The unabridged birth story, Part 3

So. Was resting blissfully with my Epidural of Love. Somewhere in there the shifts changed. Midwife B said goodbye and Midwife C showed up. I liked Midwife C. Unfortunately she had another patient turn up in labor at the hospital down the road, so she had to go there a couple of times. Of course that woman had her baby hours and hours before I did. Ho. Anyway, Midwife C checked on me during the Resting Time and had me roll over to my other side "to encourage the baby to keep turning the right way." (Translation: Your baby is totally posterior and none of us are going to tell you for some freaky reason.)

Around 2am the nurse examined me, said I was at a 10, and called the midwife to get the okay to start pushing. It was a very, very weird experience trying to push when I couldn't really feel what was happening. GH and the nurse held my legs while I pushed during contractions, and in between them GH would lie down on the fold-out couch. He either fell asleep there or was just playing dead, but he stopped getting up for the pushing and so I just rolled my eyes and shrugged and held on to my own dang leg myself. And yes, I am tattling on him to the Internet.

After delivering the other baby at the other hospital, Midwife C came back. While she was talking to the nurse I caught the words of "when the baby is posterior like this," which is when I pretty much levitated off the bed. "WHAT????? Did you just say he's posterior???" She affirmed this, and I wish now so very hard that I'd had enough energy and presence of mind to ask just when the [Jenny's Word] they'd been planning to share that little tidbit with me. (Note: This is why next time I will inform any and all care providers that if my baby even looks like he's thinking about heading sunny-side up they are to inform me immediately while there's still time to do something about it. If they fail in this respect I will bludgeon them to death with an IV pole or birthing stool or whatever is close at hand.)

So then came the fun game called Let's Try to Turn Your Baby Because It's Just Now Occurring To Us That Maybe We Should. Midwife C reached on up in there and tried to turn him while I pushed. We did this many, many times. He would turn 90 degrees, and then stubbornly spin back around. They called the clinic's on-call OB (who is supposedly a pro at turning babies) and asked if he could have a go. He showed up, introduced himself, and went to work. During all the fun, I had two thoughts.

Thought #1: I'm so glad I am somewhat numb for this.
Thought #2: I imagine there will come a day where I do NOT have 11 fingers crammed up my cervix, but I'm pretty sure I will always feel them there.

So. After a while of this, we got to have another Talk. Dr. P explained that he was not able to turn the baby. He would like to try using forceps to turn & deliver him, and he felt it had a very good chance of working--otherwise he wouldn't bring it up. But if we tried with the forceps and they did not work, then we would need to do a C-section immediately. If I would rather not try the forceps, then he recommended a C-section.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I could not believe that after all this work I was looking at a C-section. I asked if I couldn't just keep pushing. He said I definitely could keep pushing, but that I'd already pushed for 3 hours without much progress. For the forceps to work, I needed the strength to push, and if I pushed for 3 more hours and then tried the forceps I might be too tired to help, which would make a C-section necessary.

This was the low point. I felt so exhausted and demoralized. Where was my Easy, Comfortable Birth, huh? Because this? This was the exact opposite of those things! I asked everyone to give GH and me a minute alone to talk it over. We talked and had a prayer together and felt good about going ahead with the forceps. They brought in this whole yellow-coated team--new nurses, people to take care of the baby once he was out and people to rush us into the OR if he didn't come out. It was crazy. While the Dr was getting all prepped down there, he started telling one of the nurses about his visit to the Royal College of Obstetrics in London. (Me: Ooooh, London!) Only then I realized where he was going with his story when he got to the part about seeing a display case of primitive forceps, and how they were originally only intended to save the mother's life, not the baby's. I popped my head up and told him he was done telling that story because I was trying to get my Bubble of Peace going. He stopped telling it. (Humph.)

And then the pushing (and pulling) started. It couldn't have taken more than 5 or so minutes, but I wanted to tell them to stop because there was no way this was working, they were going to crack my pelvis open, and please just do the C-section. But I could hear them all, especially GH right next to me, telling me that I was doing it and that he was coming. So I believed GH and kept pushing. (He later told me that he was absolutely lying to me--he could see the sweat pouring down the Dr's face as he pulled and knew there was no way this baby was coming out. Thank heavens for lying.) I gave it everything I had during the next three pushes (while making some sounds that probably had nearby moose lifting their heads and wondering who the new girl was) and suddenly everyone was telling me that I'd done it and he was out. It was 5:10am, almost 24 hours since my water broke.

All I felt was relief, and I burst into tears. I lifted my head to try to see him, but I was flat on my back and the Dr had him down in his lap. I could see one little red foot up on the doctor's chest and that was it. All of our birth preferences were tossed out the window by this point and I was too spent to care. They were worried about his lungs because he wasn't crying so they cut the cord immediately and took him over to the "Mess with Baby" station in the corner. GH took pictures while they worked on him.


And he looked back over to me just as I started hemorrhaging. Lucky guy. They said they were going to take the baby to the nursery to keep working on him so they gave him to me for about 45 seconds. When I saw him for the first time, I thought he was the handsomest little stranger I'd ever seen. He didn't look familiar at all and he didn't feel like my baby.



Eventually he started crying hard enough to please them and so they kept him in the room. They weighed him and when I heard the words of "9 pounds, 2 ounces" I said my second swear, which I think offended one of the nurses. I finally got a few minutes of skin-to-skin contact (not quite the hour I'd requested) and tried to feed him.

I look pretty great here, don't I? This was actually the best picture of me. You won't be seeing any of the others. And I'd like to know why no one thought to do something about my matted, straight-up-sticking hair before all the picture taking. Worst. Bedhead. Ever. Looked like I'd been electrocuted and then exsanguinated. Would it have killed anybody to pat that mess down? Actually, you know what? Here. Check out the first family photo:

Right? Won't be getting that one framed any time soon. And this was after I cropped out my "covered with a paper towel but still very much a key player in the shot" business end. Somewhere in all of this the OB was stitching up my 3rd-degree tears, and he remarked to one of the nurses that it looked like a jigsaw puzzle down there. "Not sure which parts go where!" That was awesome to hear.

While I was getting my eleventy-million stitches, GH was busy falling in love with the baby. It didn't come as quickly for me, which was not something I'd expected. I'm sure this was in part to do with the traumatic birth & recovery and the accompanying physical/emotional/hormonal Perfect Crapstorm, but that's another story for another time. The good news is that I did fall madly in love with my sweet boy, and every day I am so grateful that I get to be his mother.

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The unabridged birth story, Part 2

We arrived at the American Fork Hospital and found that I was only dilated to a 3, but I had a Golden "Mah Waters Done Broke" Ticket so they moved us up to our labor & delivery room, which had a lovely view of the Mt. Timpanogos Temple.

We got settled and a nurse asked to put in a heplock, which I agreed to. But first I froke her out by mentioning my fear of needles. (In my defense, I tell all needle-wielders about my fear of needles, and I'm just asking that they warn me when I'm going to feel the pinch so that I don't jump 6 feet in the air at things like the alcohol swipe. And everybody else has kept their crap together. I'm just saying.) This nurse did something wacky and got blood everywhere. I was fine because I kept my head turned in the other direction and my eyes clamped shut while sending hypno-anesthesia to my arm (totally worked), but GH said that by the time she was finished it looked like a scene from Kill Bill in there.

Soon after, the on-call midwife (Midwife B) showed up and checked in with us. Now, a note about Midwife B. In the few times I'd seen her during my prenatal care, she was always professional, friendly, and treated me very well. But for some reason I never really clicked with her, so I was not thrilled that she was the one on call. I told myself though that this could be a good thing though because she was really familiar with Hypnobabies.

And speaking of Hypnobabies, I was listening to different tracks and keeping myself relaxed and using my hypnosis cues and just generally rocking that stuff. I wasn't feeling any pain, just pressure during the contractions. I spent a while on the birth ball, then hung out in the room's rocking chair, with GH next to me holding my hand. Midwife B came back to see how things were going.

Me: Great!

Midwife B: Yeah . . . that's kind of the problem.

She said that she would like to see my contractions picking up and becoming more regular. So she suggested a slight "whiff" of Pitocin to see if that would get things going, while reiterating that it would be a very, very small dose. I said okay, figuring that I could always tell them to turn it off if I hated it, and they got that set up. (Now I'm wondering why she didn't suggest that I walk around to see if I could get things moving. I of course didn't think of it myself, but wouldn't that have been an easy thing to try first?)

The contractions did start coming closer together and were stronger, but they were still ok and didn't seem like the scary "Pitocin contractions" I'd heard horror stories about. Around 6pm she checked me and announced that I was dilated to 8cm. GH and I gave each other a high-five. We are awesome at this! We but mostly me! I shall be ordering my post-birth dinner before the kitchens close! She stopped the Pitocin and said to let her know when I started feeling "pushy."

Except . . . the pushy feelings didn't come. Other, less encouraging feelings did. I hoped that all the pressure in my bottom and lower back meant something good, but I think it actually may have meant "Hey, this is the part where your baby decided to spin around and stick the back of his head into your spine, not that anyone is ever going to tell you that." I started mumbling things like "I can't do this anymore" and "I need something." Except they say that when you're in transition that's when you say stuff like that, right? This is just transition and it will all be over soon, right?

At some point in there the midwife checked me and I was still at an 8. She got the Pitocin running again because she said we needed to go ahead and get this done before I got too tired to push. You know, since I was actively trying to prolong the fun. She may have been right, but I still wanted to kick her in the face.

For a while I was lying on my side in bed while GH stroked my arm. He had been texting updates to our family, who were under strict orders not to call us. I could hear him texting during a strong contraction and the clicking sound sent me over the edge. In the voice of a fanged cobra, I hissed for him to stop it. He took that to mean "Stop. Texting. Forever." So for the next several hours of radio silence our family thought something terrible must have happened, but knew they weren't allowed to call to find out what it was. The midwife showed GH where to apply counter-pressure, and helped me get into a couple of different positions (including the one that caused me to say something I shall not repeat here but which gained me admission into my sister Jenny's "I Say [This Word] When I'm in Labor" Club). She also tried to re-adjust my fetal monitor during a contraction, at which point I may or may not have thrown an elbow at her stomach. I told you I didn't like her. GH said I was getting pretty mean by this point.

(Note here about Hypnobabies: I think it was helping me. It still felt like somebody was trying to drive a truck through my pelvis, but there was a BIG difference in how the contractions felt when I was under self-hypnosis and how they felt during the times when my concentration slipped and I started tensing up. Another benefit of it was that the time seemed to go by really quickly--I spent at least 4 hours doing the 8cm thing, but it didn't feel anywhere near that long.)

Then the midwife said we needed to talk. She said she was concerned because I was getting tired and we really needed to get this baby out.

Me: (No, let's keep him IN. Stupid.)

Midwife: "I'd like to talk about some possible options. One option would be what is called a therapeutic epidural."

(Oh well, if it's therapeutic . . . )

I opened my mouth to ask how a therapeutic epidural is different from a regular one, and she quickly asked, "Would you rather I not bring this up? I won't bring it up if you don't want me to." (In my birth preferences I asked that people not offer me pain medication unless I ask for it.)

Me: No no . . . you can talk about it. (Only polite to hear her out . . . )

She explained that she worried about how tired I was, and that an epidural would help me rest and get some strength back before the Time of Pushing.

Me: Okay fine.

Her: You're sure that's what you want?

Me: Oh yeah.

I don't know when/if I ever would have asked for something myself, but somehow her offering it felt like permission, and I took that to mean I'd done enough. Or, you know, maybe she was just tired of getting elbowed and hissed at. She went off to call the anesthesiologist, and I had GH read me the "Change of Plan" script. When he was finished, he got up to leave the room.

Me: Wait, where are you going?

GH: I need to go get some food and I need to call our families. They've been sitting at home for hours not knowing what's going on.

Me: Why don't they know what's going on?

GH: You told me to stop texting!

Me: I told you to stop texting during that contraction, not to stop texting all together!

GH: Well, they need an update and I need food. I'm starving.

Me: Um, people are about to put huge needles in my back, could you please just wait and help me until the epidural's done?

(Note: GH gets cranky when he's too hungry. And I get cranky when I'm in too much labor.) He sent our families an update and held my hand while the anesthesiologist placed the epidural. I looked down at his watch then and saw that it was almost 10:30pm. I couldn't believe it was really that late. No wonder he was starving.

Once the epidural took effect, they tucked me in so that I could rest for a little while. Before GH left to go find some food, I whispered "This epidural is the best thing ever." I was supposed to go to sleep, but I was so high on NotContractions that I called my mom and my sister to say hi. Then I rested.

Stay tuned for the third and final segment!

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The unabridged birth story, Part 1

Some of you may have read the Cliffs Notes Version and feel that's plenty for you. If so, you are free to skip this. But for those who love them a birthin' story, here it is. It's amazing how much I've already forgotten (or blocked out). So I'm referring to GH's account as well to make sure I get it right.

(December 1st, the Estimated Due Date)

On December 1st I had an appointment at the clinic. The midwife (whom we will refer to as Midwife A) examined me and said that I was dilated to about 2.5 cms, the baby was right down where he needed to be, and that things were looking "ripe" down there. She guessed I would go into labor in the next couple of days. And then, as we were finishing up, she said something that would turn out to be important later.

Midwife A: By the way, I don't believe your baby . . . will be a small baby.

Me: Wait, what?

(Note: This is the first time anyone had ever made mention of the baby's potential size.)

Midwife A: Yeah, you're pretty much all baby in there. I'm guessing 8.5 pounds, maybe more.

Me: Huh. That's . . . interesting. (And also insane. All the babies in my family and GH's family were average sized, so I didn't see where 8+ pounds would be coming from. Sure, I'd been eating my (considerable) weight in Baby Bel cheese and Ramen noodles in the last little while, but what of it?)

About 36 hours later, when I was at the hospital trying to push out said baby, Midwife C and the labor & delivery nurse made their own guesses at around 7 or 7.5 pounds.

Me: Yeah, that's what I'm thinking too. But you know what's funny? Midwife A checked me and said he was going to be huge. Funny, right?

Them, exchanging a look: Midwife A said that? She's . . . usually pretty good at this kind of thing. But still, you never know til they're out!

(Which I now know was their way of saying, "In that case, you're screwed. Good luck giving birth to a Mini Cooper, sweetie!")

On December 2nd, I woke up at 5am to go to the bathroom. I'd been invited to go to the Festival of Trees with GH's Mom and sisters. While in the bathroom, I pondered whether all that driving and walking would be a good idea..

Turns out that decision was to be made for me, because as I got back in bed and started drifting back to sleep my water most definitely broke. I jumped out of bed and made it to the bathroom as fast as a legged-manatee-on-land can move, trailing water all the way. "GH GH GH, water-breaking water-breaking!" It didn't all come at once, so I had to run back to the bathroom a few more times over the next couple of hours.

Aside from the water breaking and the "Oh my gosh that's what a mucus plug looks like? Eeyeeww," not much else happened. I got back in bed and hung out there for the next hour or so, feeling a couple of very mild contractions, then called Midwife A. Because my water had broken, she said I should head to the hospital around noon unless things picked up before then. (Note: Next time if this happens I'll ignore that and stay home until I'm in actual labor, while of course being careful not to do anything risky.)

That morning we had breakfast, finished packing for the hospital, and just hung out. I asked GH to give me a blessing, which was really nice. I listened to my Hypnobabies mp3s and timed the contractions a few times, which were about 10 minutes apart and didn't feel like very much at all. (My thoughts then: "Wow, I must be SUPER GOOD at Hypnobabies! What if they're like this the whole time???" Secret Note From the Future: They won't be.)

Around 1pm, with me still not feeling very labor-y, we loaded up the car with our bags, pillows, CD player, video camera, digital camera, iPods, birth ball, curling iron, bathing suits, sleep mask, (yes, I was possibly mistaking the hospital for a cruise liner) and about 8 million other things. It was a gorgeous, sunny, blue-skied day, which I felt boded well. And then we were off to have us a baby!

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Introducing

The Cliff's Notes version of the birth story goes a leetle something like this:

6:00 a.m. Water Breaking
Noon Hospital
Calm, Peaceful Hypnobabies
Pitocin
Less Calm, Peaceful Hypnobabies
6 hours s t a l l e d at 8cm
10:30 p.m. Epidural
Pushing
Surprise, Posterior!
Pushing, pushing, pushing
Not turning
Forceps + Pushing
Baby Comes Out
So Does Entire Bottom
Stitching
Transfusion
Bliss

Henry Robert
12.03.2010
5:10am
9 lbs 2 oz

Welcome, Tiny Dark Lord

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Yep, still pregnant

I was not in my best frame of mind this past Sunday at church, as evidenced by the following:

Sunday School teacher, to class: "Can anyone tell me how President Hinckley used to close every General Conference meeting?"

Me, whispering: "Early."

I thought I was whispering, but my whisper might be louder than I think it is. Only whatever. I had a baby butt trying to fight its way out of my side. The teacher was making a point about optimism, and how President Hinckley was not a doom & gloom kind of a guy and so we should follow his example by focusing on the wonderful things we have and which are yet to come. He's absolutely right.

But then, so was I.

Have decided that it's unfortunate moving into a new ward at the end of a pregnancy. Because then that's all anyone really knows about you. "Oh, she's pregnant." And that's all they ask about when they try to make conversation--conversations which have generally gone like this.

Very Sweet Compassionate Service Lady Whose Job It Will Be to Assign People to Come Bring Me Meals After the Birth if I Should Need Them So It's No Wonder That She Wants to Be Able to Keep Tabs on Things: So . . . have they given you a date?

Me: Yep, my due date is December 1st, so it should be sometime around there.

CSL: Oh, so you don't know the actual date?

Me: Well. . . no. Just the due date.

CSL: Oh, I asked because the other two pregnant gals already have their dates scheduled. So wow, I guess you'll just . . . go when you go, huh?

Me: That's . . . the plan, yeah. But you did give me your phone number, so I promise I'll call you when anything happens.

Told GH about this later and he said he'd just had a similar conversation with someone at church:

Elders Quorum Guy: So, when's your wife due?

GH: Around the end of the month, so it could be any day now.

(Note: This was back when GH was confident that this would be a November baby. I guess I've pretty well shown HIM! Hah. Hahahahaha. Sigh . . . . )

EQG: Oh, you don't have it scheduled?

GH: Um . . . no?

Me: Have WHAT scheduled? What is this scheduling everyone is talking about???

Only then I remembered about scheduled C-sections, and scheduled inductions, and all that. Which, apparently, is big here. And I know a lot of people have really good reasons why they have to do things that way. But yeah, there's really no medical reason why I should have anything scheduled. So it's funny to feel like the one weird chick who's just . . . waiting to go into labor. Like a pioneer, or pot-smoking hippie.

Which brings us to this past Sunday where, you'll remember, I was just really not in the mood.

CSL, checking in: Hi, how are you doing?

Me: Still pregnant. Thanks.

CSL: Right . . . so have your doctors given you any predictions? Do they think you'll go soon?

Me: Nope, no predictions, just the due date. Still have your phone number, though, thanks!

Poor lady, I know she was just trying to be nice. Which is why I did not answer her with "Nope, and I didn't even ask them to check. I figure since everything down there already feels like it's going to fall out I'd just do myself a favor and NOT add a speculum to the mix."

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39 weeks

Let's do this thing.


My face is not included because in addition to being fat, it was bright red from working over a steaming cauldron of Pioneer Woman's Delicious, Creamy Mashed Potatoes. Yes, those would be the mashed potatoes that involve sticks of butter and cream cheese and fresh hot sin and possibly full-on whipping cream because I didn't have any half-and-half in my house. I am sorry for anyone who will not be eating them tomorrow for lo, they are amazing.

Later this afternoon I'll be getting another Pioneer Woman recipe going--it's the one that you SAY is sweet potatoes but is really a deconstructed pie that you get to eat with your dinner while people just think you're making good choices.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! What are you bringing to your feasts?

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Why my child will likely be known as Voldemort

Reason #1: My parents do not know how to delay gratification.

Once we found out we were having a boy, my sweet mom wanted to know what his name was going to be. I told her the name we were thinking about, but with the caveat that we weren't 100% sure it would stick, so don't rush out and start getting things monogrammed.

(Note: Boy names were really difficult for us. It's not that our tastes were dramatically different, with me wanting Fitzwilliam/Thornton/Wentworth and GH preferring Lennon/McFly/Anyone from LOST. We just had a hard time coming up with something that we both felt enthusiastic about.)

My sister Jenny had names picked out for her kids before they were born and she would use those names while talking about said in-utero babies. So my family got pretty comfortable referring to The Precii by name well before they were born. But for some reason, it has felt awkward for GH and me to do the same thing. Even though we found a name we feel pretty good about, we don't actually use it when discussing the child. He's just "the baby" or "the child" or "crazy alien creature that won't stop moving." And, in my super-sensitive-pregnantness, I just Could. Not. Let. It. Go. when other people tried to pin us down.

My mom: "So, is it for sure going to be Baby -----, then?"

Me: "MOM. I don't know. Maybe. GOSH. Stop pressuring me! And don't be telling your friends that we've picked a name because I could totally end up changing it. You're not the boss of my baby's name, you know!!"

(Aren't I a delightful conversation partner?)

Mom, pleading: "Oh, but I just want something to call him! What do you call him?"

Me: "We call him The Baby."

Mom: " . . . huh."

Me: [Snarling sounds.]

Later on into things I did tell her that she could go ahead and call him "Baby ----" if she wants, just not to be mad at me if I end up changing it to something else. But by then the damage was done, as evidenced by this phone conversation with my parents.

Mom: Your dad wants to know how little "He Who Must Not Be Named" is doing.

Me: Um, did Dad just call my baby Voldemort?

Mom: [gasp] What? NO! That's terrible!

Me: Pretty sure he did. And The Dark Lord is doing just fine, thanks.

Mom: Y'all are sick people. I don't know where you come up with this stuff.

Reason #2: It is karma.

It is karma for that one time (or maybe more than once) when I used the word of Smeagol in connection to a face that little baby Savannah made as a newborn. And then how maybe I called her "My Precious" before we meant it in a strictly adoring-of-her-very-real-preciousness sense.

Jenny has been waiting for payback, and now it is here. She did promise though that if the child is born with just slits instead of a real nose then she will refrain, because she is nice like that.

When I gave GH the heads-up about our child's probable nickname, he shrugged and pointed out that while it's a very rude, awful thing to call a baby girl Smeagol, we are having a boy. A boy who will likely grow up to be a nerd. So he will probably like that nickname.

We'll see.

Also, is it wrong that Ralph Fiennes still kind of does it for me as Lord Voldemort? Just wondering.

Update question: For those who have played the Naming Game, how many of you were 100% supersure about the name and how many gave themselves some wiggle room? Did anyone change their minds after meeting the actual baby? I am curious.

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How you know it's time to quit working

A sweet elderly lady asked me about a book today, and after checking the catalog I told her it was checked in.

Then she asked me if I could find the book for her and I told her to go &*&^%$ (#$%. And then I shot her in the face.

Or, I just sort of stared at her for a millisecond while the following ran through my mind.

"Are you FREAKING KIDDING ME. No, no, that's great. Your legs work and everything but sure. I'LL get it. I will just heave myself out of this chair and stagger my way over there while He Who Must Not Be Named plays break-dancing bouncy castle on my cervix. I will just luuuuuumber over there, wincing all the way, taking out small children with my errant hips. Let me go get that book for you. LET ME."

Clearly, I have possibly reached some sort of expiration date. It's a good thing I only have a few days left. It will be safer for everyone.

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38 weeks

The baby is 38 weeks along today.

My chins, though, they are only about 3 weeks along, and will, I hope, be making their exit around the same time that the baby makes his.

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Good thing I had my Bubble of Peace going

Here follows a conversation between me and the girl at the grocery store checkout counter.

Girl, nodding at my massive belly: So how long do you have left?

Me: About two weeks or so.

Girl: Yeah, I just did that 7 weeks ago.

Me: Oh wow, you look great. Congratulations, did you have a boy or girl?

Girl: A girl.

Me: I'm having a boy.

Girl: Is it your first?

Me: Yep.

Girl: . . . oh.

Me: What?

Girl: Oh, it's just that first births seem like they're the hardest ones. At least for everyone I've talked to. And for me. This second one was easy. The first one was really hard.

Me: You know what? I take it back. You look way fat.

Except that last part was just in my mind. In real life I smiled vaguely and moved on. But seriously, why would somebody say that--how is that meant to be helpful or encouraging?

In other news, I did my hair this morning so that I can take a 38-weeks picture to post up here. So check back for that. I took one last week but didn't post it--I was convinced that my fat face was a trick of the light and would totally go away if I tried again later. Except . . . yeah. That might actually be my real face (read: chins).

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The one with all the bump pictures

Finally got the camera to cooperate (read: went out and bought a new camera, then used it to upload the photos on the memory card of the old, sucky, non-communicative one). And once I got the pictures up I realized that I wasn't very faithful about the weekly pregnancy pics. Or, even, monthly ones. Oh well.

Here's what I have, and if you really could not care less about someone's protruding stomach then you can absolutely move on--my feelings will not be hurt.



Back in August at 23 weeks.


Aaaand again at 24 weeks during the Cedar City trip. This was when I was still on top of things. Also? That shirt is now a midriff top. I wear it when I want to dance along to music videos.



During a delightful baby shower at 28 weeks. Still had enough stomach room left for stuffing oneself silly, which is good because the refreshments were amazing.

Then there was a bit of a lull, and now here we have . . .

Last week, also known as week 36. (Note: this picture makes my arms look big. They're not as big as that. My ankles, on the other hand, absolutely are.)

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It's the final countdoowwwwn . . . .

Aaaaand now I have Arrested Development in my head. And so should you.

Am 36 weeks pregnant now. As of next week(?) I'll be full term-ish, so this baby can feel free to show up whenever. Except I kind of hope he waits until I can get the carseat installation checked.

And until I get my hospital bags packed.
And get registered at the hospital.
And finish filling out my FMLA paperwork.
And signing up for life insurance.
And putting up the shelves in his bedroom.
And going to the party Cicada is throwing.
And getting a new microwave to replace the one I killed.
And practicing my Hypnobabies exercises.
Plus, hey, I still have all those sleeping pills that don't actually work. Might as well finish them off.

Also I have a pedicure and a haircut scheduled for next week and I'd especially like to make it to those things or I will look like a crusty hobbit with three-inch dusty bat poop roots in all the upcoming pictures and maybe no one will want to hold my legs while I'm pushing because they'll be afraid I might gouge them in the face with my toenails and give them some sort of flesh-eating disease.

So . . . really, I'm kind of swamped. He can just feel free to keep on cooking for a little bit longer. But if he wants to stop butting me in the bladder/cervix with his head, then I would be amenable to that.

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Holy cow, this is the 1000th blog post

Of course, if I were posting with any regularity I probably would have hit that milestone, oh, a year or so ago.

But speaking of cows, last night GH and I went to the temple. This is the last time we will be able to do this for a while, since everyone was looking at me as though I were a ticking time bomb about to shoot placenta across their clean carpets. But in a very loving way, of course.

We did sealings because it takes less time than a full session, and we figured if I were to go into early labor it's a lot easier to excuse yourself without throwing a wrench in the works. The small sealing room was quite warm in the beginning though, and as GH and I settled in at the altar the sweet temple worker wanted to be sure I was going to be comfortable.

Sweet temple worker: "Now, are you going to be okay?"

Me: "Thanks, I should be fine. The room is a bit warm, though."

STW: "It's just that kneeling can be hard on the circulation. Please, let us know if you need to stop."

Me: "Oh, no worries about that. I'll pass out from the heat long before then."

Happily, I did not pass out or anything untoward like that. I did, however, go to use the bathroom while we were there and found that they maybe designed those stalls for pole dancers or other crazy-limber folk. Because when I tried to shut the door I ended up wedging myself in the door frame. It was a classy time. I thought somebody might have to come over with some Crisco.

Except come on! I'm not that big, and people of all body sizes surely use those bathrooms. What kind of freaky acrobatics are they looking for, exactly? If I ever hear that someone broke a leg because they had to climb on top of the toilet in order to shut the stall door, I'll have my answer.

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Pregnancy brain, dun dun DUUUNN

I know that the whole "pregnancy brain" thing is supposed to be a myth and not real, and it's supposed to just be something that we bloated people came up with as an excuse for our own already-existing absentmindedness and stupidity.

Only, I have to say, it can be really nice to be able to blame things on pregnancy. Your B.O. so foul that it makes your husband's eyes water? Pregnancy. Sobbed unashamedly at the end of Knuffle Bunny Free? That is called pregnancy, and also having a working heart, people. Came thiiiisclose to faking labor when the lady in front of you at Michael's just stood there and acted all dumbfounded for about eighteen hours when the store wouldn't take back her items without a receipt and she had never even heard of something so ridiculous as a store requiring a receipt for returns and maybe if she just stood there and held out her hands expressively with eyebrows raised then she might somehow get her way? That is called pulling pregnancy rank, and I totally should have done it, and will do if the occasion arises again. Also I will maybe beat the people who are making me stand around on my swollen feet with whichever discounted seasonal gourd-studded decorations are to hand. We'll see. I bet nobody will prosecute because, see above: hugely pregnant.

All of these excuses aside, I really do think something has gone wrong with my brain. Because tonight I decided to heat up a mug of my delicious wassail in the microwave. But I guess I never actually put the mug into said microwave before setting the timer for 2 minutes, pushing the "Start" button, and wandering off to go start a load of laundry. Wanna know what happens when you do that? Because I know the answer to this now. Your microwave, without an object to focus on, is without purpose and decides that the next best thing to do is to SET ITSELF ON FIRE.

So . . . we're down a microwave now. GH is just glad he wasn't the one who did it, because it means he won't get his head beaten in with a pumpkin. And I'm sort of terrified of what I might do when Pregnancy Brain strikes next.

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Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean, etc.

Today I wore a fitted black t-shirt and a pair of black (secretly yoga) pants to work. And then I led two different storytimes and quite possibly jogged the baby loose with all the antics I must do as part of said events. (Seriously, I'm pretty sure I know how labor is going to start, and it's going to involve "Shake My Sillies Out," a sudden gush of fluid, possibly a head or foot, and a room-full of permanently-damaged toddlers.)

I did receive several compliments on the outfit and accompanying bump, which I treasured and am writing down so that 10 or so weeks from now I can remember the good ol' days when people said things like, "Hey, you make pregnancy look cute!" instead of just staring at me with a horrified expression and running away lest I explode and get fluids and other matter on them like something out of Cloverfield.

One girl, upon hearing that I'm 7 months pregnant, exclaimed at how small I still appear to be and wondered if my doctors are concerned at all. Which is when I started wondering if maybe I look smaller today because the baby has, in fact, started shrinking--probably because I'm not eating enough or drinking enough water and the amniotic fluid is drying up and it's all my fault. I called GH up to discuss this with him.

Only it turns out he maybe already has too many worries going on to tackle the one about whether the baby is shrinking. On his list: Is the apartment we're looking to move into a former meth lab? How can we be sure? What about the smoker who lived there before? Could the smoke still be in the walls, lurking in wait to brain-damage our child? And why is there an exterminator parked in front of the complex? Are they spraying chemicals? What kind of chemicals? Is that how the child is going to end up brain damaged?

To reassure him, I called the potential future landlord who said that the apartment has not been a meth lab. To reassure myself, I ate a high-fiber open-faced chili dog sandwich. And put a peach cobbler in the oven. Never let it be said your mama doesn't love you, baby.

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Conversation between me and a sweet lady at the library

Sweet lady: Okay, can I ask? Are you married?

Me: Yes, I am.

SL: And are you pregnant?

Me: Yep!

SL: Then congratulations!

. . . okay . . .

Am kind of wondering how this conversation would have gone if I'd answered "No" to the first question. Any thoughts?

Will be pondering this tonight at the Utah State Fair, until I'm too busy with my annual deep-fried peanut butter & jelly sandwich to ponder anything except why my left arm feels so dang tight and ouchy. The Precii are signing up to compete in the Mutton Bustin' competition, so please cross fingers that their names get called. And that they don't get their heads kicked in by a sheep. Thank you.

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We must be getting into the third trimester

Because hoo boy.


1. I am super hot and sweaty and stinky all the time. This has resulted in a new game I like to call Tearing Off My Clothes the Second I Get Home From Work and Making Dinner in My Underwear. If I Even Make Dinner, Which, Don't Count on It. Except then one time I had to up the ante and move on to Making Dinner Completely Topless. GH wants to know how he missed that. Apparently I do everything good when he's not around.

2. I took a walk during my lunch break to drop a letter off in a local mail box. It took about 4 hours to get to the mail box and back. Realized I was waddling. Slowly. This didn't seem to have anything to do with pelvis changes, more to do with the part where I'm convinced my bladder is going to drop out at any second. That'll make ya walk careful.

3. The two cute maternity dresses my sister Jenny lent me are not working out, as they take great delight in hiking up well past my knees every time I move. And, unlike some people, I don't actually wish to use my white temple garments as free leggings. (Feel the shame, some people.) So that's not going to work, really. I spent the entire drive to the temple last week with my skirt hiked up around my waist, bellowing about how I look like a slut-whore. This, I find, really gets you into the temple spirit. Yes it does. Felt much better once I got inside and changed into a nice white mummu from the clothing rental ladies. I love them. Them, and air conditioning.

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Time for a road trip

Monday is our two-year wedding anniversary. It's also the last anniversary for a while that will not involve child-care arrangements of one kind or another. (And yes, I'm pretty sure tossing a pizza and an iPod inside a crib while we sneak out the door could constitute child-care. If GH were the toddler in question he'd be happy as a clam, I tell you.)

So we're going to have ourselves a little getaway. All summer I have been excited for this. GH got Paul McCartney, which made his year and/or possibly life, so I get . . . drumroll . . . the Utah Shakespearean Festival. (Note: this is another example of that win-win thing of which I am so fond--the kind where other people win once and I win twice.)

We're going to see two plays: Much Ado about Nothing in the Adams outdoor theatre, and The 39 Steps in the indoor one. I think I chose well, as I've been hearing great things about both productions so far. The 39 Steps sounds especially fun because it's 4 actors (half of whom are Brian Vaughn and David Ivers, aw yeah) playing the entire cast. I love me some of that stuff. It makes me remember all over again how awesome Stones in His Pockets was that one time.

I've booked us a room at a bed & breakfast in Cedar City and am already fantasizing about the "full gourmet breakfast" we'll get in the morning.

(Note again: lately my interest in food has become even more pronounced, kind of like my belly. I dream of baked goods every night and report on it to GH: "Last night it was muffins. And then there was a dessert buffet. It was incredible." And the other night in my dream my sister Jenny was in the middle of making me bruschetta with grilled bread and garden-ripe tomatoes and slivers of fresh parmesan, like the stuff Amy Adams makes at the beginning of Julie & Julia, that one food porn movie. I remembered the dream suddenly around lunchtime the next day and was so devastated that there was, in fact, no bruschetta that I almost started crying.)

Anyway, Cedar City. It's going to be great. I've had so much fun going to this festival in past years that I'm really excited to introduce GH to it. Possibly I will pick up some tights for him while we're there. We'll see.

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Conversation last night as we went to bed

Backstory: I've spent a few nights on the couch in the last couple of weeks. I'll wake up in the night, be unable to fall back asleep, and then head for the couch to see if that works any better. Usually the change of scenery is enough to do the trick. Although really, in what Sick World of Pregnant is a second-hand couch with wonky springs more condusive to sleep than an actual bed with a Sealy Posturepedic mattress purchased at Costco, land from whence all good things come? Really.

But anyway. The conversation.

GH: Do you ever wake up when I touch you in the night?

Me: Wait---what?? You're touching me in the night??

GH, rolling his eyes: Like this. [puts hand on my arm]

Me: Oh. No, I don't think I've ever felt that. I wake up when you elbow me in the face in the middle of the night, or when you begin to roll in such a way that my boob shrieks "INCOMING! UNECESSARY MAMMOGRAM ABOUT TO HAPPEN UNLESS YOU MOVE MOVE MOVE!" Stuff like that, I wake up for. Why are you touching me in the night?

GH: To see if you're still here.

Me: Awww . . . because you're worried about me not being able to sleep?

GH: No. Because if you're gone then there's room to spread out.

Humph.

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The stash begins

Have finished my first knitted project for the bebe! Ta daaaaah . . .

This is the newborn-sized hat he will wear home from the hospital. Unless, of course, his head remains in the 97th percentile. In which case we will use one of GH's.

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