Worst Parents in the World

Last night, E wouldn't settle down for bed time. We had been to a birthday party and thought she was just revved from all that sugar. So we practiced tough love. First we made sure her diaper was dry and that the room temperature was comfortable. Then we ignored her while she screamed and pounded on the door. This went on for some time. We congratulated ourselves for setting boundaries and for not caving to a two-year-old's whims. She woke several hours later and was hard to soothe. Tough love again. More screaming. Once again, we traded self-congratulatory comments across the pillow.

This morning, J noticed that E's hair was matted and that her ear was oozing a bit. She has tubes, and some drainage is normal with a cold, so we weren't alarmed.

Then, during her afternoon nap, both ears exploded. Pus. Blood. Ooze. She has a double ear infection. This is quite a feat considering the tubes. It must have been hurting badly last night, but we were so focused on the sugar she consumed that other possibilities didn't occur to us. So she suffered longer than necessary.

Tonight, she is more comfortable. The antibiotic drops are doing their thing, and the ibuprofen is helping with the pain. She went to bed without complaint.

This parenting thing is tricky business. I think we get a lot right, but when we goof, we really goof. This time, we erred by assuming that she would be able to alert us to something serious. Last night when we asked her what was wrong, she asked for her books, she requested water, and she cried to be let out of her room. She never said a word about her ear. We should have known that her communication skills aren't yet sufficient to express what is wrong. She can sing the "happy birthday cake" song, but she can't say that her ear hurts like a bitch. She screams and we try to interpret. Last night, we got it wrong. Very wrong.

I wonder what therapy she is going to need later in life. Because of us.

Control

I have stress dreams that are good barometers for how my life is going.

In the first, I am behind the wheel of a car in the parking lot of Target. It isn't my car. It is big, old and non-responsive . The brakes barely work and the steering is off. If you have ever been the driver of a bumper car at your county fair, you may be familiar with the sensation of driving this beast. In my dream, I am desperate to avoid shopping carts, cars, and pedestrians. Somehow, I do manage, but barely.

In the second stress dream, I look out across the horizon and see tornadoes coming my way. Whichever way I run, they follow. I thank the jackasses who made the movie, Twister, for this dream. I think tornadoes might be cool if they were predictable and filed a flight path first. As a side note., my fear of tornadoes is not without merit. I have seen two, up close and personal, in the last four years. The first time I saw one, we were out shopping for a car. I pointed out the tornado to my husband and the sales staff. As I started formulating a survival plan--the freezer room in a nearby minimart seemed to be the best bet--the men, my husband included, ran outside gawking at it. I don't know if they were brave, or (more likely) if the Y chromosome kicked in and overrode their sensible, cautious side, but they weren't thinking about seeking cover. Luckily it went the other way. The second tornado appeared on a jut of land just across the harbor. I stopped the car and called 911 to report it. I thought the man in front of me was doing the same, but it turns out he was taking pictures with his cell phone.

In the final stress dream, I am a passenger in a plane that is going down. Matthew Fox is not on board. My fear of flying can probably be traced to the death of a childhood friend's father* Then in 1994, I had a horrible flight out of Colorado Springs which involved turbulence and a short dive in which people screamed and luggage flew out of the overhead bins.

My stress dreams have returned. It doesn't take a psychologist to realize that the common theme in each of these dreams is control or lack of it, to be more precise. Lately, I've been in reaction mode at home and at work.

At home, Baby M has had a cold and has regressed on the whole sleep through the night thing. She wants to be held most of the day and she hasn't been eating well. This has left me stupid from sleep deprivation and in pain from a nasty case of plugged milk ducts.

E is doing better, but she is two, which means she is opinionated and of limitless energy. She has taken to walking around with her pants and diapers around her ankles declaring that she needs to go potty. This is now a ritual activity complete with reading materials (thanks, J), toilet flushing and hand washing. It was cute at first. Unfortunately, she doesn't quite have the awareness in advance that she needs to go and only tells me after the fact. This does not curb her enthusiasm so we are spending a good bit of time in the bathroom which is, of course, making me a bit insane. I'm considering installing a wine bar in there to help me relax.

On the work front, I have the text hanging over my head. And a publisher who is truly not nice. I also have the department's assessment report to write, but to do that I'll need to analyze the data in all my free time**and to work with a colleague who, while well-intentioned, is a bit much. Do I really need to know that she and her husband made love*** last night? Do I need to hear about the patriarchy that stand in the way of her making full professor?

Finally, I'm fat. Well, not so much that my ass is going to be featured on the news tonight as an example of American gluttony, but fat for me. The baby weight is being stubborn. My father-in-law said something to me about it today over Thanksgiving dinner as I was eating seconds.****

All this is to say that my stress dreams have returned and I am feeling a bit out of control. This must end: I need more control or at least the illusion of more control. Now. I've started a small experiment. Starting two days ago, I am doing my best impression of someone who has things under control. If at the end of a week, I don't feel slightly better, I'll try something different.

I'm keeping the house neater. Specifically, I'm not going to bed with anything out in the kitchen, I'm insisting that messes should be cleaned as they are made (pretty amusing with a two-year-old in the house), I'm planning meals head of time*****. I'm selecting outfits the night before they are to be worn. I'm checking bank balances. I'm thinking about the text.

What am I missing? How do you hold things together?

*I recently realized that the crash was the same one that claimed the life of Steven Colbert's father and brothers).
**I have loads of it, if we count the hours I senselessly devote to rest.
***Her words, not mine. This sounds so cheesy to me. So 1970s. So herpes era.
****Was this comment necessary? I think not.
*****This week is easy. Leftovers. I plan for the family to eat the leftovers right down to the turkey bone marrow.

Three Months: A Short Thanksgiving Story

Last Thanksgiving, I was seriously depressed. Mood and FSH levels are inversely related after all. Despite the dire fertility diagnosis, I was not willing to accept the RE's word that my ovaries were cooked. I was mid cycle and armed with an ovulation prediction kit, Preseed, and the conviction that I would have another baby even if it meant second mortgaging the house and cycling across the country at a high FSH friendly clinic. I was a woman on a mission.

Thanksgiving morning I took food to bleary-eyed friends who had a three-day-old baby. Later, my in-laws spent the day with us which meant I had to sneak off to the bathroom to pee on a stick and then obsess. The lines almost matched which meant I was close to ovulating. Hope! Now if the in-laws would leave already.* After hours of discussing whatever my in-laws discuss** they finally left, we did that which needed to be done, and somewhere over the course of that long weekend we did what seemed impossible: we conceived naturally.

M is three months old today. And I am so grateful.

Happy Thanksgiving.


*Family holidays stress me out, and I was feeling raw and intruded upon. With a possible LH surge, my normal impatience for their departure was somewhat intensified.

**Good God, these people can talk. For hours. About nothing.

Awake

When my first daughter was a month old or so I remember reading a post on my new mommies board from a woman who was clearly delusional. She explained how she treasured the nighttime wakings and feedings and would miss them when they were gone. The words treasure, gaze, and bond appeared. It was a Hallmark post, dripping of saccharine.

I remembered that just now as I got up with Baby M. It is 4:30 a.m. and she is nursing. I adore my little one. I do. But for the record, when these night wakings are over, I will not miss them. What I treasure right now are eight unbroken hours of sleep.

Reunion

J's 20th college reunion is this weekend. Here. He didn't care to attend any events, and I am extremely thankful for this. You see, I work at the college he attended, and I'm not at all enthusiastic about turning over $80 per person to my employer to drink cheap wine and eat crappy cheese and crackers when my most recent cost-of-living adjustment was so small I needed to borrow a microscope from the biology department just to see it. Plus, this is pure conjecture, but I'm fairly certain that the only people who attend reunions are people who are there for bragging rights. You know, people with big houses, nice cars, kids who don't get dirty or snotty, and law or medical degrees. Republicans.

Let's just say we fit in none of the above categories. Our house is small and cluttered. We have about 1500 square feet downstairs and a finished room above the garage that would be a good bet for Mission Organization makeover. We have a 1996 hatchback with body damage and are considering splurging on a Honda Fit if two car seats will fit in back and if we can swing a payment on top of childcare. My kids get dirty. Very dirty. Snotty too. We are humble public servants making crappy wages. I'm a democratic sociologist, but people in this part of the country don't get it so I usually just say that I'm a democrat and cope as they look on me with fascination and pity.

So I was feeling good about getting out of reunion duty and not having to mix with people I don't know and can't relate to. But my relief was short-lived because college friends of J's called. They are in town for the reunion! Why didn't we go?! It would be so great to see us! It's been too long! They have to see the BA-BEE!

How to describe them? She is a stay-at-home mom* whose Christmas letters always start with "we are blessed" and then go on for five pages to document their Tahoe vacation, big new house, perfect children, and perfect lives. She got a masters degree in education, spent half a year teaching and hasn't worked outside the home since that time, not even before they had kids.

He is a lawyer. Not just any lawyer, but the one on the back of the phone book in his city.** My brother happens to represent insurance companies and has been on opposite sides of the aisle from this guy more than once. My brother says this guy is a shyster. Now please understand that my brother is himself a bit of a shyster who once sent a certified letter to a new neighbor because their dog kennel was three inches over the property line. So when he calls another attorney a shyster, I have to take his word for it.

I'm pretty sure this couple is Republican. They just have that vibe. I guess I'll know soon enough because J invited them over here tomorrow morning. He told me this at 8 p.m. tonight and we had a fight at 8:05. I threw the F bomb, he called me names. I finally gave up because it won't change the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Blessed (turn your injured neck into a check!) will be here in the morning.

Let me set the scene for you. The house is cluttered and none too clean. There is stuff everywhere. Baby equipment that replicates when we aren't watching. Puzzles. Crayons. Books, magazines, newspapers.***I haven't vacuumed this weekend because E is terrified of the vacuum and she hasn't been anywhere without me. Though I just mopped on Wednesday, the kitchen floor needs to be mopped again because J made pumpkin seed brittle**** and there are sticky spots everywhere. We don't have baseboards. We renovated this house two years ago, E was born and most work stopped. It really bothers me that we don't have baseboards. It almost bothers me as much as the clutter. There is nothing I can do about that by tomorrow morning.

Now that I have calmed down, I have a plan for getting the house looking as nice as it can considering all. I told J he must take the kids out of the house for at least an hour in the morning as I don't have time to coddle a toddler who thinks the vacuum cleaner is a monster. My plan is simple. First, I am going to pick up everything that doesn't have a home and throw it in a Rubbermaid bin that will then be deposited in a dark corner of a closet and probably forgotten until we move again.***** J will be totally pissed when he realized I done this, but he'll deal. Once surfaces are cleared, I'll dust and vacuum. Then I'll mop. Then I'll wipe down the front bathroom. Then I'll make the beds. Easy, right?

*Nothing wrong with this. She just has a bit of that Stepford Wife thing going, you know?
**This is true. A mutual friend confirmed it.
***No, I'm not a hoarder, but I do have the last two days worth of papers out because I might get to read them and because I need to find the TV and Real Estate sections.
****You don't want to know.
*****You think I'm joking, don't you?


An Update: I sent J and the girls into the cold morning air so I could clean the house. Then this couple was two hours late. She talked nonstop the entire visit about her children. J went to lunch with them and reports that the monologue went on for the entire meal. On the plus side, they send their kids to public school so they can't be all bad.

Fear and loathing

Ah. The publisher will be here Friday. For four days. Four long days. She isn't pleased that I'll have M with me, but unless J grows boobs and starts lactating, M is coming along. I could pump, but there are a few problems with this. First, it takes me two pumping sessions to make enough for one bottle. I don't understand this, but that is just how it is working out. Second, the baby doesn't take bottles well. She arches her back and wails as if we have abandoned her. She is getting better about this, but it is hit and miss. Finally, I can't leave J with two girls for that long. Well, I could, but it wouldn't be pretty. He looks strung out when I get back from yoga and that is only 90 minutes; I can't imagine how strung out he would be after a few days. It isn't that he is incompetent. Not at all. It has more to do with M's reluctance to take a bottle and E's tantrums. I told the publisher that I would need to bring the baby and she was OK with it six weeks ago. I'm holding her to it. She was forewarned.

The text is not going well. If I had it all to do again, I would never have signed up for this. It will go down as my biggest professional mistake. Still, I'm not a quitter. Really, I am not. It's just that it seems bigger than me. So much bigger. My social science is a broad field. While I am more than competent at teaching the introductory courses, it has occurred to me that my area of expertise is fairly narrow. This means that to write with authority on certain topics, that I have to dive back in the literature and really educate myself. This takes time and energy. Both are in short supply.

Then there is the feedback from the editor and publisher. The publisher thinks I am too spare in writing. She may be correct. I have a journalism background and I'm stingy with words. I was trained to get as much information into as little space as possible. Old habits are hard to break. It is depressing for me to get her feedback. The editor is less critical, but he doesn't have a background in my field so we don't always speak the same language.

When I think about it, my biggest problem may be psychological resistance to this project. The publisher has been very cruel at times and domineering at others. I fear her. I loathe her. She has told me that "we own your time" "you belong to us" "we could have gotten a bigger name for this" and the list goes on. I am not the most assertive person, but I am unusually passive around her. It feels bad and lends a bad vibe to the project.

Between now and Friday I need to finish a chapter. I don't think it will happen, but I'll give it a try. I think that if M will give me more than three hours of sleep at a time, that I may get more done. Send little M some sleep vibes. A clear head would do me good.

My sitter is back

Ah bliss. One of our three sitters from last year has returned. Her fiance, a professional athlete, was not picked up by the major league so he is back here playing for a farm team. I know they are disappointed, but I am so happy to have her back. She came over three afternoons this week and watched M while I worked upstairs. When it was time for me to feed M, she knocked on the door and I took a nursing break. It was so easy! If I could afford to do this long-term I wouldn't put M in daycare in January.

Advice

You'll thank me for this: When you decide it is time to get your hair chopped off, make sure the stylist has a lot of experience cutting short hair.

One year of blogging

Was it really a year ago today that I learned my FSH was 24.7? That Nurse Joy didn't want to give me the news? That I stood behind the little coffee shop sobbing and hoping passersby wouldn't notice? That I had to cancel my evening class because my eyes were red and puffy and I wasn't sure I could keep my composure?

A lot has changed and a lot has stayed the same. The RE was wrong. My eggs were good. The book is not nearly done. I'm a mom again.

Mama's lost her groove

Baby M (wasn't that the name of a custody battle baby?) is eight weeks old and is a model citizen. While she isn't sleeping quite through the night, she goes down around 10:30 p.m. and doesn't wake again until 4:30-5:00 a.m. After a slow start to breastfeeding, we have the hang of it. She mostly eats every three hours or so until the evening when she eats a bit more frequently. She doesn't fuss much and she smiles a lot. Baby M has found her groove.

So what is wrong with Mama?

• She is 10 pounds heaver than she was this time last year and that last ten pounds aren't budging. This is probably due to her very healthy appetite and lack of exercise. The ten pounds make Mama feel fat and very unattractive. Her favorite jeans don't fit. Hell, none of her jeans fit and she was reduced to a trip to K-Mart for three pairs of fat pants less she freeze her ass off. Actually, freezing her ass off sounds like a plan.
• She is trying to work around the baby on a project she hates. While M is basically on her own little schedule, she needs lots of attention as newborns tend to do. Mama is supposedly back at work full time with the baby. That means schlepping the baby to campus at least one day per week and trying to work from home the other days. The problem with this is that the blocks of working time (when not needing to tend to the baby) are small and by the time Mama is finally immersed in the detestable text, it is time to save all files and feed, burp, bathe, walk, or cuddle with the little one. Mama much prefers this to writing anyway.
• She does not like the publisher of the text who is pure evil. It had to be said. Seriously, this is not a nice woman and the entire thing-- nine more chapters--must be completed by April 30. Or else. She is making a trip this way in three weeks. Is praying for a November hurricane a bad thing?
• She is devoting considerable energy to Big Sister E who is "highly spirited" which is a nice way of saying she has taken the "terrible" in terrible two to heart. She is a lovely girl when she is happy, but she can turn on a dime.
  
• She trips over toys and baby gear daily. Despite attempts to keep the living space in order, it feels chaotic and cluttered. Between puzzle pieces, baby swings, and books and magazines (oh yes! a household of readers), things have a tendency to pile up.
• She feels anxious. All the time. And unsettled. Is this the first hint of postpartum depression? Perhaps this is just to be expected.

Clearly, something needs to happen to make Mama feel more in control. A few ideas:

• While it means stranding J with the girls for 90 minutes, I insist on going to yoga or Pilates twice a week. I've done this three times and felt better for a little while after. No matter that I am the worst student in the class.
• I need to start running again. I have a bad neck so this is a little scary, but the times I've felt most in control were the times I was running regularly. M is still a little small for running (in the running stroller) so I'll have to work out something with J.
• I have to come to terms with the text. I completed a dissertation somehow. This shouldn't be as difficult because it isn't original research.
• I need some changes. I'm starting with my hair; I'm getting it lopped off. Seriously, it just adds to the frump. It is time for something short and perky.

Baby M is waking. If you see my groove please send it my way. I need it.

A Belated Birth Story

I promised a birth story so here goes. It was a ridiculously easy birth compared to E's delivery two years ago. Here is what made the delivery different: My epidural worked, no magnesium sulfate was involved, no vacuum was needed, there were no third degree tears from hell, and I was not in labor for 36 hours. It was the birth experience I had hoped for.

After being told I could go anytime starting at 37 weeks, I was still very pregnant (and totally pissed about it) at 39 weeks. Because my blood pressure started to rise, I was scheduled for an induction on M's due date. We were at the hospital by 6:30a.m. By 8:30, my OB broke my water and by 9:00 I was having contractions with the help of Pitocin. The contractions weren't that bad, but I asked for an epidural around 10:00. I was only 3 cm by 11:00 so J and I thought we were in for a very long labor (I was in labor with E from 5 a.m. when my contractions started until she was born at 5:30 the next day).

We settled in for a long wait and decided to watch a DVD on my computer. Unfortunately, I wasn't terribly discerning in my program selection. I selected Season One of Weeds*, not realizing that there would be fairly graphic sex scene on the episode we selected (think Sex in the City). My computer is relatively new, so I was frantically trying to stop the DVD before the doctor or nurse walked in and discovered us watching porn. Oh well. Live and learn. We turned the computer off.

Around 1:00 I had breakthrough pain so my epidural (lovely epidural!) was amped up. I felt pressure around 1:45 and when the doctor checked me at 2 p.m. I was complete, complete and +3. It was time to push. I really only had to push through about four contractions and I delivered my lovely, curly haired baby at 2:30. I had a second degree tear, but it healed well and didn't cause me much aggravation.

It was a wonderful experience and I would do it again. In fact, I would love to do it again. What is wrong with me?

*Which I really like despite the shocking scene.

Dear Dr. Negative and Nurse Joy

My less-than-one-percent-chance-of-conception baby has arrived. She is perfect. Lovely. Brilliant. Adored.Here. At last. *

May I suggest that in the future, rather than scare the shit out of patients who present with less than stellar hormonal profiles, that you instead show a little compassion and a little willingness to work with them? At the very least, refer them to a center that is less concerned about the center's statistics. Don't push donor eggs until you are certain that all avenues have been exhausted. [Trust me, you didn't exhaust any avenues.] Finally, believe it is possible for the sake of your patients. I think I managed to get pregnant largely because Dr. F believed I could do it. I have six and a half pounds of proof sitting next to me.


*I promise a real update and short birth story when I have a little more time and a lot more energy. As it happens, I developed a case of late onset preeclampsia four days after M was born and had to be rehospitalized. I'm feeling better, but still battling high blood pressure and the extra fatigue that brings. Then there is the small matter of M thinking party time is from 10 p.m. to 4 a.m.

Never made it to the hospital

About an hour after posting last night, the contractions abruptly slowed and became less intense. By midnight, they had quit altogether. The upside is that I got a decent night's sleep. The downside is that my mom is here now. Watching me. For signs of labor. I may go crazy.

Contractions every four minutes or so. . .

This afternoon I realized that I haven't really wrapped my brain around this "parent of two" thing. I guess I have a little bit of time to work on that. Not much, though. I almost cried when I put E to bed. She was a prefect child today. Funny, talkative, affectionate. We have a good thing going. Please, please let that continue.

My mom should be here soon and then we are heading to the hospital. I'm a little worried that I will have made no progress since this morning when I was barely 2cm and 50% effaced. I have a history of slow labor with E. Surely they won't send me home when I've been in labor since 2 a.m. (it is now 9 p.m.) Will they?

Will update when I am able.

The plug! The plug!

Damn! That was gross. Snotty? Check. Bloody? Check. Ready to get this show on the road? Check.

Before we get too excited, I should mention that the OB stripped my membranes on Friday so this isn't totally unexpected. Plus, I've read that it can regenerate. Still, the promise of going into labor without the sledgehammer of a pitocin drip is alluring. If I don't go into labor on my own by Friday, the OB is planning to induce. My BP is creeping up there so we don't want it to get out of hand.

We saw the baby on Wednesday. Measuring a bit small--18th percentile--for dates, but looked great. Of course, with a margin of error of about a pound in either direction, there is no telling what we'll end up with. I'd post an ultrasound, but my uterus is rather cramped and the pictures aren't very good.

E is doing much better. She seems recovered from the ear infection and cold and has slept relatively well the last few nights. I feel a little guilty that we are about to rock her world with the addition of a new family member, but I think she'll forgive us one day.

We still have a few house tasks left to accomplish, but we are basically there. Most of what is left can wait since the baby will be in our room for a couple of months.

Will update when there is something to report.

Dear Baby

Ouch. I know you probably feel cramped in there, but I think you may have cracked one of my ribs tonight. You are also head butting my cervix, which I hear is good for getting things going, but do you think you could stop for a few hours? Please? Mama needs sleep.

You see, your big sister has been sick since last Thursday. Actually she had a cold before that, but she has been really sick since Thursday with high fevers, pain and crankiness. Despite the tubes, she has a lovely ear infection. Truth be told, this is the worst infection yet. The doctor speculated that dried blood from the procedure may have blocked a tube and prevented it from draining. This gave the bacteria a place to thrive until the pressure built and built and your sister's ear exploded. She hasn't been sleeping well as a result. And now her hair is matted with ear drainage which is vile, vile stuff. She hasn't been to school since Thursday and I haven't had a nap since she has been home. I need a nap. Forget Brad Pitt: my fantasies now involve eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. But I would settle for five or six.

The doctor says you could arrive anytime now. I'm so looking forward to meeting you, but can you give us just another couple of days? Your sister's furniture should be painted by tomorrow-- even if I have to do it myself--and I have cleaners coming. So the house will be ready soon. If I can just rest up a little before giving birth, I think we will both be better off for it.

Plus, your sister and I have not had much quality time during the last week. Quantity time, yes. Lot's of that. But it is hard to have quality time when someone is screaming from pain and is generally very cranky. We've watched way too much TV and now I have the theme to several children's programs stuck in an endless loop running through my head. I have a Ph.D. and I have been reduced to humming along to a Higley Town Heros, Doodlebops, and Signing Times medley. It isn't right.

We'll get to see you Wednesday one way or another. I'm measuring small so the OB just wants to take a quick peak and make sure things are OK. I still don't know your gender, but your grandmother (the one attached to her cell phone) insists you are a boy. If you are, that is OK, but we are going to have to go shopping unless you are into pink ruffles. Not that there is anything wrong with that.

Hang in there another couple of days, my lovely one. There is a big world out here waiting. I can't wait to show it to you.

All my love.

Some weeks blow

This hasn't been the best week.

My OB is leaving. For good. This week. I have mixed feelings. I don’t like her has much as I liked Dr. L who held my hand through infertility and saw me through my pregnancy with E (she left last summer to return to her home state). I knew that Dr. T was leaving as far back as January, but she assured me that I would be “in good hands” for the final weeks of my pregnancy and I decided not to find a new practice. Big mistake. My last appointment with her was Thursday and she once again assured me that the OB who is replacing her is great and will do a good job. However, when I went to check out and make my 37 week appointment with the new OB, the scheduler said, “Oh, Dr. S doesn’t start until August 15. You’ll have to see someone else until then.” Then she informed me that no one was available next week.

When I protested, the scheduler found a spot for me for next Friday afternoon with Dr. A, who I have not yet met. He is fresh out of medical school and is not even board certified. I’m mortified. And the week after? I’ll see whoever can take me. I don’t really like being without an assigned doctor right now. I have no idea who to call with questions. No one knows my medical history. This is NOT how I planned to finish out my pregnancy.

It doesn’t help that the other doctors in the practice are all men. First, I prefer a female OB who has had children. If I say, “I feel like this child is going to fall out of my butt,” I want my doctor to nod empathetically and say, “Oh yes, that rectal pressure is something, isn’t it?!” rather than referring me to the nearest psychologist. Second, if I have an embarrassing question, “I am suddenly horny/frigid/purple” I want to be able to ask it without having to look at the floor. Finally, I’m having pelvic exams each week at this point. I find that excruciating enough once a year with a female OB/GYN. I’m going to need prenatal Valium for this.

As I was learning that this was my last appointment with Dr. T, I learned that I have a UTI. The routine urine dip revealed this and, looking back, it makes sense. I had blamed my extreme fatigue, round the clock weeing, and killer low back pain on the baby (sorry baby!). I’m glad it’s being treated, but it hasn’t made my week any better. I’m somewhat disappointed that the antibiotic has not turned my urine bright yellow/orange as promised by the pharmacist. I don’t know why the promise of neon pee excited me, but it did. Maybe I'm just perverse.

We’ve also had a time with E this week. After seven ear infections and a slightly abnormal hearing test, E had tubes placed in her ears yesterday. This is good news, really. I think we will be happy to have the tubes. However, she is one pissed-off little kid right now. It started off well enough. The anesthesiologist brought in a cocktail of Tylenol and Versed, which made E the most entertaining 22-month old on the planet. She’s going to be a fun drunk one day, I’m afraid. We were charmed.

Of course all good things must come to an end, and for us that end came quickly, when E woke in the recovery area. How a child goes from drunken charmer to Mr. Hyde in the course of 15 minutes, I do not know. But I can report that she cried and screamed for hours yesterday. We figured she would be better today, but she woke up with the sniffles and was running a fever of 102 by this afternoon. Now her ears hurt AND she is blowing snot bubbles. It isn’t good. I’m worried for her and will take her to our pediatrician in the morning if this continues. My fear is that the new tubes are blocked and are not doing their job. It doesn’t seem like a cold should cause a high fever.

Finally, there was the lactation class that wasn't. I decided that in order to get better treatment/ more attention from the lactation consultants, that I would sign up for a breastfeeding class this time. I had supply issues when E was born that were probably related to my high blood pressure so I want to be proactive this time. I showed up in room 336 of the main hospital this morning as instructed. I was the only one there. After some investigation, it turns out that the idiot scheduler put me in a class that doesn’t meet until the last Saturday of AUGUST--after the baby is born. The class that met this month met two days ago on Thursday evening. I was free Thursday. Maybe I’m just not supposed to breastfeed.

I guess I’m totally hormonal because I started bawling the moment I set foot out of the hospital. That’s just the kind of week it has been. Next week will be better, right?

Shhh. . . Don't tell my husband

I want another baby after this one.

There is no rational reason for this. In fact there are many reasons to argue against it.

• This pregnancy has been difficult physically.
• I've worried from the moment the second pink line appeared on the stick.
• Being a good mom to a toddler and being pregnant have been tough.
• We don't have the space for any more children.
• We don't have enough money to raise another.
• Have you seen the projections for the cost of college by the time these two are ready?
• Four years of changing diapers is probably quite enough.
• We will be in our sixties by the time we launch the two we have.
• My FSH makes another child unlikely.

But still, there is a sense of sadness as I approach the end of this pregnancy. I don't want to believe that this is it. That we are done.

Where does this desire for children come from anyway? Is it hardwired? Do men have it? Does the sadness of having closed the door ever go away?

The Pregnancy Waddle

I was always told that the waddle was from a combination of the baby's position and the relaxation of the pelvis. Today, as I wiped away drops of sweat on my way into Costco I suddenly realized that this is bunk.
My waddle? I don't like the sensation of my very fat, maternal thighs rubbing together.

35 weeks!

I am 35 weeks today. Hooray! Only two more weeks until I'm term. At last week's appointment my OB predicted I won't go a full 40 weeks. That both terrifies me and excites me.

Terrifies me because if I were to go into labor tomorrow, we would not quite be prepared. There is no nursery. While I know we only need a bassinet, some pampers, a stack of onesies, and some formula in case my milk fails to come in again, a little more preparation would be good. Also, I know that babies born after 35 weeks tend to do very well, but I think they should bake a little longer. Jaundice, respiratory distress and feeding issues are still concerns.

Excites me because I am tired of being pregnant. I feel huge. My thighs are alarmingly fat. I'm starting to get sausage toes. The baby has a foot jammed up under my rib cage and (damn!) it hurts. I'm also getting rammed in the cervix on a regular basis. Think of French soccer hero Zidane's head-butt of his Italian opponent and you may get the picture. Then, there are the hemorrhoids. They are so bad that sitting down is a little painful. My back hurts. My calves seize up in middle-of-the-night-what-the-hell-is-going-on cramps. The kicker is that I am contracting at least every 10 minutes and sometimes as frequently as every 3-5 minutes. It hasn't progressed to real labor, but it is a nuisance at best and painful at worst. I'm up at this very late hour because of the contractions.

Still, I am grateful to be pregnant, I truly am. With my FSH in the stratosphere, the thyroid and autoimmune issues, this baby is a miracle in so many ways.