bflynn

Funeral baked meats

This weekend was overlaid with the patina of soft-grief, of the loss of a friend who has been sick for a very long time. I had a lot of interaction with those who were strongly affected and a lot of “touches” with the funeral preparations, so I ended up spending a good bit of time thinking about funerals, death, and comforting the young in a rather concrete way — but distant enough from me that I could bear to think about it.

The woman who died, Lynda, had been very ill for about 2 years. She’d had cancer for near 30, but it was sort of a chronic cancer. Every once in a while she’d get chemo or surgery to remove some tumors, but most of the time she was pretty healthy. They were slow-growing and while not exactly benign, they weren’t doing a lot. Then two years ago, the cancer changed and got much more aggressive. She never managed to fully recover or get back on even footing. The doctors put in a stent — she was getting fed entirely through IV — and that got infected and in the end, it was the infection that did her in. They simply could not clear it up, so she’d go home for a week and it would re-ravage her and she’d head back to the hospital… over and over and over again. It became clear that she was losing ground in the fight, but she had two children — a 20-something young man and a 17 year old girl. So she kept fighting. Once she gave up the fight, once she relinquished and admitted that she was done, she died within two days. It was her will that had been holding her, and once it turned from the task, her body gave up easily.

Anyway, I think that 4 or 5 years ago, I would’ve been looking at this from her daughter’s point of view. I would’ve been thinking how horrible it was to lose a mother and the huge gap that would create. How lonely it must be. And how many practical things will be difficult… can they keep the house she grew up in? (Her parents were divorced.) Is there a chance she’d have to change school districts? Who will help her with her college applications? Who will go prom-dress shopping with her? When a wedding comes around, how badly will she miss her mother?

I’m thinking of those things too. But for me now, I see this from Lynda’s point of view. How unready I would be to die now. I’m not wildly afraid of death — it comes for us all and I truly believe that while death is the end of what we can know from where we stand now, I do not believe it is the end. For me, I am less afraid of death. But I am terrified to leave behind those I would leave behind. My sons! My husband! I, too, would fight against leaving them with all the strength I could muster.

My mother told me not long ago that she felt much freer now. With all her children well-launched into their adult lives, while parting would be sad and we would miss her greatly, we are all standing on our own. I really understand her point of view. Most of my family has been thoughtful enough to die in the fullness of time, after having completed the tasks to which they set their hands and with few regrets. (My grandmother’s only regret is that she’s STILL HERE.) I am not at all afraid of that. But I cannot bear to think of leaving now.

And then there’s the little boy and the practical aspects. I really wanted to go to the reception-thingy. (Wake? I dunno — it seems like a very New England thing to me. You make the bereaved stand in a line and hear for three hours straight “I’m sorry your mom died.” I’m surprised the Geneva conventions haven’t outlawed this practice.) Mostly I wanted to go because I wanted to give the daughter big hugs and tell her I was there for her when she was ready. The issue was that I had sole custody of a Mr. Greypants. Worse, it was the Napless variety of the Greypants.

So I got out the neat photo-album scrapbook from Grey’s baby shower. (He is in a “loves looking at pictures of baby Grey” phase.) I showed him my belly and how I was pregnant with him, just like I was pregnant now with baby-brother. I showed him the picture of Lynda and I together. I explained that she had left (I did use the word die), and that her family and friends were very sad because they would miss her. I told him we were going to see her family and friends and give them big hugs to make them feel better. I told him we needed to be very polite and quiet.

And I put him in the car and took him to the wake. He stood very nicely and politely in line until it was our turn to express our condolences. He *did* give big, comforting 3-year-old hugs to the bereaved. And then I sat with the other church-mothers (mostly the moms of my teens) and we talked about Lynda and the kids. I critically failed my “be welcoming to other people” roll, though, I realized on my way out. It can be so nice to sit and talk with your friends that you forget to talk with the people who don’t have as many folks to talk to. May I be forgiven for it.

Tonight is the funeral. (Very fast!) Part of the unspoken role of the church is to provide snacks to the mourners afterwards. I remember that when my grandfather died — after a very long and protracted Alzheimers-decline — the church my grandmother attended put on quite the spread for us. It was especially kind as none of them would have known my grandfather when he could, you know, talk. The funeral baked meats and funeral feast stretch back into the mists of time. If memory serves, Gilgamesh had a funeral feast. And that story is one of the first ever written down. They’ve changed over time of course. But it is a sacred obligation, a continuation of a story, a link to our history and tradition, and a very real and present comfort in a time of tears.

Somehow it seemed wrong that I should take up this sacred burden and acquit it with funfetti cupcakes, but by then I was really, really, really tired. I thought about a tea ring (which seemed to me like an appropriate funeral-food), but weariness won out over symbolism. I do wish that I’d had frosting other than the pink stuff I used for the Patrick cake.

Lynda wouldn’t mind.

I’m a little sad that I’m far too pregnant to play for this funeral. Much of the time I end up getting called on in my role as a trumpeter for funerals. I play “Lord of the Dance” and taps. (Lord of the Dance is apparently my church’s gold-standard for funeral music. It pretty much always shows up. For the record, I prefer “How Great Thou Art”, “Abide With Me” and some of the evening hymns. Also, I’d like the funeral to happen before I die so I can enjoy it and plan it out properly.)

I wish I had a good way to tie this up — to talk about the Christian confidence in redemption. In our church we do not pray for the dead, for they are the care of God. We pray for the living who are left behind. I truly have full faith and confidence that Lynda is where she belongs. I pray for the rest of us wisdom to know how to reach out and comfort and support those who will miss her every day for the rest of their lives.

Fun with false labor

So last night I was experiencing pain, as though all my muscles had knotted up and I was short of breath and a little panicky, and the pain seemed to be coming on a regular basis. Yeah, the first 7 innings or so of the Red Sox game downright hurt.

Oh, and I was having strong contractions that seemed, at least for a while, to be coming in five minute intervals.

When I was pregnant the first time around, this wouldn’t have caused much angst. I was in labor or I wasn’t. Time would tell. Maybe we’d have gone for a walk to see if exercise would solidify the contractions or diminish them. Maybe I’d just take a hot shower, pack the bag and go to bed, and see what I felt like in the morning.

But the second time around, there’s an additional complication. Yes, the product of the FIRST pregnancy needs to have a grownup around at all times. (Funny how that works.) So the question of whether I was in labor or not took on added importance. Did we need to call backup or not? I texted a friend in the middle of a date to let him know that he was on call. I watched Dice-K give up another homer. I attempted to watch the baseball game, gchat with my mom, text message with my friend, read some blogs, check the contents of my hospital bag and have my husband read to me about the difference between false labor and real labor simultaneously.

I felt slightly distracted and as though I had difficult focusing. Clearly, it was labor.

My frenetecism was rewarded. My mom told me that my baby brother was actually on his was New Englandward a day earlier than I thought he was going to be. I called him and asked him to please come spend the night in our house just in case. The great thing about family is that you can inconvenience them and only feel a little badly about it. A few more contractions while I showered, two more runs given up by Papelbon, and I was ready for bed. I figured that the Sox season was over, and that even if my labor progressed while I slept my son would be taken care of.

That was, of course, just the wrong time to turn off the Sox game. But it wasn’t labor. It was just practice. I’m really, really, really hoping that I don’t have too many more ambiguous labor-like periods, or my friends’ love-lives may seriously suffer from ill-timed text messages. But hey, at least I’ll have one more Sox game this season.

On another note, I uploaded all my latest pictures a week or two ago, and got stymied at a near-final step and never got around to, you know, letting people know. So here, a few weeks late, are some pictures, including my birthday, my husband’s surprise concert for me, some apple picking, and Grey playing with Jefferson.

http://tiltedworld.com/brenda/pictures/October08/

The babies we never had

So most of you who know me know that I had two miscarriages between Grey and this pregnancy. Apparently October 15th was Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. I think I did pretty well dealing with my losses, and it helps a ton to have a happy healthy son and hopefully another one on the way at any moment. But the loss of a pregnancy, even at an early stage, can be very difficult and sneak back to haunt you. And I can hardly bear to imagine losing an infant.

I’ve also been thinking about my pregnancy losses a lot with the debate last night. Apparently the presidential debate involved the abortion discussion. Plenty of feminist bloggers are just a touch irate that John McCain used air-quotes when talking about “the health of the mother” as a reason why a woman might need an abortion.

While I have always been pro-choice (and always hoped that very, very few women would ever need the choice), my experience with my miscarriages changed how I looked at abortion. With my second pregnancy, everything seemed swimming. I got to 10 weeks rejoicing that the morning sickness wasn’t so bad and that maybe this meant I was having a girl. Then I noticed a bit of spotting and in the “it’s probably nothing to worry about” vein got sent in for an ultrasound to make sure everything was hunky-dory.

It wasn’t. Where there should’ve been a 10 week old embryo with a beating heart, there was just a darkly silent womb.

They told me to come back in a week in case my dates were off by a month. They weren’t. In a week it was still as silent as a tomb in there. The baby had probably stopped growing/died/whatever you want to call it at about 6 weeks and my body hadn’t gotten the message.

I was told to report to the OR for an abortion (same procedure whether or not there’s a living baby). I didn’t. Instead I fought to take abortifacent drugs because I wanted control over how the pregnancy ended, and if it wasn’t going to end itself, I didn’t want someone DOING something to me — not when I had a choice. I did need to terminate the pregnancy because I ran the risk of infection if it didn’t clear itself out. (Also, let’s talk about the mental health of a woman who knows she’s carrying a baby inside of her who is not alive. Or maybe let’s not, because that’s not a thing that bears lots of thinking.)

The pro-life tagline is that abortion stops a beating heart. Sometimes it doesn’t. I assume that even the most ardently pro-life out there would be ok with my terminating a pregnancy that didn’t involve killing a baby. You can be pregnant with a non-viable child, or one who has already died, and still be pregnant. But now I wonder every time I read about abortion laws… would they have prevented me from being able to terminate the non-viable pregnancy I had? Would my doctor know how to do the procedure? Would my doctor have to provide some sort of evidence that the pregnancy was not viable? Would I have had to wait even longer?

What about situations that aren’t as cut and dried as mine was? What about a child who can’t survive outside the womb but can inside it? (Like anencephaly). What about ectopic pregnancies? What about severe preeclampsia/eclampsia, where if the mother doesn’t cease being pregnant right away NO ONE is going to come out of the situation alive and the baby just isn’t old enough to make it?

I’m not sure what percentage of abortions are of perfectly healthy, viable pregnancies. That’s all the political discourse seems to talk about — someone who just doesn’t want to have a baby period. But in my experience of abortion, it was about pregnancies where there was some issue or some reason that the end outcome wasn’t going to be a baby anyway, and the only question was when.

Like so many issues in life and politics, abortion is painted as a black and white issue. And like so many issues, while there are situations that fall into black and white categories, there are also a lot of situations that are firmly rooted in gray.

(PS — be nice. This was a real and difficult loss for me. If there are any comments that are cruel, they will be deleted.)

38 weeks pregnant and needs more coffee

So I had my 38 week checkup today. Of course, I’m at the point in the pregnancy where I’m like, “I’m 38 weeks and TWO DAYS” as if those two days were critically important to understanding just how damn LONG I’ve been PREGNANT ALREADY.

I swear that the first time around I had weekly pelvic exams starting at about 32 weeks and every week I’d find out that I was exactly the same as last week and I got sort of in the habit of getting nekkid etc. I can’t say I’m disappointed, but apparently my memory sucks or things have changed. Not only did I get to keep my clothes on again this week, but apparently I don’t have to doff them until 40 weeks. Oh, and we rescheduled my 41 week appointment so that it happens on a day where she’s on call that evening.

I think she is wildly optimistic. She stripped my membranes (and no, I’m not going to explain what that means, but yes it’s just as much fun as it sounds) TWICE last time to NO AVAIL. But hey. It’s not like I have other big plans for that Monday. Except Linens ‘n Things is apparently going out of business and they’re totally right across the street. So this might all work out in my favor.

I confess — I’m not really sure why they want to see me so often when all they do is take my weight (don’t wanna talk about it), check my pee, take my blood pressure and measure my fundus. (I think that’s the right word. But it seems like the sort of word that it would be _BAD_ if I was close but not quite on in my usage.) Pretty much all of that could be done from the comfort of my own home, if I got someone else to look at the scale because I can’t see it because my belly is too big but I’m not sure this is a bad thing.

Ahem.

On the “my memory sucks” part of the argument, I was attempting to reassure a friend last night that although I am a figurative ticking time bomb, the “ticks” go on for long enough to run for cover. He brought up the quintessential scene of water breaking and I said that while that was a valid fear, I didn’t actually remember my water breaking with Grey.

At this point my husband pipes up to tell me that my water was broken while I was in labor. I totally and completely remember absolutely NONE of this. I mean, I thought I remembered labor pretty well: refusing to take the elevator to labor and delivery because I’d always taken the stairs, the skeptical look on the nurses face when a first time mom claims she’s in transition, the stuff they were storing in the tub where I wanted to labor, the unfair period where they wanted to take a “strip” to measure how the baby was doing, how they couldn’t get the remote monitors to work, how I fell asleep between contractions in the tub, how one simple request on my part clued them in that I was ready to push, the jokes I made between pushing, how my midwife appeared at the nick of time, the very unreasonable things I was asked to do at that point, the bit where my husband kept TOUCHING ME, both of us refusing to look at what was going on, Grey’s actual birth, the part where I had to bully A. into taking pictures of his newborn son which he didn’t want to do it was all “gross”, and the rather unpleasant few minutes that followed. I remember all of this. I do not remember anyone at any point breaking my water. Did they ask me? Did they need to? Don’t you think that’s the sort of thing that would, you know, make an impression? How long between when they broke my water and when I gave birth? It HAS to have been after I got out of the tub, but I was like pushing at that point. Doesn’t your water sort of need to break before you push?

The mind boggles.

I’ve thought of having some sort of countdown, but it’s rather too depressing. It’s not so bad with my due date — B minus 12 days! But then when you add in the 14 days I’ll agitate to go past due, well… let’s just say that I’m not sure I can maintain my sang froid (or my permanent wave — only family members will get that allusion) for another 26 days. TWENTY SIX DAYS. That’s like, forever. That’s like as many days as there are between December 1st and Boxing Day. People write novels in less time.

My husband said to me last night, as he worked the levers on the crane to lower me into bed, “I’m really looking forward to when you’re not pregnant anymore.” I shot him the look of doom and he hurried on, “I mean, I feel badly for your discomfort and how you hurt all the time and how difficult it seems.” I looked skeptical. “Also, I really hate your belly pillow and want to sleep on my right side again.” Light was shed. See, people? It’s not just me who’s sick of it all. Think of A. and how much of the bed the body pillow takes up. It’s all just unfair. Should he really be asked to put up with the bed interloper for 26 more days?

Fun and busy

We had a very busy weekend. Very busy.

By the time Monday morning rolls around, I rarely remember what I did on Friday. I believe it involved the Red Sox and a playoff game. Oh, and decorating a Patrick cake. And wrapping all Grey’s presents.

Saturday morning as A. took Grey to his dance class, I drove to iParty to procure balloons. I came home and decorated with balloons and streamers and Spongebob-themed partyware. I got done a little early and sat on my front porch and watched the wild turkeys mutually menacing the neighbor’s cat and enjoyed a truly lovely fall day. Then all everyone appeared all at once.

Grey had Jefferson and N. (a girl from church), and their respective parents. The kids played together pretty well — although the difference between boy-personalities and girl-personalities was marked. Grey got a balloon that sings an incredibly obnoxious version of “Happy Birthday” when you hit it. (Who’s brilliant idea was that? Oh yeah… mine.) So Grey and Jefferson were happily hitting each other over the head with balloons and giggling furiously. N. was terrified. The kids played together for a bit while we grownups sat on the couch and gossiped. Then there was happy-birthday-singing, followed by candle-blowing-out and cake-eating. (Two years olds can be surprisingly reticent to eat cake.) This was followed by present-opening. I was impressed that the other two kids didn’t try to open the presents themselves. This is a hard part of other people’s birthdays. Then the party was over and the diapers were full and the kids were cranky and it was time to go home. Perfect. The presents all seemed to be a big hit and Grey got down to the serious work of playing with them.

Then A. worked on caulking the windows in the living room while I planted bulbs and mowed the lawns and Grey failed to take a nap.

When the yardwork/home maintenance/nap failure was complete, we headed to a friends’ house for a game and socialization. I hooked Grey up with Baby’s First Princess Bride Viewing. (Not surprisingly he liked the sword fight.) I got to spend time with some neat folks I rarely get to see and ooh and ah over how much their kids have grown. (Well, one is so new he hasn’t really grown, but I got to nuzzle fuzzy-baby-head which really… no complaints there.) Grey got McDonald’s for his birthday dinner, which delighted him greatly. (Easy to please.) And we got home just in time to pour him into bed and for me to watch the first six innings of the game. (I’m glad I stopped before it got too depressing.)

Sunday! I took Grey to church sola so that A. could do more window-caulking. Every other week Grey is terrific/terrible at church. This was the week for terrific. During the word for children he announced that he he was three years old and had his birthday. Perhaps I should keep a log of information he volunteers during word for children. He ran happily and fearlessly to his Sunday School class. He ate about 80000 oreos after church. He played on the playground. He remembered the signs for “I love God” and melted his father’s and my hearts by doing them so nicely.

We went to Macaroni Grill for lunch. I have to admit that I’m a sucker for their dessert ravioli. Then we went to meet up with the same friends we rarely see from the previous day at Kimball’s Farms. I had been under the impression that this was, you know, a farm. Ha. It was actually an amusement park with goats. The weather was spectacular and delightful, but my back was not spectacular and delightful, so I let my husband Grey-wrangle while I sat on a bench and read a mystery novel. Apparently, Grey is surprisingly good at mini golf. Also, never trust the millionaire philanthropist. We had a lovely, leisurely time there with neat people, and headed home as night began to fall.

To no one’s surprise, Grey fell asleep on the drive home. Unfortunately, he sort of woke up when we got home. He asked for bread. Surmising he was hungry, A. fed him two eggs and put him back to bed. He told me he was hungry. We fed him two more eggs, a piece of toast and a serving of apple sauce. Really — he’s not that physically large. 4 eggs, a slice of buttered toast and apple sauce? That’s like half his body-weight, but he totally packed it away.

It was a really, really nice weekend. There was no laundry done (let us not speak of my hobo-like appearance at this juncture — I think yoga pants with a hoodie sweatshirt are COMPLETELY appropriate office wear). There was no grocery shopping. (Milk? Who needs milk?) But there was joy and sunshine and leaves and “bungy balls” and birthdays and cake and friends. I’ll take it.

When did he learn how to unwrap presents?

We are not after your spicy brains. Trust us. — We may not be potty trained, but we can totally beat you in Super Mario Bros.

Mental zephyrs

I’ve been moody lately, for me. By moody, I mean that my general emotional tenor has not been logical or consistent based on external stimuli. Some days I’m just cranky as a bear with a sore tooth, while other days I’m Ms. Sunshine and Light. Today is a Sunshine and Light day. Wednesday? Bear needing a root canal.

This morning, as so often happens, my son climbed into bed to snuggle me. He even says, “snuggle”. He nestled into my arms, his butt against the bulge of his baby brother and his fuzzy-head at perfect kissable height and we drowsed there together for 10 minutes. How can that fail to bring joy to the heart? On a perfect clear October commute where the highway is lined with the slow fire of the dying year (really, the colors are magnificent this year), I listened to him discourse at length about whether Jesus had ever used bad words like “ca ca poo poo head” and gotten a time out.

One never knows just how much theology to teach a three year old. But I’m pretty sure the gospels are silent on Jesus’ use of the phrase “ca ca poo poo head”.

I remember part of why this stage of pregnancy is so tiring. You KNOW that you might have up to (by my count) 30 more days until you are holding an actual real baby. You know that the odds of going into labor today are very small. (Less than 1 in 30.) You know that likely you have a long hard slog ahead of you. And yet you think that maybe? Just maybe? And some of my friends are every so slightly more pregnant than I am and they are having labor pains and it’s days or hours until they will have babies and I could too! Or, well, it could be November.

Hm. What if I am in active labor on election day? Hm hm.

And thus you see the pattern of my thoughts, scattered high, low and in-between by the autumnal zephyrs like so many crisp new-fallen leaves.

Stay on target…

So the last week or two I’ve felt very end-game about this pregnancy. I am two weeks and three days shy of my due date. Plenty plenty plenty of people have their babies this early. I know that I’m late enough that if any problem arises, my medical providers will be urging an induction in a heart-beat. I really DO need to have my hospital bag ready, the car seat in the car, etc.

These preparations, though, inevitably get you excited and get you thinking that hey! Maybe I’ll be having a baby soon!

By my calculation I have up to 30 more days of pregnancy to go. And as I’ve posted innumerable times and tried to remind myself thrice daily, the ODDS are very very good that I will spend most of the next 30 days pregnant.

I hate waiting. I’m a person of action. I initiate things. I make things happen. I see that things need doing and I do them. I do not sit around waiting.

Maybe installing the car seats was a mistake. I shouldn’t have hit all the pre-requisites for having a baby so early, because now there really is nothing to do but wait.

My life of leisure

This morning started out with Grey’s 3 year well-child checkup. I remember when I used to send emails about his 6 week checkup etc. they were full of data! And information! But 3 years? Grey is developmentally fine. His height and weight are fine. He has lots of ear wax. We should probably make with the potty-training.

The big news, I guess, was that Grey got his flu shot. I asked if I could have one too. Grey’s pediatrician has a low opinion of grownup-doctors. “Why didn’t your midwife give you one?” “They don’t have any?” “What about your primary care doctor?” “They wouldn’t give me one until after my due date.” “Well, I can’t give you ours because they’re formulated for kids, and you are not a kid. [insert rant on how grownup doctors don’t plan ahead].” Frankly, I think he’s entirely right. I can’t believe my OB/GYN office didn’t order at least SOME vaccine for their patients who are, you know, pretty much universally supposed to ge flu shots.

Then I dropped A. off at home, Grey off at daycare and bought several small sundry things (like the hardware to hang the light-blocking shades) that were needful.

I arrived at the ultrasound clinic a little early and turned off the tv, since I was the only patient in the waiting room. It took the staff less than 2 minutes to realize the tv was off and attempt to turn it back on. When I rule the world, we will have a constitutional right to not have to be exposed to daytime television involving quiz shows that ask questions like “What color is Pokemon?”

The ultrasound tech was new, at least to the organization. One room, two pregnancies, three ultrasound techs. But she was good — I liked her.

You will be shocked, SHOCKED to hear that everything is JUST FINE. The facts:
* The baby appears to be about 5 lbs 11 oz. Note: ultrasounds are off by as much as a pound. But even at 4 lbs 11 oz a baby with 2.5 weeks to go will likely squeak over the 5 lb worry threshhold. And he’s very likely over that threshhold already.
* The baby has hair
* He is definitely, for sure, fourth confirming ultrasound a he.
* He is also opposed to letting people get the measurements they want in ultrasounds with him.
* His head is really, really, really low. Really low. She almost couldn’t measure his head because it was blocked by my pelvis.
* His heartbeat was perfectly fine
* He has plenty of amniotic fluid.
* My cervix does not look like it’s letting its occupant out anytime soon.
* He is a squirmy little bugger

THEN I went to Walgreens where the guy in front of me in line was saying how his roommate stole his prescription and he’d heard some horrible people abused these sorts of drugs and you know he might DIE if he didn’t get more of this stuff and have seizures but it didn’t matter because he had cancer so he was going to die soon anyway and his doctor was out of town and unavailable to call and couldn’t she just fill his prescription? Did he mention he might die without it?

I was impressed with how the pharmacist handled the situation.

And I finally got my flu shot.
Midwife: 0
PCP: 0
Pediatrician: 0
Walgreens: 1

They even remembered I had called and had things ready to go for me.

And finally, home. 6 hours after I left in the morning.

Baby not measuring to dates

So I’m about as easy and vanilla a maternity patient as you can find. My blood pressure today was 116 over 81. My weight gain is normal (if perhaps a little donut-enhanced). All my tests (for strep, yeast infections, etc.) came back negative. I do not have gestational diabetes. My birth history is uncomplicated. My overall health is excellent. The baby’s heartbeat has been at 140 – 144 bpm every single appointment since the first heartbeat was spotted at 10 weeks. He’s very active. I don’t smoke, have pre-existing health problems, genetic predispositions to health problems, or any other complication. I’m well within the age range for not worrying. If there was a woman out there who could probably skip most prenatal care without harm, it’s me. I’d be fine so far this pregnancy, without a single medical intervention.

Do you hear a rant coming on?

There are a few things you do in the last month nearly every exam:
1) Pee in a cup (to check for protein — a sign of preeclampsia)
2) Take your blood pressure (also a preeclampsia check)
3) Check your weight (mmmmm donuts….)
4) Check the baby’s heartbeat
5) Measure the size of the baby.
6) Answer any questions you might have.

Step #5 is done with a little tape measurer. You lie down and the practitioner takes the tape and measures from the crease that starts in my case right below my boobs, over my belly button and to my pelvic bone. (Hurts when she presses down on it.) After like 14 weeks or something there’s a 1 to 1 correlation between number of weeks and the centimeters on the tape, so at 28 weeks the bump should be 28 cm. Convenient like that.

For the last 37 weeks of my pregnancy there has been NO MENTION made of the size of the baby. (Although he was the correct size in the very early ultrasounds where size matches dating.) This is my third midwife appointment in the last 4 weeks. The previous two she was gossiping while measuring and nothing came up.

Today she gets this concerned look on her face and asks if I would have an objection to going in for an ultrasound because the baby is measuring small. I pointed out that I fell under the birth weight threshold (at three weeks post due!)

So the upshot is that I have an ultrasound tomorrow to check the sizing on this baby. The thing is… um, so what? (The questions I should’ve asked all come to me as I stand in line for a donut at Starbucks.) What could be wrong with a small baby that we would currently have a chance to do something about? What are you worried about regarding the smallness? Has he been measuring consistently fine and then just failed to grow at all this week? Is that really a cause for concern? Or has he been running further and further behind and I just wasn’t told until she got really worried? Do we think he’s sitting on his umbilical cord? (Heartbeat was just fine…) It sure isn’t that I’m not eating enough. I could understand if he was measuring large — we might want to see if he would still fit and maybe induce labor a bit early to avoid a c-section if there was a doubt about him being too big. I just fail to see what is gained by knowing he’s small. I mean, if he runs the risk of being low birthweight, the best thing to do is carry him for as long as possible, which is exactly what I plan on doing anyway (not that I have much say).

And to be quite honest, I’m not sure he is all that small. I think he may be smaller than his brother (who was 7 lbs 11 oz and 20.5 inches — on the tall side, perfectly normal for weight), but he just presents differently. Maybe he was stretched out. My tummy definitely bulges to the right side instead of in the middle. (He’s sort of lying on his side — his butt is on the right side of my belly and his hands/arms/legs poke towards the left side of my belly. He’s head down.)

But because now I’m worried/wanna know what’s up I will present myself as requested at 1 pm tomorrow to have the, uh, 5th ultrasound for this pregnancy? (Ok, one or two of those definitely had to do with me being worried after my pair o’ miscarriages, and then the whole “short cervix” debacle but still…)

The worst part is that I see a *midwife* in part because I do not think I require that much medical care and because I am a non-interventionist patient. Is she just a very interventionist midwife, or would I be getting even MORE procedures with an OB/GYN? I’m really healthy! I could have this baby in the bathtub, if someone would throw in a few stitches afterwards! It doesn’t get easier than me!

In other obnoxious news, it is recommended that pregnant women get flu shots. If I get a shot now, it will protect both me and the baby for the flu season. (Which is good — you’d rather not give the baby his own shot.) So wouldn’t you think that my midwife/OBGYN would have access to the flu shot, which does not have a shortage this year?

Nooooooo….

She says I should see my PCP. Fine. My PCP is just down the hall. I drop in with fantasies of a “sure, sit right here and we’ll just jab you right now”. I mean, they do flu shots at Walgreens. How hard can it be.

Well, they have a flu clinic on the 27th (a day past my due date!) and they can’t give any shots before then. This is not helpful. I want the shot while the baby is internal, kthx.

So now I need to find a Walgreens or some place that has a clinic before then. Really, does following health recommendations need to be this hard?

GRUMP!

Zombies, Madeleine and apples

Friday: I spent Friday madly doing chores. Upside of being a human adult: ability to plan for the future. Downside: doing as much laundry as humanly possible on a Friday night. After I collapsed into gelatinous goo, I got to watch a bit of the playoff game. I have yet to watch an entire game this playoff season. That is sad. But with the west coastness and extra-inningness… oh well.

Saturday: This was an entirely fun for me day! While I did get up with Grey to give him his waffles, applesauce and strawberries while turning on “Robin Hood” (why yes, I am up for the “Parent of the Year” award — why do you ask?), A. took him to dance class, allowing me to sleep in. Then I went all by myself to our monthly local gaming get-together and played no fewer than three Zombie-related games. (Braaaaaiiiins.) I had to leave early.

Why?

Because I had a date. Better yet, a date coupled with a surprise. My loving husband had gotten us tickets to *something* and gotten a friend to babysit Grey. Anyway, we fed our friend dinner and then went downtown.

On the T in I asked A. where it was we were going. He said that we were going to a concert with a folk singer named Cesaria Evora. Ok. A bit random — never heard of her before but it sounded like fun! And I was wearing a dress! And going out! And with my beloved husband!

Then we got to the actual theater. Hmm… seems like there’s an additional name on that marquee:

: Wait a minute… what

I totally went squeey-fangirl on him. It was an excellent surprise and I was completely bamboozled. He did very well.

I really, really, really like Madeleine Peyroux’s music. It’s some of my absolute favorite. I was totally expecting to just love her concert. Instead, it was utterly bizarre. For one thing, the Orpheum was this strange combination of rococo opera house meets Fenway park (seriously — they sold hot dogs in the lobby) meets Shakespeare’s Globe theater. (Where I come from you don’t get seated after the lights go out. People were still arriving and being seated an hour later!) For another thing, I have never in my life seen a performer as terrified and uncomfortable as Madeleine was. This includes the 7th grade concert where April Kenny threw up beforehand. She was dressed in a long suit that was at LEAST 3 sizes too large for her. My mother in law would not let me out of the house in this suit. She held her guitar protectively in front of her. When she wasn’t playing, she sort of hunched over and clutched her suit jacket together as though attempting to be invisible. She looked completely miserable — like she wanted nothing so much as to disappear and get OFF THAT STAGE. She got this sort of grimace that was supposed to be a smile when she approached the microphone, which she only did when absolutely necessary. Her patter when she retuned between songs was about as feeble as I’ve ever heard — and the next act didn’t have anyone on stage who spoke English. And worst of all, she didn’t even relax and enjoy when she was making music. She played with her timing in some sort of attempt to… I don’t know… but it didn’t work. She didn’t hit the timing at all. When her set was done, she introduced the rest of her band but refused to introduce herself, and when the playing was done she FLED offstage. She nearly ran, I swear. I have no idea what was up with that — if she hates live performance ever and always, if she got broken up with 5 minutes before curtain, or if she had some sort abdominal pain issue, but it was almost upsetting to watch.

The act after her, on the other hand? The one she was opening for? ROCKED. It was this 70 year old Cape Verdean singer who practically limped on stage and drove the crowd WILD. Her band was FANTASTIC and everything about the show was totally on. And she just exuded confidence and presence and dontgiveadamness. She only spoke in Portuguese. And when she put down her microphone and did the ever so slightest shimmy of a dance, the crowd went absolutely nuts as though Elvis had just done a pelvic thrust.

If you asked me which one I’d rather have a CD of? Totally Madeleine — way more my style. Which performance did I enjoy more? Without a doubt Cesaria was more fun to experience. It was weird.

After the show, I found myself in dire need of dessert. For some reason, the Theater District in Boston does not cater to the “I need dessert” after a show crowd, so we ended up walking all the way down the street to the first place that would take us and feed us something sweet.

By the way, not that this is apropos of anything, but I’m apparently pregnant enough that even the wait staff at the Four Seasons will congratulate me on sight.

It was an awesome day.

Sunday: But wait! The weekend is not over yet!

Sadly, Grey wasn’t feeling very well on Sunday. We went to church, where he melted down in Sunday School. (Seems like every other week — he’s either great or totally melty.) Then after church I had a meeting and A. and Grey helped plant a few trees. Grey was definitely really tired and not feeling 100%… we’d planned on going apple picking. Was this still a good idea?

The way I figured it, we’d have a melty, tired, not-quite-right boy at home or a melty-tired-not-quite-right boy at the apple orchard, so why not pick apples while the sun shined? It was the right decision. The weather cleared just in the nick of time. Grey was GREAT at the orchard. He loved picking the apples. He played hide and seek. He loved eating the apples. We got pumpkins. It was a really lovely time. One should go apple picking at least once a fall when one lives in New England.

But the fun didn’t stop there! I realized when I got home just how many apples half a bushel is. The answer is: a lot. Many. More than we are going to eat. So I figured I’d send Grey and A. over with some apples for Jefferson and his family while I made dinner. Grey did a great job of decorating a bag to put them in. Then the guys took the apples over. Long story short, this resulted in Jefferson coming over to our house for the boys’ first ever playdate! They did really really well together (and looked soooooo cute!) It was fun.

Then I collapsed on the couch and the Sox collapsed in the 12th and I’m tired today. But all in all, it was one of the finest weekends I’ve had in a long time.