It's just after four a.m., and in about 16 hours we'll be celebrating another birthday. Here I sit, awake and alert, unwilling to put my head down on a pillow. I haven't experienced a full night's continuous sleep in about 34 weeks, and I don't expect to get another one for at least that much longer. But it occurred to me, in this waking hour, how many things we as women silently (or not so silently as of late) endure through the entirety of our pregnancies, all to show what my husband referred to once as "commitment to the cause".
1. Sleeplessness - and consequent haggard appearance. It's not easy to hold my laughter in when people tell me I'm "looking good!" at this stage in the game. I feel
like I'm ready to fall over at a moment's notice. I have come to the conclusion there's not an undereye concealer in this galaxy that will make me look anywhere near my 31 years. And the worst of it all is that this is merely a warm up round for the next few months.
2. Weight gain. Nope, no one's forcing me to eat the Taco Bell. And I realize that frozen yogurt is still sweet and delicious, even if it's not served 12 - 16 ounces at a time with Reeses Pieces adorning it. Today I will step on the scale for the last time for my final number, which my body has been telling me for weeks is probably about five pounds too many. Hips stacked on top of each other wake me up more times in the night than my bladder does. The arches of my feet cry and whine, begging me to stop trying to be a superhero and just sit down. And yet, I find myself ordering or preparing and consuming equal amounts of food to my husband. I should be so ashamed to have these confessions to the world. But take one look at me before tonight, and it's hard to deny.
3. Pain. Physical pain that is not caused by the aforementioned weight gain. Physical pain that starts in a location that was once renowned only for bringing happy feelings. The initial movements of sitting down, or standing up, or walking around causes incredible pain to shoot through my pelvic bones, out of my uterus, down my knees and into my feet. At my last doctor's appointment, the nurse practitioner who measured my belly had to reach so high into my ribs I thought she would tell me Eva's feet were resting in my throat, her head directly on my cervix, pushing it to complete effacement. The words, "you have a good sized baby in there" might as well have been never spoken, her eyes said it all. I explained that Geoff was about six-foot-four. She laughed and said, "you could've chosen a smaller sperm donor."
4. Heartburn. This has become a running joke in my life. Ask any of my friends or family what's not left my side for nine months. The family size container of extra strength Tums comes with me everywhere I go. It's in my purse, on my nightstand, in the kitchen. It's my frenemy. I hate chalky medication, but the evil became necessary almost as soon as I saw the plus sign on the stick. Everyone has their proverbial crosses to bear in this lifetime; in the grand scheme of things, acid reflux is incredibly low on the totem pole. But, is there a lesson to be learned from this kind of unmistakable discomfort? You might point out my eating habits, but rest assured, I pop Tums like candy every day regardless of what I eat. I can testify that water, yep, WATER, has been known to provoke heartburn. Running low on Tums is a death sentence. I have started thinking of a stylish holster for which pregnant women with a similar affliction can go about their day with no fear of being without their antacid. The old wive's tale is that heartburn is caused by hairy babies. My first born daughter is proof positive of this, at two years old the hair on her head is nearly to the middle of her still peach-fuzzy back. We'll see if the tale rings true tonight. I guess I could've chosen a less hairy sperm donor as well.
5. Emotional instability. Of all the things that have changed in the last few months, I would say this is the one that is impossible to keep to myself. I can say with confidence that the second time around I have at least been able to recognize when I'm about to have a breakdown, and as GI Joe says, "knowing is half the battle." I know that country music gets its bread and butter from pulling at heartstrings, so I've been resorting to hip hop and classic rock for a long period of time. I know that any movie based on a Nicholas Sparks novel is kryptonite. I know that people on the road are not gunning for me specifically, especially when they ignore the yield sign as I'm getting on the freeway each morning and nearly hit me in their effort to "merge" into the onramp. And as much as I love him, I think I know that my husband's not really just sitting there, waiting for the right feeling to come over him, to get up off the couch with something that I shouldn't even be doing in the first place. I think I know that. Yeah.
Commitment to the cause. :)
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Baseboards and Ceiling Fans: A Commentary On Nesting.
Within the short period of time in my life that I've found myself preparing for the arrival of children, I've consistently been compelled to take on large home projects, or cleaning duties. My first time around the bend, I believe that my nesting lasted into the first eight months of Allison's life, when all of a sudden I declared war on my kitchen cabinets AND her nursery a mere couple of weeks before her christening. I'm feeling somehow a bit different this time around though. Be it the heat, or keeping up with a two year old already, or the fact that I'm working literally up until four days before surgery, the will is strong, but the body is weakening.
Eva is scheduled to be here in nine days. Which means we'll be bringing her back to the house in about eleven days. My window of cleaning opportunity is very, very limited. I thought about actually staying home from work instead of going this week, in order to make sure that every nook and cranny was properly Lysol'd, dusted, polished and shining. But I'm staring down the barrel of the reality that will be an official full house, and my body's lack of physical will is actually dominating over my mental anxiety about dust and disorganization.
And so, this weekend, I am rallying the troops. And by troops, I mean my husband and a 2 year old.
I hear stories all the time about women who've steam cleaned their carpets, gotten on ladders (alone of course, not to be seen) to clean ceiling fans, hand washing their cars inside and out, two days before giving birth. It seems that most of us would rather house keep our way into labor than any other way. Walking, you say? No. Sex? Are you joking?? Please hand me my Swiffer and my toilet bowl brush, and my water will break in twenty minutes. Maybe it's only a subconscious ploy at inducing labor, or the Big Man's divine design that creeps its way into our heads at the most physically inopportune time that provokes this nonsensical passion for Pine Sol and on-your-knees scrubbing. In the argument of "Is God Man or Woman?", it'd be easy to convince anyone that He rules. No woman would knowingly place this brain lock on another woman. If She were sitting at the head of the table, She'd have made it something that a pregnant woman's partner would have eating at THEM for nine plus months. We carry the fetus, you re-organize what's hiding under the bed.
I wonder why we as women care so much. Is it really important that the grout is bleached white on the kitchen counter? No, probably not. But perhaps it's the idea that we think, or feel that the opportunity to do these incredible cleaning tasks are going to be all but completely diminished once our baby is here. We may never see the mop come out again. Who would have time to run the vacuum when there's hardly time to brush your teeth? Horror stories of going days on end without a shower or a wink of sleep permeate an expectant mother's brain, be she a first timer, or a multi-birth veteran. Then we get home. And we learn that a baby will fit perfectly in a papoose across your chest, and sleep soundly through the running of the vacuum, folding of laundry. There is time somewhere between sanitizing bottles and watching Tinker Bell with your older daughter to grab a quick shower, or go to the bathroom alone. But, hey, at least you don't have to stare at those baseboards, or wonder about all that dust on the ceiling fans anymore.
I digress.
Lists are made, plans of action are formed and as Ms. O'Hara might have said under other circumstances, "as God as my witness, I will never be defeated by a water spot again!" Here is hoping that Eva will appreciate all the last minute hard work that's about to ensue today, tomorrow and for the next eight days. I know that when I'm awake for mid-night feedings, the last place I'll be compelled to look is where the wall meets the carpet. As pretty as a clean house can be, it'll never be as pretty as when a baby comes home to live in it.
Eva is scheduled to be here in nine days. Which means we'll be bringing her back to the house in about eleven days. My window of cleaning opportunity is very, very limited. I thought about actually staying home from work instead of going this week, in order to make sure that every nook and cranny was properly Lysol'd, dusted, polished and shining. But I'm staring down the barrel of the reality that will be an official full house, and my body's lack of physical will is actually dominating over my mental anxiety about dust and disorganization.
And so, this weekend, I am rallying the troops. And by troops, I mean my husband and a 2 year old.
I hear stories all the time about women who've steam cleaned their carpets, gotten on ladders (alone of course, not to be seen) to clean ceiling fans, hand washing their cars inside and out, two days before giving birth. It seems that most of us would rather house keep our way into labor than any other way. Walking, you say? No. Sex? Are you joking?? Please hand me my Swiffer and my toilet bowl brush, and my water will break in twenty minutes. Maybe it's only a subconscious ploy at inducing labor, or the Big Man's divine design that creeps its way into our heads at the most physically inopportune time that provokes this nonsensical passion for Pine Sol and on-your-knees scrubbing. In the argument of "Is God Man or Woman?", it'd be easy to convince anyone that He rules. No woman would knowingly place this brain lock on another woman. If She were sitting at the head of the table, She'd have made it something that a pregnant woman's partner would have eating at THEM for nine plus months. We carry the fetus, you re-organize what's hiding under the bed.
I wonder why we as women care so much. Is it really important that the grout is bleached white on the kitchen counter? No, probably not. But perhaps it's the idea that we think, or feel that the opportunity to do these incredible cleaning tasks are going to be all but completely diminished once our baby is here. We may never see the mop come out again. Who would have time to run the vacuum when there's hardly time to brush your teeth? Horror stories of going days on end without a shower or a wink of sleep permeate an expectant mother's brain, be she a first timer, or a multi-birth veteran. Then we get home. And we learn that a baby will fit perfectly in a papoose across your chest, and sleep soundly through the running of the vacuum, folding of laundry. There is time somewhere between sanitizing bottles and watching Tinker Bell with your older daughter to grab a quick shower, or go to the bathroom alone. But, hey, at least you don't have to stare at those baseboards, or wonder about all that dust on the ceiling fans anymore.
I digress.
Lists are made, plans of action are formed and as Ms. O'Hara might have said under other circumstances, "as God as my witness, I will never be defeated by a water spot again!" Here is hoping that Eva will appreciate all the last minute hard work that's about to ensue today, tomorrow and for the next eight days. I know that when I'm awake for mid-night feedings, the last place I'll be compelled to look is where the wall meets the carpet. As pretty as a clean house can be, it'll never be as pretty as when a baby comes home to live in it.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
The Big Girl Bed.
After Allison turned two, we realized quickly that she was not long for staying in the crib. At a meager thirty-eight inches long (that's three foot, two inches people, and they don't even HAVE a percentile for her at this point), the crib mattress seemed to shrink around her legs and torso. On top of this blessed physical anomaly, it also became increasingly painful to lift her up and over the rails every morning, naptime, and night. Thirdly, we were being beckoned awake each morning, long before necessary or desired, with her reaching down and flinging her door open, calling out to us - "Moooooommy.... Daaaaaaaaddy". We conceded and purchased the first big girl bed.
It arrived on a Saturday. Our trial run was Sunday, naptime. She eagerly jumped onto the massive full sized mattress, laid her head down on the pillow, and rolled into position. I had no idea how she was going to react to this change. I waited patiently for her to get out, preparing myself for what would surely be a long, drawn out afternoon of walking to and from the bed, negotiations, and pleading. I waited. I picked up things around the house, put away toys and shoes and dusted a little bit. An hour went by, then two. In the third hour I realized that we might have very well given the entire house an amazing gift. The gift of sleep. She woke, finally, after over three hours peaceful napping; she was happy, talkative, walking around laughing. I tried not to look a gift horse in the mouth, because I knew that naptime had nothing on what night-time sleep could bring. I was grateful for the experience, and wiped the expectation slate clean.
Nighttime started out much in the same manner. She didn't peer out of her room for the first three nights. On night four, however, she realized what a fun game it would be to see how long she would go unnoticed by us, playing on the tile near the fireplace in the dining room. Her dead give away? Cowgirl Jessie's feet tap, tapping on the ceramic flooring. The pull of the string on her back: "Ride like the wind! Let's yodel! Yow-dah-ly-eeee-whooooo!" that was inevitably followed by two year old giggles. Hide and go seek is clearly a new idea to her. In a matter of thirty minutes, we took turns putting her to bed a total of eight times. Finally, empty threats to keep Jessie to myself the next time she got out of bed did the trick. And she slept - hard.
Waking up is a lot more fun, and a lot more early, than it's ever been. Long before my dear slumbering husband's comatose-like state is interrupted, I hear the shift, shift of monkey pajamas walking down the short hallway to our bedroom. I don't open my eyes, but pause for the greeting. "Hey Mommy. Hey, Mommy, get up. Time to wake up Mommy. Mommy, where's the 'mote?" By this time, I've sent her to her father's side of the room to retrieve the remote control. He's mastered the ability to, with near blindness not wearing his glasses, push buttons 2 and 8, then waiting for Disney channel to provoke her to climb in bed with us to watch Imagination Movers, or Special Agent Oso, or Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, depending on what time of morning she decides to come in.
If it's especially early, and she's really not that awake yet either, I'll get up and we'll zombie-walk our way back to her bed. And some asked me why I went with a full sized mattress.... If they only knew how wonderful it is to lay next to this long-legged beautiful girl while she falls back asleep. To literally have her reach around my neck with both arms and hold onto me. To be face to face, close enough to read eachother's minds, smiling without saying a thing... a brilliant reminder that, even though she's not getting any smaller, for at least a little while longer, she'll want me to be around.
It arrived on a Saturday. Our trial run was Sunday, naptime. She eagerly jumped onto the massive full sized mattress, laid her head down on the pillow, and rolled into position. I had no idea how she was going to react to this change. I waited patiently for her to get out, preparing myself for what would surely be a long, drawn out afternoon of walking to and from the bed, negotiations, and pleading. I waited. I picked up things around the house, put away toys and shoes and dusted a little bit. An hour went by, then two. In the third hour I realized that we might have very well given the entire house an amazing gift. The gift of sleep. She woke, finally, after over three hours peaceful napping; she was happy, talkative, walking around laughing. I tried not to look a gift horse in the mouth, because I knew that naptime had nothing on what night-time sleep could bring. I was grateful for the experience, and wiped the expectation slate clean.
Nighttime started out much in the same manner. She didn't peer out of her room for the first three nights. On night four, however, she realized what a fun game it would be to see how long she would go unnoticed by us, playing on the tile near the fireplace in the dining room. Her dead give away? Cowgirl Jessie's feet tap, tapping on the ceramic flooring. The pull of the string on her back: "Ride like the wind! Let's yodel! Yow-dah-ly-eeee-whooooo!" that was inevitably followed by two year old giggles. Hide and go seek is clearly a new idea to her. In a matter of thirty minutes, we took turns putting her to bed a total of eight times. Finally, empty threats to keep Jessie to myself the next time she got out of bed did the trick. And she slept - hard.
Waking up is a lot more fun, and a lot more early, than it's ever been. Long before my dear slumbering husband's comatose-like state is interrupted, I hear the shift, shift of monkey pajamas walking down the short hallway to our bedroom. I don't open my eyes, but pause for the greeting. "Hey Mommy. Hey, Mommy, get up. Time to wake up Mommy. Mommy, where's the 'mote?" By this time, I've sent her to her father's side of the room to retrieve the remote control. He's mastered the ability to, with near blindness not wearing his glasses, push buttons 2 and 8, then waiting for Disney channel to provoke her to climb in bed with us to watch Imagination Movers, or Special Agent Oso, or Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, depending on what time of morning she decides to come in.
If it's especially early, and she's really not that awake yet either, I'll get up and we'll zombie-walk our way back to her bed. And some asked me why I went with a full sized mattress.... If they only knew how wonderful it is to lay next to this long-legged beautiful girl while she falls back asleep. To literally have her reach around my neck with both arms and hold onto me. To be face to face, close enough to read eachother's minds, smiling without saying a thing... a brilliant reminder that, even though she's not getting any smaller, for at least a little while longer, she'll want me to be around.
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