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Jackie Rose tried to be a good 21st-century wondermom. Really, she did. But somewhere at the corner of Career and Motherhood, she realized that balance is an illusion and retreated back into the comfort of chaos. Now, Jackie’s pregnant with her third kid – what was she THINKING? – and taking a moment to wonder whether she’ll actually be able to sleep in the bed she made for herself without having bad dreams...
September 2008 - Posts
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Oh boy -- here we go!
I'm on my way to the hospital to have this baby! I am excited and vomity and scared all at once. I'm sure I'll be in labor for 112 hours, so I may not have a chance to post for a few days, but I promise to send in an update from the frontlines as soon as I can...
Thanks for staying tuned, friends :)
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I’m having a hard time coming up with a third pregnancy perk. Frankly, I’m amazed I even came up with two.
Then again, even the most multiparous of sycophantic, triathletic supermoms would have to agree that Week 38, Kid #3, is probably not the best time to be singing the praises of pregnancy. My hemorrhoid has had a baby of its own, I think, my cankles are bloated beyond belief, and my bladder has completely betrayed me.
Moving my massive bulk from Point A to Point B is truly a sight to behold. Yes, I’ve seen Teletubbies with a more graceful gait than yours truly. Did I mention that I tripped and fell at the bottom of the stairs outside our house the other day and sustained a foot-long scrape up my shin? That was fun. I’m sure Dan was sincere when he promised to fix that broken step THREE AND A HALF MONTHS AGO, but at least no one was hurt that badly.
Though the physical obstacles posed by the last few weeks of pregnancy are always a bit challenging, thank goodness my spirits are soaring. Those half-in, half-out "stuck baby" dreams I’ve been having are decreasing in frequency – if only because I’ve been completely unable to sleep – and I think I’ve managed to come to terms with the fact that a fourth-degree episiotomy tear may be in my near future.
Wow. I’m a real barrel of laughs tonight!
All I can say in my own defence is that even with all my b*tching and moaning, I am thankful to have what to complain about. I love my kids despite – and perhaps because of – what it takes to bring them into the world. I know that in the end it’s all worth it, and I promise not to hold it against anyone except Dan.
Okay, lemme give this a shot... one last time, since I’m thinking I may go into labour at any moment. (Don’t worry – afterwards, I plan to regale you all with the next part of this series – "Postpartum Perks." Oh, what a joy it shall be!)
Pregnancy Perk #3:
<<cough cough>>
<<crickets chirping>>
Cue tumbleweeds blowing across a desolate landscape...
Nope.
Nothing.
Sorry.
Oh, wait...
Phew! I knew there had to be something!
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Yesterday, I spent – stay with me, now – 6 hours in my OB/GYN’s office waiting for my appointment. That’s bad even by Montreal standards. When I finally saw Dr. M. and he put all my irrational third-trimester fears to rest, I remembered why I put up with the ridiculousness surrounding the rest of his practice. He’s the best doctor I’ve ever had and I may even be a little bit in love with him (Sorry, Dan – at least you’re hearing it from me first.) So I thought yesterday was bad.
But this morning, Asher woke up at 6, and so did the rest of us. (The kids are sleeping on the floor in our room sharing a single mattress right now while we wait for the painters to finish their new room downstairs.) When we stuck him on the toilet, he had tantrum # 1, insisting he’d already peed even though his diaper was dry. Tantrum #2 came when I suggested he finish his Cheerios or else. Tantrum #3 was the most delightful of all – the public ones always are – and occurred when I dropped him off at school. For the first time since he started earlier this month, he balked at the door. By the time we got inside, he was flailing about like the kid from The Exorcist.
Because his reasoning was not sound – that he wanted to go to Abby’s school instead, that he forgot his "byue dragon" at home, that he simply doesn’t "yike" it anymore — I indulged him for 10 minutes, then picked him up off the floor and handed him off to a teacher.
Dan’s tantrum was just as ugly. Though the painter guys assured us we were looking at a one-and-a half-day job, we are heading into Day 5 – not a good thing since we have another project scheduled to start tomorrow. Worse still, they called to say they’re not coming today. That means either Dan has to finish the job himself this weekend (and squeeze in 20-30 hours of work, too) or we simply continue to endure the "sleepover party" with the kids and hope they survive the obstacle course of ladders and dropcloths that is our home right now.
Have you seen the movie Falling Down? It’s a psychological foray into the mind of the proverbial man in the gray flannel suit, wherein Michael Douglas and his horn-rimmed glasses are pushed over the edge by a gnarly traffic jam and then basically go ape-sh*t on former employers, store clerks and various passers-by. That’s sort of like what my beloved sounded like on the phone just now – Michael Douglas as he was in the process of snapping. You see, Dan’s under a lot of pressure at work and home these days.
If I lived on a higher floor, I swear I’d defenestrate myself right now...
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Dear Hemorrhoid,
I hate you. I really do. You make all the fun things in life decidedly less so. For example, sitting down. I used to take that for granted, but now I have to brace myself whenever I go in for a landing. You distract me from all that is good and force me to focus on all that is not. In case you weren’t sure, I do not want to think about my backside every second of the day, and yet it appears now that I have no choice.
Of course, we’ve waged this war before, you and I. We first met when I was pregnant with Abby. I was sure you were a tumor, and in a sense you were. (I think you may even be trying to steal this baby’s blood supply.) I had hoped then that you would retreat forever – a one-time thing, I thought – but there you were again, when Asher was on board.
This time around, I knew you were coming, Hemorrhoid, so I prepared my defences. My armor was fashioned of almonds and roughage; the ramparts I raised were built of dried apricots and Colace; the moats I dug were filled with prune juice and Metamucil. Still, they were no match for you and your newfound ally, Anemia.
Now that I take enough iron every day to anchor a cruise ship, I suppose you are here to stay for a while. There is not much for me to do but surrender. Surrender... and pray that you shrivel up and die.
With great enmity and contempt,
Jackie Rose
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For a kid who sings the "Poo-Poo Diarrhea" song with the projection and enthusiasm of Maria Callas, and veritably kills herself laughing over He Who Lives in a Pineapple Under the Sea, Abby sure does have a sensitive, subtle side, too.
She’s loved art since she was a wee thing. Since I know 98 percent of all parents feel that their kids are budding artistic geniuses too, I hold no illusions about the objective excellence of my own child’s work. And yet, I am always amazed at how nifty her projects turn out.
I like to take at least partial credit for her talents. My near-constant neglect has left her overly able to entertain herself, and she now knows how to stretch a few broken crayons and a scrap of newsprint into three hours of fun and something we could probably sell on Etsy. And so – despite also being saddled with sketchy fine-motor skills resulting from an intense leftiness that could not be beaten out of her with a ruler to the palm – our very own Dear Abby produces some serious masterpieces.
Sorry, friends – I’m feeling a bit mushy about my dutiful daughter today. She’s such a good girl, never gives us any trouble, skips to school every day, and sometimes I feel like we take advantage of her good nature and ignore her a little simply because she doesn’t really demand anything of us. The rotten Terrible Two-er, on the other hand, has his every whim indulged, every need considered, every bodily function applauded.
Poor Abby. But that’s what you get when you can wipe your own bum and turn the TV on by yourself. Maybe one day, all the angst we’re blessing her with now will be hanging on the wall of the Met.
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Okay, I’m a bit freaked out.
Dan and I spent a romantic evening at the hospital last night after I started having contractions at about 9 PM. These guys hurt – not like the usual Braxton-Hicksy tightenings I’ve been having for months – and they were fairly regular, too... every five minutes or so.
As you may have guessed by now, I’m not the type to stay home and tough it out. My greatest fear is a repeat of what happened with Abby’s birth 6 years ago, when I was in so much pain by the time I got to the hospital that I was lowing like a Holstein and praying for death. Now, I likes me my epidurals early. (If I could get one at around 30 weeks and just stay on the drugs for the entire final trimester, that would be great.)
So my mom came over to watch the kids and we made our way over to hospital, got hooked up to the monitor and then just waited, watching the readout and wondering if it was going to be The Night. I wasn’t really in the greatest mood, because at just under 36 weeks, we are ridiculously unprepared. I have no bag packed, tons of work still left to finish and, um, a little bit of organization and cleaning up to do to around the house:
At least Dan’s always able to lift my spirits, and he entertained me with his wit while we waited...
Him: “Why d’you think they named a contraction after that 47-year-old gray-haired country singer who won American Idol?”
Me: “No... that’s Taylor Hicks!”
Him: “Oh. Okay. So they named it after that chick on Dancing With the Stars... the one that sings ‘Un-Break My Heart?’”
Me: “No... That’s Toni Braxton!”
Him: “Ah. I see... Remember when you were in labor with Abby and I kept forgetting the word for ‘placenta’ and so I called it 'Lufthansa'?”
Me: “Yes, dear, now go get me a Hershey Bar from the machine.”
He is so not funny. I honestly have no idea why he’s always able to make me laugh.
In the end, my contractions slowed down, and they sent me home since I’m not dilated yet. Because I’m already almost at term, the doc basically just told me to lie down and drink lots of water if the contractions come back, and to head to the hospital if and when they get they get worse.
Not exactly a prescription for bedrest (dammit!), but I decided to stay in bed anyway today for the first time this entire pregnancy. Dan took both kids to school this morning, Abby went to a friend’s afterwards, and my mother-in-law picked up Asher when he was finished and whisked him off for a stimulating day of learning and activity (read: McDonald’s fun park).
I must admit, it was a total pleasure. I watched The View (yukky show, but since Dan always teases me about “working” from home and “watching The View all day eating bon-bons,” I thought it would a fitting way to pass the time); I read my book; I didn’t even turn on the computer till 10 PM; I ate breakfast and lunch in bed; I watched the rain falling outside my window; I took two naps.
Oh dear, look at the time. It’s off to bed for me... I’m exhausted!
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Decorating the nursery is a bit of a conundrum for me.
First of all, I’m super superstitious. Or rather, my family is. My grandmother does things like tie red thread to me during special occasions so nobody will wish me harm, and rubs pishy diapers in my babies’ faces to ward off the evil eye. Every compliment from her is accompanied by a smattering of spit, just in case. Sadly, Bubby’s loopy Romanian gypsy attitude has trickled down over the generations, diluting only ever so slightly.
And so, a lot of pressure remains. To the women in my family, even admitting I’m pregnant is like asking for trouble. Buying baby clothes pre-partum? I might as well beg lightning to strike us both down, while saying the unborn kid’s name out loud before all fingers and toes are accounted for would be tantamount to flipping God the bird (not that we have any names picked out yet, but more on that some other time). A baby shower would, of course, probably end up like Jonestown all over again.
All of this leaves me extremely unprepared for my babies when they get home. When I was pregnant with Abby and we were going to paint her room, my mother got wind of our plan and practically barricaded the door. After I gave birth, poor Dan was left to prep and paint and curse his way through the crib assembly while everyone else lounged around and cooed at the new arrival.
A few years ago, my shrink suggested I reign in the crazy just a little by forcing myself to do things outside my comfort zone, thereby relinquishing the control I wrongly believe I have over every aspect of my existence. It was good advice – look mom, no hands! – and now I regularly challenge my constant catastrophizing and negative expectations by staying positive, stepping on cracks in the sidewalk, not knocking on wood or biting my tongue, and doing kooky things like actually buying baby stuff beforehand. (Shhhh... don’t tell Bubby!)
It’s as close to normal as I’m ever going to come, and I’m pretty proud of the progress I’ve made. Even so, I do only indulge in the bare minimum – things that can’t wait, products that must be pre-ordered, stuff we need to hit the ground running, and so on.
The second reason I find "doing" the baby room so hard is because I’m incredibly indecisive. When I spend six hours a day researching drawer knobs online or staring at two nearly identical paint swatches, Dan calls it "beading out." It’s a reference to our wedding program, and the long days and nights I spent trying to find exactly the right size, shape and shade of blue crystal bead to dangle off the ribbon trim running down the center of the program. (You see, he’s mocking the fact that I was never actually worried about the bead, but rather the momentous, life-changing enormity of the event about to take place.)
This particular pregnancy, I’m beading out about bedding. And that’s where you come in.
Please please please tell me if you think this Skip Hop Mod Dot crib bedding set is okay for either a boy or a girl. The manufacturer refers to it as unisex, but I’m not sure. Since I really do adore it, I beg you to be kind, or else I’m back to the drawing board with only five weeks to go...
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There’s no shortage of information out there on all things pregnancy.
Websites like this one – ePregnancy has been one of my faves since long before I started blogging here! – and of course magazines, books, newsletters and even podcasts promise a wealth of knowledge at our very fingertips.
Of all the resources available to the gestating masses, a handy desk reference is simply a must, able to provide quick and accurate answers to our most pertinent, time-sensitive worries and wonderings. Indeed, the first thing most first-timers buy after peeing on that stick is the undisputed classic of the genre – What to Expect When You’re Expecting.
Bad Thing #3: What To Expect When You’re Expecting
Alas, IMHO, it also happens to be the most asinine, insensitive and borderline offensive tome ever to hit the shelves. Since pregnancy is a nerve-wracking enough time as it is, the constant fear-mongering about miscarriage, birth defects, nutrition and everything that can possibly go wrong contained within this book’s pages is, quite frankly, irresponsible. (For a far more engaging alternative, check out this way better book instead.)
The authors’ ominous responses to some of the more common pregnancy questions regarding spotting, cramping, aching and so on are about as reassuring as a slap in the face. I don’t mean to suggest that they should gloss over the truth, but mightn’t they have chosen a more encouraging tone instead? I swear, I’ve never gone to that book for advice and felt anything but ill-at-ease afterwards. And some of it is just completely ridiculous. The authors’ so-called "Best-Odds Diet" – whose weighty name implies that mothers who don’t follow their plan are risking the health of their unborn children – is downright laughable for its extremism and rigidity.
In case you’ve never read it, here’s What to Expect When You Read What To Expect When You’re Expecting... actual quotes taken from the "Newly Updated" version of the book:
* "Once a week, give in to... a bran or whole-grain muffin made with sugar or honey." And then maybe next month you could even treat yourself to a slab of tree bark and some vegan paté.
* "The only good thing that can be said about postpartum depression is that it doesn’t last very long – about 48 hours for most women..." for which "...there’s no cure other than the passage of time." Um, I’m not even going to touch that one.
* "All expectant mothers should avoid listening to loud music..and going to tock concerts." No Metallica for you, mommy!
* "A ‘natural’ mushroom can be poisonous." (And possibly cause hallucinations.)
* "A microwave oven... may also be a modern menace" to the developing fetus. Popcorn anyone?
Oh, I could go on and on.
The underlying problem with the book is that the authors seem unwilling to acknowledge that this sort of stuff isn’t always in your control. Women who have extreme morning sickness, for example, and who are unable to follow the "Best-Odds Diet" – thereby failing in theory to provide proper nutrition to their growing fetuses – still manage to have happy, healthy babies all the time. Somehow, that little bean of yours will suck whatever he needs from your body’s stores whether or not you’re able to eat your way to your RDA for iron or niacin or whatever.
At the other end of the spectrum, the authors brutally berate mothers who gain more than 25-30 pounds during their pregnancies. As far as I know, those of us who indulge the occasional Twinkie craving are no more likely to suffer miscarriage or pre-eclampsia or pre-term labor than those who go for a sprouts-only approach. I know that gaining way too much weight (or way too little) can cause pregnancy complications, but come on – there are worse things than having a few extra pounds to lose when all’s said and done, so turning into a health-crazed organic orthorexic zombie zealot during your gestation is just plain dumb.
Reproduction is a two-sided coin. When all goes smoothly, pregnancy and childbirth is surely the most joyous and miraculous process in the realm of human experience; sometimes, however, it does not. Aside from those obvious cases in which mothers willingly indulge in substances or activities known to be harmful to their unborn babies (and I’m talking crack, here, not half a ballpark frank), having a child is a roll of the dice, a leap of faith, luck of the draw. We are only human, after all, and humans are only animals, subject to both the cruelty and kindness of Mother Nature, no matter how hard you pray or hope or will things to be.
So if you’re feeling crazy-guilty about not getting enough sleep, or working too hard, or forgetting to take those vitamins every once in a while – give yourself a break. It’s virtually impossible to know what to expect when you’re expecting. Just try to be kind to yourself and to your bump and expect the unexpected...strange sensations, mysterious symptoms, fleeting pains and all!
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I do!
And now I can put bit to board in style with my new hot-pink power drill. (What did you think I meant, you dirty birds?)
With all the home "improvement" we’re in the process of enduring in preparation for Junior’s impending arrival, I figured I may as well get in on all the fun. Dan, while fairly handy for a musician-lawyer-skateboarder, is severely limited by his lack of time (and lack of desire) to actually get those little jobs done. His intentions are good, but after work he’d rather drool over his PDA like the crackberry he is than do my bidding and put together Ikea garbage at 11 pm.
I, on the other hand, lie awake at night mentally itemizing task lists and generally making myself sick with anxiety over absolutely nothing. I worry that we won’t have the baby room painted on time, that the quarter-rounds will never go into our bedroom, that nobody’s ever going to patch that gaping hole in the ceiling where once was a wonky potlight.
Of course I realize that this is just a classic case of transference, wherein my buyer’s remorse regarding having Baby #3 is tidily transmogrified into the far more socially acceptable and personally palatable process known as Nesting. To alleviate my stress, I e-mail Dan 34 times a day with different things for him to do at home, as if he weren’t busy enough helping his very important clients buy diamond mines and burn vast swaths of rainforest. (Kidding... sort of.)
All of which leaves me pretty much on my own, tape measure in tool-belt, taking matters into my own well-manicured hands, trying to make everything juuuuust right for when Baby gets home. (Because, you know, two-day-olds care so much about upgrading our baseboard heaters downstairs.) Sure, I can admit this involves a fair amount of shopping, but also plenty of blood, sweat and tears, too. Once it’s all done, I plan to sit back and relax for 20 seconds, then go straight into labor.
Until then, I leave you with this parting wish... may all your studs be perfectly placed, may your fixtures come hardwired, and may your plumber’s snake be long enough to get the job done. Oh -- and good luck with any home renovations, too.
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