Last time I had a baby, I was prepared. I took all the classes, read all the books, filled out all the forms, joined all the mailing lists. I preregistered for the hospital 6 months in advance. Thanks to flooding near our home, my hospital bag was packed and by the door in late April (I gave birth in late August). If it could be scheduled, I scheduled it. I had a birth plan, a postpartum plan, a battle plan.
And everything pretty much went awry anyway.
This time, I've been too busy for such preparations. Long hours and a toddler and a rough pregnancy have eaten away at my free time. And then there's the false sense of security in having done this before. I felt I knew what to expect. Not that I've made no preparations, but I've been pretty lax about it.
Last night, I had some bloody show. First time ever; I didn't dilate at all last time, even with help, so I never lost my mucus plug. In fact, I was under the impression that I couldn't dilate. (I'm still not sure if I can or not, to be honest. With my reproductive history, it's entirely possible that it's a permanent physical issue.) And Valentine's weekend I had several bouts of contractions -- not the painless Braxton-Hicks variety, but hard, painful contractions almost regular enough for me to go to the hospital.
If I'm going to do this stuff, my body's telling me, I'd better do it now.
So I'm aflutter in forms and packing lists and last-minute preparations. Making sure everyone has their vaccinations -- the adults, not my daughter. (She is already fully vaccinated, because that's how I roll. Not that I put much stock in the antivax movement, but even if they were right, I'd rather have an autistic child than a dead one.) Setting up bill payments and cleaning the house and making sure everything I need is at the ready, should I go into labor tonight.
The one thing I feel certain of is that I am forgetting something. But if I learned anything last time around, it's that you cannot be fully prepared. Having a baby is messy. Life is messy. You do the best you can; the rest sorts itself out one way or another.
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Friday, February 20, 2015
We are what we say
Something I have learned from my daughter's struggles with apraxia is the importance of words. Talk is cheap, they say...but not when every syllable is a struggle. Then, each word carries immeasurable weight. Of all the things she doesn't say, these are the words she felt important enough to force through the veil rather than try to approximate them with pantomime or simply leave them unsaid.
What these words show me is that my daughter is a beautiful soul, full of love and goodwill.
Also fiercely independent, stubborn, and, well, three.
But it's an amazing look inside a mind that has been such a mystery to me.
Some of these words are clear as day. Others require an interpreter. For instance, my parents thought she was asking for "Dew" (Mountain Dew) the other day -- not an unreasonable assumption, as it is her father's favorite drink. But we don't call it that in front of her; we call it soda. And while she likes it, it's not her beverage of choice. What she was saying was "juice." So even among those close to her, some interpretation is still required. Still, progress is being made.
One thing I find interesting is her grasp of and insistence upon adjectives. It's not just enough to let us know she is going poopy -- it's important we know that it is a biiiiig poopy. She wants ice in her water (tiny ice -- no big cubes, please), and prefers my peppermint tea once it's gone cold. It's not enough that the TV is on -- she wants to watch her shows, not ours. She is not asking about any old puppy, but the yippy dog that lives two doors down. This precision speaks to a strong desire for understanding. And for someone who not so long ago referred to every adult relative as "Dada," it demonstrates massive steps forward in her verbal abilities.
Lately, I've noticed increased effort from her in crafting phrases and sentences. The ones she's repeating from rote memory roll off her tongue with ease: "Hi, Mommy!" "Hi, baby!" "Where you going?" "What you doing?" And like most toddlers, there are the mangled misunderstandings: "Uppy-go" (for "Up you go") is her way of asking to be picked up. But there are others -- phrases and sentences that she has put together on her own. Slowly and carefully enunciated utterances that are pure Anya:
And my absolute favorite, all the more so for the care and deliberation taken to make three halting words come out clearly: Love you, Mommy.
I waited so long to hear those words. It was worth every second.
What these words show me is that my daughter is a beautiful soul, full of love and goodwill.
Also fiercely independent, stubborn, and, well, three.
But it's an amazing look inside a mind that has been such a mystery to me.
Me: When you were a baby...
Anya: No.
Me: You were a baby.
A: No.
Me: I have photographic evidence.
A: No.
— Nicole (@nmb74) February 8, 2015
Anya: "Mimi nice. Poppy nice. Mommy nice. Daddy nice." Aw...we try.
— Nicole (@nmb74) February 7, 2015
Helped Anya install a puzzle game I thought was too advanced for her. She solved it in seconds and declared it "boring." What do I know?
— Nicole (@nmb74) January 19, 2015
Frequent topics of conversation include:- Family: What Mimi doing? What Poppy doing? What Daddy doing? What baby doing?
- Pets she has encountered: What tiny puppy doing? What kitty doing?
- Food and drink: chockie (chocolate milk) and cuppies (cupcakes) are favorite requests, as are ice water, cold tea, and cheese
- Cherished belongings: tabby (her tablet), bows and balm (hair bows and lip balm...she's a girly girl), boots, balls (she has enough to open a sports store)
- Play: outside, game, hide eyes (hide and seek), my TT (she wants to watch her Netflix account on TV, not boring grown-up stuff)
Some of these words are clear as day. Others require an interpreter. For instance, my parents thought she was asking for "Dew" (Mountain Dew) the other day -- not an unreasonable assumption, as it is her father's favorite drink. But we don't call it that in front of her; we call it soda. And while she likes it, it's not her beverage of choice. What she was saying was "juice." So even among those close to her, some interpretation is still required. Still, progress is being made.
One thing I find interesting is her grasp of and insistence upon adjectives. It's not just enough to let us know she is going poopy -- it's important we know that it is a biiiiig poopy. She wants ice in her water (tiny ice -- no big cubes, please), and prefers my peppermint tea once it's gone cold. It's not enough that the TV is on -- she wants to watch her shows, not ours. She is not asking about any old puppy, but the yippy dog that lives two doors down. This precision speaks to a strong desire for understanding. And for someone who not so long ago referred to every adult relative as "Dada," it demonstrates massive steps forward in her verbal abilities.
Lately, I've noticed increased effort from her in crafting phrases and sentences. The ones she's repeating from rote memory roll off her tongue with ease: "Hi, Mommy!" "Hi, baby!" "Where you going?" "What you doing?" And like most toddlers, there are the mangled misunderstandings: "Uppy-go" (for "Up you go") is her way of asking to be picked up. But there are others -- phrases and sentences that she has put together on her own. Slowly and carefully enunciated utterances that are pure Anya:
- Not night! (Said with glee each and every weekend morning. Usually followed by an equally happy observation that I am awake: Eyes open!)
- Big boobies! (I'm 36 weeks pregnant, so...yeah. Also Tiny boobies!, directed at her own chest.)
- I do! (She is, I believe I've mentioned, fiercely independent.)
- She introduces herself and her family to everyone we meet: I Anya. (Holds up three fingers. Then points to me.) My mommy. (Points to my belly.) My baby.
- Working to figure out gender differences: Mimi tights? Mommy tights? Anya tights? Poppy tights? Daddy tights? (My mother's been wearing a lot of tights and skirts lately.)
- Go Poppy's house? (She would live with my parents if she could.)
- Mommy work. Daddy work. Mimi work. Anya stay Poppy house. (Said at the end of my lunch hour, when she wants us to go away so she and Poppy can play.)
- Whenever she is referred to by an endearment (Baby, Goosey Lucy, Love Bug, etc): No, I Anya. (Interestingly enough, she allows the nicknames her father and I use: Angel, Bear, Goofball)
And my absolute favorite, all the more so for the care and deliberation taken to make three halting words come out clearly: Love you, Mommy.
I waited so long to hear those words. It was worth every second.
Wednesday, February 4, 2015
New project: Anya's blanket
Anya picked the yarn and the pattern; I am merely assembling her vision.
http://instagram.com/p/ytIyz0r0X2/
http://instagram.com/p/ytIyz0r0X2/
Monday, February 2, 2015
Friday, January 30, 2015
In favor of highlight reels
I've seen a lot of articles lately criticizing the Instagramming of parenthood. (No links, but if you know what I'm talking about, you've likely seen some of the same articles.) There's even an account (which I follow) that promotes honesty in Instagramming. No filters, no glossing over the "low" points, just truth in parenthood.
I'm all for reality, don't get me wrong. But I also appreciate the highlight reels. Because I have a lot of days like yesterday, in which I awaken after too little sleep to things like this:
And this:
And this:
Scrolling through my Instagram feed drives home to me, in condensed format, what an amazing life I lead. And some days, we all need that. Especially when we're scrubbing poop off an upholstered cube with a Lysol wipe on 5 hours of sleep.
I'm all for reality, don't get me wrong. But I also appreciate the highlight reels. Because I have a lot of days like yesterday, in which I awaken after too little sleep to things like this:
Discovering your kid didn't wipe when she says "ew" while cleaning the poo smear off the upholstery. That's my morning.
— Nicole (@nmb74) January 29, 2015
And you get to the point where too many days like that really take their toll on your morale, if not your sense of humor. So it really helps to have an Instagram full of things like this:And this:
And this:
Scrolling through my Instagram feed drives home to me, in condensed format, what an amazing life I lead. And some days, we all need that. Especially when we're scrubbing poop off an upholstered cube with a Lysol wipe on 5 hours of sleep.
Thursday, January 29, 2015
The dog days of pregnancy
If it could be said that I had a rough period during my first pregnancy, it was the first trimester. I was so queasy that the only thing I could eat for three months was cheese and crackers. (Christmas fell during this time, and I was crushed to not be able to take part in the festive gorging.) I also got sick -- twice -- in that magical window during which you're not even allowed to take a Tylenol without physician approval. What's worse is I could only complain to people in my inner circle; I could not complain to the world at large, because the world at large did not yet know I was pregnant. I never realized how much comfort we derive from bitching about our little problems, but it really does help. (Or maybe I'm just not one to suffer in silence.)
Oh, I won't say I didn't have rough times after the first trimester. But other than my third trimester coinciding with a particularly brutal summer, it wasn't that bad. I didn't really understand why everyone kept talking to me like I was in agony. I was hot, and in a fair amount of discomfort in the final two weeks, but otherwise I felt fine. Great, in fact. For someone lugging around another human being in her abdomen, bloody fantastic.
Now it's all starting to make sense.
Some of my current suffering is my own fault. I was in far better physical shape last time around. I underestimated the importance of tight abs and strong thighs on the third-trimester belly. My entire pelvis aches every second of every day. Nothing alleviates the pain. It's like Musak.
I'm also bigger than I was last time, because I thought it might increase my odds of a successful pregnancy if I weren't underweight when I got pregnant. And I do think it helped me get and stay pregnant, so I do not regret the decision. But being 10 lbs bigger when I got pregnant has led to me being 10 lbs bigger throughout my pregnancy, pretty much. Which means I am currently the biggest I have ever been, and just keep getting bigger. My body is in shock. As is my brain; I keep running into things with my belly, because I just can't wrap my mind around how big I really am. I'm dangerously close to requiring assistance with putting on shoes.
I'm also tired. So very tired. Not as tired as I will be when the baby is born, true. But still friggin' exhausted. Because I don't sleep. All day long, I could pretty much fall asleep standing up. I can't stay that way, because I'm having crazy pregnant-lady nightmares, but I have no trouble getting to sleep. At night, though...that's another story.
I was up until 1:30-2:00 last night. Not because I wasn't tired. No, I itched. Despite the fact that I'd coated my entire body in lotion after my shower, I itched. Like I had bedbugs or something. Because I was too moisturized. Areas like the tops of my thighs, which apparently are less dry than my shins, would stick together and itch. Finally, I got up and put on yoga pants. Which just shifted the itching from my thighs to my belly, where the dreaded maternity panel sits. I could feel every hair on my abdomen. They all itched.
I folded the panel down. Which compressed my lower belly, making the baby squirm. It hurts when he does that, because quarters are cramped. The pain triggered contractions, which made my lower back join my pelvis in throbbing.
It also made me have to pee. About 5 times in 20 minutes. When I returned to bed the last time, my daughter rolled over in her sleep and put her feet on my thighs. Which made them itch all over again.
I rolled over. The baby rolled over. My daughter put her feet in my lower back. And the cycle began anew.
And then there's the heartburn. I ate dinner -- bland mac-n-cheese and peas -- at 2:30 in the afternoon. I ate nothing after that, and drank nothing but water and peppermint tea. Eight Tums could not put out the fire. I have to sleep sitting nearly bolt upright these days.
When I finally got to sleep, I had crazy dreams all night long. I dealt with them, because I was too tired to wake up. After what felt like 5 minutes, my alarm went off.
I'd have hit snooze, but I had to pee.
I've stopped itching, at least.
Seven more weeks of this. Yowza.
Oh, I won't say I didn't have rough times after the first trimester. But other than my third trimester coinciding with a particularly brutal summer, it wasn't that bad. I didn't really understand why everyone kept talking to me like I was in agony. I was hot, and in a fair amount of discomfort in the final two weeks, but otherwise I felt fine. Great, in fact. For someone lugging around another human being in her abdomen, bloody fantastic.
Now it's all starting to make sense.
Some of my current suffering is my own fault. I was in far better physical shape last time around. I underestimated the importance of tight abs and strong thighs on the third-trimester belly. My entire pelvis aches every second of every day. Nothing alleviates the pain. It's like Musak.
I'm also bigger than I was last time, because I thought it might increase my odds of a successful pregnancy if I weren't underweight when I got pregnant. And I do think it helped me get and stay pregnant, so I do not regret the decision. But being 10 lbs bigger when I got pregnant has led to me being 10 lbs bigger throughout my pregnancy, pretty much. Which means I am currently the biggest I have ever been, and just keep getting bigger. My body is in shock. As is my brain; I keep running into things with my belly, because I just can't wrap my mind around how big I really am. I'm dangerously close to requiring assistance with putting on shoes.
I'm also tired. So very tired. Not as tired as I will be when the baby is born, true. But still friggin' exhausted. Because I don't sleep. All day long, I could pretty much fall asleep standing up. I can't stay that way, because I'm having crazy pregnant-lady nightmares, but I have no trouble getting to sleep. At night, though...that's another story.
I was up until 1:30-2:00 last night. Not because I wasn't tired. No, I itched. Despite the fact that I'd coated my entire body in lotion after my shower, I itched. Like I had bedbugs or something. Because I was too moisturized. Areas like the tops of my thighs, which apparently are less dry than my shins, would stick together and itch. Finally, I got up and put on yoga pants. Which just shifted the itching from my thighs to my belly, where the dreaded maternity panel sits. I could feel every hair on my abdomen. They all itched.
I folded the panel down. Which compressed my lower belly, making the baby squirm. It hurts when he does that, because quarters are cramped. The pain triggered contractions, which made my lower back join my pelvis in throbbing.
It also made me have to pee. About 5 times in 20 minutes. When I returned to bed the last time, my daughter rolled over in her sleep and put her feet on my thighs. Which made them itch all over again.
I rolled over. The baby rolled over. My daughter put her feet in my lower back. And the cycle began anew.
And then there's the heartburn. I ate dinner -- bland mac-n-cheese and peas -- at 2:30 in the afternoon. I ate nothing after that, and drank nothing but water and peppermint tea. Eight Tums could not put out the fire. I have to sleep sitting nearly bolt upright these days.
When I finally got to sleep, I had crazy dreams all night long. I dealt with them, because I was too tired to wake up. After what felt like 5 minutes, my alarm went off.
I'd have hit snooze, but I had to pee.
I've stopped itching, at least.
Seven more weeks of this. Yowza.
Wednesday, January 21, 2015
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