, impromptu trips out for ice cream. At 7:30 pm. On a Tuesday!

I realize he probably won't really ever remember his time as an only child, just like he doesn't remember our old house with the room we painted for him and the hours we spent trudging up and down the stairs of our building while he attempted to master crawling. Or our afternoons at the pool or laying on a blanket in the small grassy courtyard between condo buildings. I wonder if he'll remember Max, his playdate friend who moved to California. Or the house we made him out of a cardboard box, or the Sunday mornings spent running through the ice-cold fountain near the place where we always go for pancakes. Or the days here when I was too busy to do anything with him, too many errands to run and no time to wait for stupid old elevators, when the most fun thing I could offer him was a trip out for hamburger buns and chocolate milk.