Midwives Misunderstod.... Again

Every time Augusto puts some midwife news from the SF Chronicle in my To Read pile by the toilet, I feel dread. Truthfully, the dread follows naïve excitement- ooh! Somebody is paying attention! Quickly I come to my senses. I remember that only a select group understands midwives. The mainstream media is not part of this group.

Glaring from the pile is the headline “Fewer options for those who seek natural births: Midwives becoming less popular as cesarean sections gain ground.” The empathetic (?) journalist covered the upcoming closure of Homestyle Midwifery. Homestyle is a popular, personalized in-hospital midwifery service. Contrary to the headline, I actually met two people in Hawaii who delivered with that service. After we passed on our homebirth practice, my former partner, Cynthia Banks, worked for Homestyle for a couple of years. She is an excellent midwife, and she loved that practice. Then California Pacific Medical Center came in, took over St. Luke’s Hospital, and the well-loved, extremely safe midwives are done.

It’s all very sad, but what is worse is that the media can’t get it right, so the general public doesn’t understand, and with the pressure of OBs who are threatened midwives will steal their normal birth- big business, i.e. medical systems like CPMC, follows suit. Let me state two facts:1.Midwives are autonomous providers. 2. Birth with midwives is safe. The article gets it wrong on both accounts. It’s a common misconception, as follows:

1. “For doctors, the decision to allow a midwife to handle the birth or to intervene medically is often a matter of weighing the potential risks against a woman's wishes during labor. The vast majority of births are trouble-free, but few doctors want to risk complications just because a woman would prefer to avoid a medical procedure, physicians say.” Doctors don’t decide to ALLOW a midwife to do anything. We have our own patients. If they meet set criteria for having a low-risk pregnancy, they choose us. When there is a concern of complication with a woman’s health, we consult with a doctor. That means we ask for their opinion, consultation, guidance, or to take over care of the patient- whatever is appropriate.

2. "Some women may say, 'I'm willing to risk a little in terms of safety to have the birth I want.'” Dr. Elaine Gates, vice chair of the obstetrics and gynecology department at UCSF made that statement. Birth with midwives has been shown over and over again to be as safe as or safer than birth with OB-GYNs when you match women of similar risk in similar settings.

It’s really a shame that midwifery is so misunderstood- since the research also shows that patients of midwives are overall more satisfied with their experiences than patents of doctors.

The Attack of Everything

The end of the Attack of Snot is near. I hesitate venturing into the subject, but what would a parent’s musings be without snot? There’s so much of it everywhere.

“Runny nose, Mama!”

“Just a second, I’m getting some paper.”

“Runny nose, Mama!”
“Runny nose, Mama!”

“OK, blow”

Day care allows runny noses, but no other ill children. No fevers or coughs (although a few sneak through). Definitely no puking or diarrhea. Stella’s runny nose is nearly constant- usually clear and allergy related, I believe. But this nose is impressive. Rivers of yellow-green snot. And she spiked a fever of 106.2. You read it right. 107 is seizure-zone, so I was just a bit freaked when I took her back to the vet pediatrician (she’s 2 ½ and I keep saying it wrong). Yes, back. We had been there in the am and were told to watch and wait, but by the time we got home her fever was climbing faster than I could find the office number. Thanks to ibuprofen, it went down that fast too. But the doc said get your butt here ASAP, so I lugged sleeping infant in car seat and roasting toddler on my hip the thirteen stairs to the car, 10 minutes to the office and a long lot from the car. She improved while we were there and found that she doesn’t have a septic kidney infection (cheer!), but probably has some resistant sinusitis that’s in our community. While we waited for her Augmentin and probiotic, she explored the lobby barefoot. I forgot her shoes at home. Nothing gets disapproving stares like a barefoot child in a medical setting. Add the unkempt hair, unshowered mama, and all three people in messy clothes- certainly not “outfits.” We looked like a mini old mother and the shoe or whatever it is.

I was apprehensive about the big-gun antibiotic, but more apprehensive about the wacky high fever. I was also making decisions on 5 hours of breastfeeding-interrupted-jetlag sleep. I didn’t even have time to get my caffeine. It was one of those days that makes me the woman who is always in the center of a crisis. You know that friend or cousin who has some shit happening every time you just call you say hi.

“Hi, Friend, How are ya’?”

“Well, not so great. My car got broken into when I was at the DMV trying to replace my lost license and then I couldn’t get anyone to care for the kids so they’re here with me while I’m giving the police report. Shit- I just dropped my keys in the mud! I gotta go.”

Yeah. I’m THAT friend these days. Every week it’s something new. I hate to hear myself speak. While we were dealing with Stella yesterday, I completely ignored the cat- not the one who got sick and ran away/died last month, but the other one who has a rectal mass and can’t make a bowel movement. She looked so miserable this morning, trying to poop in vain, crying out. She’s lighter than a week ago. Which was lighter than two and three weeks ago. Her skin is tenting with dehydration. She wobbles. She’s had two enemas just so she can shit (that’s added some lightness to the conversation: California Freaks Give High Colonic to Cat). What an embarrassment for the fastidious cat. I have an appointment for her tonight. This might be it. I don’t want to say goodbye to her too, but I hate seeing her suffer- and know it won’t turn around. The vet says it’s cancer. Inoperable. And I’m not putting a 16-year-old cat through chemo or some other miserable treatment. The kids will be up soon and they will simultaneously need me for everything, so I’m going to go pet the cat and/or bury my head in the unused kitty litter.

Today Stella’s temp is lower and her mood improved. But her nose is still flowing.

“Runny nose, Mama!”

“You know, you need to learn to do this yourself...OK, blow.”

“Mama, runny nose again!”

Pay for Shade?

Last night we returned from 9 days in Hawaii. I didn't mention it before because I have this thing about announcing to the world that we're going out of town. My husband is that way when I shout it across the street so the neighbors know to look out for our house. He is sure some opportunistic robber will over hear. I think he's too paranoid about the street thing. But I'm like that in my blog. Crime is up in our hood. We're both a little jittery.

Anyway, Augusto had a conference at the Ritz in Maui. The Ritz- I KNOW, what luck?! How could the kids and I not tag along? By coincidence, friends with kids the same ages as ours were staying nearby. A few of the days we all went to the beach as one gear-toting hoard and took turns with the kids. Travel with other families is fantastic. Every time we've gone somewhere with another family or more, it has been a huge success for all involved. Even when the kids aren't playing well together, we adults can share responsibility for redirecting, imagining creative games, cooking and all the other parenting jobs. It also shakes up our own family dynamics, so we end up having less stupid bickering and more overall quality adult time. I can't recommend it enough.

Hawaii was lovely. The sun was out. The views were stunning. Our marble bathroom had a separate room for the toilet. The ocean was warm and seemingly stocked for our snorkeling pleasure. There were two major exceptions to the loveliness: 1. the food and drinks at the resort are too expensive for a person of regular means to consume on a daily basis; and 2. guests are expected to pay for shade. Yes, I said pay for shade. So we tired of kid grilled cheese (pool bar, $5), instant oats (brought from home), and baby carrots (Safeway in Lahaina) while we kept moving to stay in the wispy shade of the tall palms. The Ritz has cabanas for four people and pairs of lounge chairs with awnings. These can be reserved for $75 and $50 per day! They do not provide any other umbrellas at the pool or beach. I can't get over either of these ridiculous features of the Ritz. As I nursed Otto under a shade tent made by stretching a kanga from my Oakland baseball cap to my knees, I scanned the pool menu thinking I must have missed the one affordable item (chips and salsa $11, chicken sandwich without fries $16, cup of coffee $5). I imagined the staff gathered at some planning meeting, wringing their hands, whining and cackling..."If they'll pay $300 and up for a room at a resort a 10 minute drive from the nearest hotel, we can charge $13 for a Mai Tai and $15 for a mediocre Pinot Gris no problem. And why the hell not?! Get 'um for all they're worth. Hey, let's charge for SHADE while we're at it. It'll be hilarious!"

Adventures at Longs Drugs

I was browsing the clearance section at our local Longs Drugs when I spied the home highlighting kit. I was there on a separate mission, but got distracted (as I can when I am shopping only with Otto (which is pretty much like shopping alone)). I have colored my hair only a few times in my life once I stopped using Sun In-- in, like, 1986? Once I had a semi-permanent copper last until it grew out. And when Stella was an infant I got a choppy cut with high and lowlights. And that’s it. So, being in my funk and finding a kit for only 5 bucks- as opposed to the nearly $200 for the last job- I bought it. I thought it might add some juice to my mojo. Perk up my spirits. I followed the directions to the letter- including cutting off a strand of hair for testing. I decided on 20 minutes for a few tastefully, yet artfully, placed shocks of blonde. I didn’t want to look like the box’s eager co-ed with the zebra head, yet I did want the effect to be noticeable.

Well, noticeable it is. Yup. Woo hoo.

What a mess. Brassy. Splotchy. Cheap like 5 bucks. And I look exactly like the girl on the box, plus 15 or 20 inappropriate years. It’s not a pretty sight. But as my friend Karen of Great Hair Knowledge said, “A hair accident always makes for a good story. You could just say you were passed out drunk and you don’t know how it happened.” I suppose I never had my share of hair accidents. In retrospect the Sun In was a whole era of accident, but I was blissfully ignorant.

The family hasn’t noticed, or maybe they’re being polite. But at least now I have something lighter to complain about.

I Write Poems Sometimes.

I write poems sometimes. Usually in the winter and after some major life event. Pregnancy, birth and parenting have been excellent muses- along with my mother’s cancer, tensions with my husband, and trips to Brazil. When the summer arrives I turn the soil and rip out the ever-persistent Bermuda grass. Keyboards and scraps of paper for poetic flashes get shuffled down the priority list. Garden bolts to the top. This funk keeps me from doing much of anything- and keeps me inside complaining about it in this forum. Poems are bubbling inside.

Before the funk, I gardened like mad. And the garden does look smashing- a wonderful place to sit and watch Stella play. The day my grandfather died, we were featured on a “green” gardening tour. Our garden is tolerant of the Northern California summer droughts and winter rains, is free of pesticides and fertilizers, and has clover instead of grass for the lawn. We have a Trex deck. We ripped up concrete and built walkways and raised beds, used years of broken plates for a mural on a retaining wall. Having lived here only 5 years- and being novice gardeners- the plantings still have room to grow, and the aesthetic is definitely “home grown.” But I am truly pleased.

Perhaps I can work through my loss with some off-season poems, celebrate life with the veggie beds, and move back to my big dog self. In summer camp one of the counselors said I was like a ball- I always bounced back quickly from whatever problem. I hope her assessment holds true today.

So Long, Old Friend

My grandfather, 72 hours before he died. He was so happy to see his great grandchildren.

Reduced to Bones

The cat hasn’t come home. It’s been over a week. The constants in my life are sneaking away one by one. It started in pregnancy when a good night’s sleep gave way to multiple trips to the bathroom. Then there was the baby and everything that went with her. Movies. Dinners. Free arms. Down time. Total focus on any one task- instead of one ear/ eye/ nostril trying to make sure everything is all right with the baby. Then the second baby- ditto all the above. These disappearances came with the (mostly) joy of family.

But now my grandfather and the cat. And my hair is falling out again. It’s amazing, my home is packed with toys, my car jammed with kid stuff, and my schedule filled with parks and playdates and cooking healthy food- yet I’m feeling small. Like I’ve been shaved or peeled. In the middle of so much vibrant and joyous noise, I am less. I’m not used to being less. I’m always the one who is more. The one who is too much, actually. The big wet nosed dog knocking down the skinny old ladies. That’s me. Not these anxious, complaining naked bones. I am grating against everything without my slobber and fur.

An inventory of what was lost

What six, eight weeks can bring. Augusto went to Japan twice, and I got to try single parenting for nearly 20 nights. I took the kids to Baltimore on my own for part of his trip, and passed another parenting milestone- air travel with two. I am amazed at my ability to keep everyone fed and clothed (not necessarily clean). It’s all dependent on organization, sacrifice of any personal time, and a glass of wine a few times a week. I am completely convinced that being a primary caregiver should be a prerequisite to the presidency- or air traffic control.

The high of accomplishment is over and now I am stuck in a funk. My 93-year-old grandfather died on Sunday. He was assembling an IKEA chair. I loved him so much.

An inventory of what was lost:

1. A wise, handy, loving old guy how didn’t want to die for fear of missing something.
2. Our orange cat, left home 4 days ago after a rapid onset illness.
3. Fear of parenting alone
4. Daytime diapers!!

What was learned?

1. My strong urge to visit family was worth heeding- my grandfather met his great grandson 3 days before he died.
2. I regret shooing the cat off my desk nearly every evening for the past 3 months.
3. If I can handle two kids for 2 weeks on my own, I can do just about anything
4. Wait to let the kid potty train; they’ll do it quickly when ready.

I saw two women in stirrup pants yesterday. I need to make that odd sighting into a sign that things are looking up. That, and Otto found his toes.

Day care makes kids act out?

Of course I’m screwing up our kids. If I were a stay-at home mom everything (except my sanity and personal satisfaction) would be perfect. Now it appears that kids who spend more than 10 hours a week in the care of someone other than their mothers act out more in the 6^th grade. So what about SAHDs or grandma? I haven’t read the study, only the news (which is an amazing fact in itself).

We all love Stella’s 12 to 20 hours a week of day care. She even woke up once at 3 am crying to go there. I just can’t think it is that bad for her. All over the world children are raised by communities of people. Even 30 years ago in this country a mother had the help of her mother or mother-in-law on a regular basis.

I’m gonna let it go.

Or not.

Rain!

The rain finally did the watering for us. We put in trees and plants and a clover lawn in the past few months. It’s usually the best time in Northern California for planting- because we get so much rain. But rain has been scarce this year.

It rained yesterday- just enough to wet the roots and be reason for Stella to wear her rain boots. She stomped around in some puddles and our clover got a little taller. After 12 years in the Bay Area, I finally feel the rhythm of the local seasons. After years of needing to check the calendar to know what time of year it was, I now notice the tiny wildflowers of spring and brown hills of fall. There were many times over the last decade I would be dumbstruck on the street, smelling… fall? Or was it spring? Or thinking a summer storm was coming, but it was only the thick of summer fog lowering the sky and lifting the leaves. I would search my brain for some answer- like trying to find a lost name, just on the tip of my tongue.

My children will know these seasons like I know those of Maryland- where a tree of flames means back to school sales and crocuses don’t fool me of summer any time soon.

Make the Headlines

It was a murder-suicide kind of day. The kind of day that brings out the mean mama in me, that brings me closer to other mothers of two-year-olds. You only need to say, ”It was a two-year-old morning,” and I know what you mean. It seems we’re having a two-year-old month.

Things that happen right before a tantrum:

1. I won’t let her apply my husband’s sample of musk deodorant all over her face.
2. She can’t get her sock on.
3. I won’t let her take a paper bag of nails to daycare.
4. She doesn’t want to change her poopy diaper.
5. I won’t let her rock her brother so vigorously his head flings around over his body.

Two. It explains everything. So I call my husband and try not to sound too desperate when I ask how long until he gets home because I gave her lentils when she wanted oatmeal and the baby is crying and I’m trying to cook risotto and the ants invaded the cat food and I’m dehydrated and have a headache the size of Texas and if he doesn’t get home soon there will be a murder-suicide. He knows what I mean and steps on the gas- the other direction!

It Finally Happened

It finally happened. I fell while holding Otto. It wasn’t anything like I had feared. He was strapped into his car seat, there weren’t any stairs or vehicles involved, and no blood (his or mine) was shed. It did shake the shit out of me. I’m so glad it didn’t happen with my first. I was so nervous about everything with her, it might have sent me packing.

So there I was, a carefree second-time mother, entering Stella’s daycare via the forbidden old herringbone brick driveway (not on the required, level sidewalk). Out of nowhere, an unset brick grabbed my shoe and sent me in one direction and the shoe in another. Otto and his seat went on a third trajectory despite my valiant efforts to prevent such an event. I landed on the ground with a dirty palm and bruised knee and saw that Otto was there too, in his car seat on its side. He wailed, and I gathered him and my shoe as quickly as possible. When I got into the daycare I checked to see that all four of his limbs were moving independently and there wasn’t any blood. Then I handed him off to the daycare provider and washed my hands and caught my breath.

A friend fell on the stairs while her five week old was in the sling. She turned and broke the fall with her arm- which broke. It was the desired result, of course. I ran into her at a café with her cast and slinged baby. Stella was just starting to walk at the time, so her accident ruffled every fear I had. I realized it was actually possible for one of them to come true. Seeing her arm reminded me of the power of mothers to save their children from some harm, but also scared me to the core. As I was leaving her, she asked her male friend to crane her full breast out of her shirt for her baby to nurse. He had to use both hands to do it. Now that amazing sight- on a busy street- almost made the fear worth it.

It's Only a Joke!

"Do you know what this is?"
"Brain Sucker."
"Do you know what it's doing?"
"Starving."

Stella and Otto, only 5 weeks into their sibling relations.

Celebrity Watch

Britney Spears shaved her head and checked into (and out of) rehab. I have no doubt about it. Her two kids are HOW close in age? And she went from famous kid with a kick-ass play life to divorcing mother. You can’t get out of being mother no matter how famous you are (unless you check into rehab, I guess). Britney’s youngest is right at the point where all of my luxurious pregnancy hair started falling out. That nearly threw me over the edge (without the second kid and crash into reality life). Our cleaning lady mentioned it, “Your hair is everywhere.” “I know, it’s all over the bathroom,” I said. “No, it’s all over the house!” she replied. I think she thought it was cancer. I wanted to shave my head every morning. I was a little less drastic and got a short mommy-do. But I considered it when I couldn’t shower and/or stand the sight of myself. Actually, I couldn’t stand the feel of myself- leaky breasts, sweaty pits, tangled, dirty hair. Shaving seemed the quickest way to sustained cleanliness and a sense of style. Yeah for Britney for doing what I was too weak (or sober) to manage.

I hope as I approach the next hair-falling out phase, I hope I will get through it drug-free. I also hope the pop star gets better soon.

News and Confessions

He took it! He took it! Otto took milk from a bottle! It took us five days to get around to the big attempt, but he sucked it up without complaint. We were waiting for the “perfect opportunity,” a.k.a Stella not around and Otto hungry. We should know by now that perfect opportunities of any kind rarely present themselves. So finally we had a relaxed Friday night with my visiting father putting Stella to bed. Otto woke from a nap, and I sneaked off into hiding. Augusto presented him with the warmed milk and gave the thumbs up.

This victory means the Habitrail run is a little shorter and dinner and a movie or a professional massage are in my foreseeable future.

Other breaking news just in: Otto smiled and cooed repeated times today despite the fact or because I am a bad mother. This is the confession: Sometimes I put him to sleep on his stomach. He sleeps so much better on his stomach. Truly better, longer, quieter. I preach Back To Sleep to my patients and even use a logo-adorned official sleep sack. But Otto is loud and gassy and loves being on his belly. And I am full of excuses. If he’s not on his belly he grunts most of the night. He sleeps through it, but Augusto and I are kept awake. I figure I slept on my stomach because my mother was told if I slept on my back I would choke on my spit up and die. People thought hormone replacement therapy was safe. People thought caffeine in pregnancy was dangerous. Research can be refuted a decade later. And we don’t smoke or over bundle or do any of the other things that are associated with SIDS. So at 3 or 5 in the morning when I’ve had a little sleep and am therefore not sleeping so deeply the rest of the night, and when Otto is grunting loudly enough to wake the neighborhood, I just roll him over. Does it worry me? Of course. But I do it anyway.

Pumping Gold

I pumped the liquid gold for the first time this morning. We’re in the 4 to 6 week-window for introducing the bottle, so we needed something to put in it. I was anxious because pumping for Stella was, at best, like bad scheduled sex. There was no romance and little reward for a bodily function so intimate and dependent on a delicate mix of hormones, timing, mindset and physical stimulation. I could pump four times in a day and get a grand total of 3 ounces. This time I am determined to get it going early so I can develop a fine relationship with the Passionate Sucker, (a.k.a Medela Pump-in-Style) and, more importantly, pack the freezer with the products of our love so I can go to work or- imagine! - a movie and leave Otto behind.

He is four weeks old today, and the honeymoon is over. Two weeks ago I told a friend how much better it was with the second child. I told her that I didn’t have that postpartum sense of doom that my life was over. My former life ended with the first child, so there was nothing left to lose. What a relief! This theory still holds true, but I have the other doom that I had forgotten: The Hamster Wheel Effect. Any mother knows it- and then forgets it so that she has a small chance of wanting to have more children. Nurse. Burp. Change. Soothe. Nurse. Burp. Change. Soothe. Pretend to go to bed at night. Nurse. Burp. Change. Soothe. It’s a prison. I’m just grateful I have a husband who is helpful when he’s around, a freezer stocked with food from good friends, and a predictable post-milk smile from this little guy.

Tonight Augusto will try to give my ounce and a half to Otto and thus give me speck of light at the end of my Habitrail.

It WAS the Real Deal

It’s been two weeks since those irregular contractions. Our son is two weeks old. At 2:30 pm, just after I last wrote, I tried to take a nap, but lay awake noting every twelve minutes on the clock. After an hour or so, I called Augusto and asked him to come home. His commute can often take more than an hour, so I wanted to be sure he was on his way. I chatted with my neighbor about her plans for a Sunbrella hot tub cover. Every few minutes I paused to lean over her compost bin or kitchen table and breathe a little bit. Stella would be awake soon, so I dashed back inside and was greeted by her waking-up sounds. I brought her downstairs and got her snack ready, then my body let loose. The contractions were three to six minutes apart and took my full attention. I made sure Augusto was close then called the midwives and our friend Libby to pick up Stella. Augusto and Libby arrived at 5pm, just two and a half hours after I had laid down for my nap.

By this time I was burying my face into pillows, towels, and blankets while digging my still-humid pedicure into the rug. The sounds from my throat were curious- somewhere between a Gregorian chant and a large animal near death. While Augusto installed our car seat in Libby’s car, Libby slid her fingers across the small of my back. The light touch gave some relief from the band tightening on my middle.

When Augusto and I were finally alone, I waddled to the bathroom for the epic emptying of my bowels. At 2-minute intervals, I threw myself onto my hands and knees and made the dead animal chant then climbed back up to the toilet for more. Augusto ran the tub and then ran around the house. I could hear his feet stomping down the hardwood at a hare’s pace. Run to get water. Run to get the phone. Sprint for the phone list. Race back to stroke me when the contraction comes again. The baby’s head was low, but my dilation was unclear when I checked at 5:30pm. We paged the midwives. The tub didn’t provide the relief I wanted. With contractions on top of one another, all I wanted was one moment of rest. I also wanted to pee. The need to go was so strong- yet I was completely unable to sit on the toilet or release any pee in the tub or anywhere else I tried. A little after 6, when one midwife had arrived, the bright orange rug on bathroom floor called to me. I lay down on my side and stayed there until the end. I still couldn’t pee, but the contractions spaced out enough to drink some water and rest for a glorious minute.

Pressure. I felt pressure. Two contractions later I was pushing. We had just decided to check my dilatation, and I had only half-jokingly declared if I was 2 cm, we were heading to the hospital for a c-section. With only the tip of her finger inside my vagina, our midwife felt the head. Since I still needed to pee and the head was right there, I reached around my belly and felt his head myself. It was exciting to know I was close, and my hand between my legs gave a grammar school relief to my peeing urge. I could feel his head descend with every push. The feel of his squishy scalp over his firm skull made me forget everything else. It helped me focus on the task of getting him out. I pushed until my labia burned, then I puffed air until the burning stopped.

A few minutes into it, the other midwife arrived, and I gave her detailed directions on where to find and how to turn on the camera. I was vividly alert and knew exactly what to do. I instructed my husband to hold my leg in just the right place. I knew just how much to push each time. I asked for water when I wanted it. I smoothed my fingers over my baby’s head as he emerged a little more with each effort. There was no fear. No doubt. There was only the strength of each push and the burn as my body stretched to accommodate our second child.

At 6:37 pm, in our house in Oakland, Otto squeezed out with a tiny cry. His father, joyous with laughter, lifted him to me. Otto blinked his eyes and looked at my face, my breast, my belly that had been his home. He was pink, and warm and calm. I was elated.

Correction: Prodromal Labor

It’s prodromal labor. That means I can’t announce that the baby is coming anytime soon- but there is something going on. Cervical ripening, descent of the baby, etc. Yesterday’s contractions slowed and stalled, and I knocked them out completely with 2 glasses of yummy red wine. After months of near tee totaling, I was wobbly-legged after dinner and the hot tub. I went promptly to bed. About ten times I was woken by a tightening in my belly and back, had to do some deep, slow breaths to keep comfortable, then went back to sleep. Today has been much of the same. While driving to get kitty litter I was gripped by one powerful contraction that made me plan an exit strategy if a second came along. The bleeding continues, so I can assume some change in my cervix, but it is too high and my sciatica is too bad for me to be able to do an accurate self-dilation check. Not for lack of trying! I know it won’t help me predict the future, but I am curious what these irregular, tolerable contractions are accomplishing. Here comes one now…

Early Labor?

Stella was born two days before her due date. When this boy’s due date came and went two days ago, I felt late. Over a 48-hour period this week at least five people called to see if I had had the baby yet. I snapped on the last one. Obviously we will let everyone know when he is born. I even have the birth announcement layout already done. It was a set up, though. I was convinced that I would have him the first week of January- and told people about it. What a mistake!

Well, to anyone paying attention, I am in some kind of early labor right now. I’m not going to call anyone right away or get my mother worrying so early in the day. But from 7 to 8 am I had regular light contractions every 3 minutes followed by some bloody show. I came downstairs to announce the good news to the family, and Augusto told me that the midwife had just called and said we shouldn’t go into labor today because she has two other clients laboring. That call killed the regularity of my contractions, but the blood still spots an hour later.

No Vegas, No Baby

I didn’t “let” Augusto go to CES in Vegas because I’m almost 40 weeks and don’t want him to miss the birth. Well, I’m still almost 40 weeks. In retrospect, he could have gone, but I didn’t want to risk it. He had some very important meetings and was only going to be there 12 or 24 hours- but that was too much for me considering once you’re in Vegas, there’s no getting out after midnight. I willed the baby to pop, tried the tricks I know (short of castor oil or an enema). The baby is break dancing in there right now- and posterior. I lost the beginnings of the mucous plug over the past 4 or 5 days and have been having more intense Braxton Hicks. But no labor. So he’s pissed, but hiding it well. And I am just relieved he didn’t go.

Despite months of practically ignoring the pregnancy and drawing a blank each time I imagined being the mother of two kids in diapers, I’m really ready now. I want to meet him on the outside. Stella is ready too. She digs the birth videos and talks all the time about him nursing and being born. It think it’s just papa that could use a little more time. He thinks I’ll go a week late. I hope not!