AliBlog

Not to complain ... but toddlers are exhausting

Chasing an active toddler around your house is hard work. What's even harder? Chasing an active toddler around other people's houses. What's even harder than that? Chasing an active toddler around a campsite with a river on one side, a road on another, and a bon fire, a dog and a patch of poison ivy in between.

Carrying a needy toddler around on your hip is a workout. What's even harder? Carrying around a needy 18-month-old toddler who's in the 90th percentile for weight (28 pounds or so). What's even harder than that? Carrying a 28-pound toddler on your hip when you're also carrying around an extra 20 pounds of pregnancy weight. In case you're counting, that's 48 pounds of extra weight to carry all around the house, in and out of rooms and up and down stairs.

Getting up in the middle of the night with a fussy, teething toddler is exhausting. What's even harder? Getting up two or three times in the middle of the night with a fussy, teething toddler when you're seven months pregnant and really need a solid eight hours of sleep per night. What's even harder than that? Getting up in the middle of the night with a fussy, teething toddler and not being able to go back to sleep because you're seven months pregnant and you're highly allergic to the weeds that grow in the fall.

I've been waiting and waiting to get over the first trimester exhaustion phase of this pregnancy. With Robey that phase ended around week 13. With Moe it was around week 16. This time? Right now I'm 26 weeks, and I'm just coming to terms with the fact that the exhaustion phase of this pregnancy isn't going to end.

When might it end? Probably not until after the little girl in my belly is past the active, needy, won't-sleep-through-the-night phases of toddlerhood herself. So, check back with me in 3 years. Maybe I'll have my energy back by then.

They say this is a baby girl

I think I believe them.

(Tell me. Why is it that I had no qualms about posting the money shots from either of my boys' ultrasounds ... yet I feel a little icky about posting this one of my unborn baby girl? Is it a double standard already?)

What about three?

And what do we mean by backup exactly?

I realize I am very lucky to be the exception to the rule here.

(Do you all read indexed, btw? It's a good, quick daily read.)

Creativity returns?

Shit. Sarah just linked to me during an unintended blogging hiatus. I suppose that means I should put something up here. I've been growing a baby. And raising two others. And working. And traveling for work. And vacationing. And sleeping a lot. Hey, I also read a book. You should read it. I think you would like it. I'd like to read it again already.

I told Sarah in an e-mail the other day (or it might have been a month ago for all I know) that the first trimester of a pregnancy takes every ounce of creative energy that I have. It's true. There's nothing left for writing or crafting or coming up with whimsical answers to the onslaught of questions from the everyday life of a typical four-year-old.

But you tell me: What could be more creative than growing this into this inside your body within a matter of weeks? Nothing. And that's why I don't mind shelving my other creative pursuits while this little noodle grows into something real. Of course, it's never really real to me until I have a baby in my arms. Even now as I sit here in my pale blue maternity top, I'm not convinced that it's real. I've heard the heartbeat twice already at two separate OB appointments, and Robey continues to share the news with every stranger on the beach - yet I still keep forgetting that I'm pregnant. If it weren't for the exhaustion, I might truly forget. Or maybe it's the exhaustion that causes me to forget. Either way, I keep getting surprised when people notice I'm pregnant or mention something about my belly. Oh yeah, I think, they can see that.

The second time I heard the heartbeat, the doc says, "Fast one. Sounds like a girl." In responses, I say, "Nah, I'm betting on another boy." Then he back pedals, not wanting to get my hopes up, I suppose. "Oh. Oh, yeah," he says quickly. "I forgot you had two boys. It's just beating fast like a girl, that's all."

We'll find out in August, or attempt to anyway. My cousin Jeanie recently had a baby boy that they originally pegged as a girl at her first ultrasound. Beau and Susan opted for the surprise, and they got a girl, little Claire Marie who's smiling already. Can you believe that?

Have I mentioned that Robey calls her Claire Miss Marie? We don't know why. But you know he talks like a four-year-old, so it sounds like he's saying this: Claire Misery. That cracks me up. Poor Claire. She's stuck with that nickname already in our family. Just goes to show you that even the loveliest of names can beget cruel nicknames. So don't let the threat of schoolyard taunts stop you from picking a name you like.

We like slightly unusual names but not spacey, out-of-this-world names. That's a common goal, isn't it? To pick a name that not everyone will have ... but one that is, at least, clearly a name and not just some random assortment of syllables.

I had a dream while in Michigan that we had a baby girl named Miranda. Also, I had a dream that Marcy had a baby girl named Wood (No. She's not really pregnant. It was a DREAM. Stop making assumptions). It didn't occur to me until much later that those are both blog names. Christina just had a baby named Miranda. And then there's Wood. Can you believe it took me a week to put that all together in my head?

But like I said. It was on vacation that I dreamed these things. After a week without an Internet connection and weeks without posting anything here. And let's be honest. It's been months since I've posted anything of substance. Could it be a sign of withdrawal? A subliminal message that I miss this space? Maybe. I suppose I could resurface here for a bit and see how that affects my psyche.

Sweet dreams ...

Dream babies

I had a dream last night that I gave birth to a 13 pound baby girl. I couldn't get her to nurse, and she was born with 8 teeth, so my parents kept feeding her cheerios and green peppers. I was concerned because I didn't remember anything about the delivery, I still felt pregnant and Jeromy wouldn't talk to me about girl names.

Do other women of child-bearing age dream about nursing babies? I did for years and years before Robey was born - and I heard that as a definite ticking of my biological clock: Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock.

Two More Weeks ...

I'm in freak out mode trying to get everything done at work and at home before this baby comes, and I'm feeling completely crazed. You hear about nesting all the time as a common stage during the ninth month, but what about this hair-raising stage when you realize that you really are going to bring home a new baby in a few weeks? What's that stage called?

Nesting and hair raising. They're both about the same thing, though, right: trying to maintain some sense of control over something that you really have no way to control. Even if you are having a scheduled C-section, like me, there are still a gazillion unknowns.

But the good news? We're being spoiled by friends and family, near and far:

• Sarah, Gabe and the squad sent a Gonzo T-shirt for the baby last week that's sure to be the envy of every other hard-living, speed-loving baby in the neighborhood.
• Mich, Stan and Jen visited last weekend from out-of-town and came bearing groceries, baby clothes and gift certificates for pampering. I'm serious. They filled my cupboards.
• Both grandmas have volunteered to watch Robey for countless hours during the first few weeks after the baby comes.
• And - finally - everyone spoiled Robey this weekend for his third birthday. Spoiled, spoiled, spoiled. He's one lucky "big boy," let me tell you. More on that to come ...

Many, many thanks to everyone. We're so lucky to have such a good support system here in Ohio. It makes me wonder how we did it last time, when Robey was born far, far away in Tucson, Arizona. But of course I remember - we had great friends and co-workers there too, especially Scott and Bridget, Beaker and Richelle, and the gang - and we had family fly in to help out as soon as possible. This time, nobody has to fly anywhere. The help is right down the road.

In Walks a Man

... in the shape of a man, wearing a hat-shaped hat. He holds up two fingers, says, "how many fingers?" and I say, "peace, man, that's where it's at."

Ani Difranco. Up, Up, Up. I listen to her music maybe twice a year or so but always end up with that song stuck in my head for weeks. I love the lyrics. That's the thing with Ani. Her music is odd. Bouncy. Chaotic. Strange. Her lyrics can be just as chaotic and polka-folka-ish weird, but she has a poet's voice that's hip and different, and her words hook me in every time despite the strange melodies of her songs.

My latest music obsession, though? Another guy/gal duo with the potential to eclipse my OTR obsession if you can imagine that. The Weepies. Where have I been? How can I call myself a folk music fan and just now be declaring my love for The Weepies? I don't know. But here I am, jumping on the Weepies bandwagon and lovin' the ride. See ya next year, fellow folk fans, over there in the next troubadour holler:

No amount of coffee
No amount of cryin'
No amount of whiskey
No amount of wine
No, no, no, no
Nothing else will do
I gotta have you...

Go listen here.

++++++++++

We had another ultrasound yesterday, attended by the whole family: Jeromy, Robey and me. The little opossum is still a boy, still snuggled up along the right side of my body and now weighing in at approximately 5 pounds, 9 ounces. That's above average, they say, so he'll be ready to come out soon. Probably mid-April.

We're scheduling a C-section for just after Easter. The C vs. VBAC choice was hard, but I'm glad to have had a choice. While I'm still not completely at peace with my final decision, I'm happy to have made it.

Thing is, with this choice, it's my body battling my mind. My mind says there are dozens of reasons why the C-section is safer, easier, more convenient, healthier for me and the baby, and so much more. But my body? It says, I'm preparing to birth this kid the old fashioned way. Vaginally. I have hips and heartaches and high notes that your head doesn't understand, and I want to push. Push. Push. Push.

So my head is trying to silence that voice. Or ignore it. Or maybe just apologize to it gently and tell it to save its hips and heartaches and high notes for some other occasion.

But really? I know there will be no other occasion quite the same as childbirth. How could there be? I know that my body will never get to exploit those pieces of itself designed for the soulful, ugly, beautiful, painful experience of giving birth. But is that really a loss? Or just some wild, primal instinct? Am I missing out on some elemental, female experience? Or saving myself from the brutality of a traumatic, primeval experience? I may never know. I'll just never know ...

Instead, our new little man in the shape of a man will slip right into our lives. The hospital staff will place a hat-shaped hat on his newly-shaped head. I'll be numb from the waist down and sewn back together without any screaming or cursing or sweating. Maybe, I'll hold up two fingers and say, "how many fingers?" and Jeromy will say, "peace, man, that's where it's at. Peace, man, that's where it's at."

Then? Then, I'll cradle that kid in my arms and sing:

No amount of coffee
No amount of cryin'
No amount of whiskey
No amount of wine
No no no no
Nothing else will do
I gotta have you...
I gotta have you...

The Belly Pics are Here!

Click to see more. Photo credit: Keepsake Photography

To VBAC or not to VBAC. That is the Question.

There are women who feel they've been wronged because they've had cesareans. They sense they've been permanently damaged and feel the medical establishment has failed them in some way. I am not one of those women.

Robey was born by cesarean because he was no longer safe inside my body. My labor with him progressed quickly - from 5 cm to 9 within a few hours of being admitted to the hospital. But he was under stress the whole time, his heart rate was skyrocketing, he was face up in the birth canal - and then my cervix stopped dilating - just stopped dead at 9 cm for hours on end. So he came out through a small slit cut into my abdomen by a smart, capable doctor. I healed quickly and felt fully recovered within a few weeks. In reality my body probably took a bit longer than that to heal, but I was so overwhelmed by the baby blues and the burdens of early motherhood that worries over the surgery were the last thing on my mind.

There are women who are adamant about attempting a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean) for spiritual, physical and therapeutic reasons. I am not one of those women. So when I learned that VBAC is not an option in this small town (due to medical malpractice insurance premiums primarily), I was not alarmed. I felt a bit dismayed that I didn't have a choice but also a bit relieved that I didn't have to make the choice.

My doctor would schedule the C a week or so before my due date, I'd check in, adorn the gown, get drugged up and wait for them to cut into the fading scar just below my hair line and remove the baby from my womb. I'd never have to suffer through a single labor pain, my husband wouldn't have to pace the hall, wipe sweat from my brow or hear me curse the world for the pain of childbirth. I wouldn't have to weigh the pros and cons of epidurals, episiotomies, assisted births or the many other birth plan options. Plus, I'd get two extra days in the hospital and two extra weeks paid maternity leave. 

At my last appointment, however, I started asking a series of what-if questions about the delivery that led my doctor to inform me about their practice's partnership with a larger, university-affiliated hospital in a city 60 miles away. There, I could attempt a VBAC. I would continue under his care until my 37th week when I would drive weekly to visit the doctors in this larger city. Then, when I went into labor, my husband and I would drive 60 miles to the hospital where I would attempt a vaginal delivery .

So now we've been doing the research, talking to friends and asking advice. Did you know the odds of delivering vaginally are higher for a VBAC than the odds of delivering vaginally with your first child? VBAC patients deliver vaginally 80 percent of the time and the vaginal delivery rate for first-time moms in the U.S. is somewhere around 75 percent. Plus, the risks of VBAC are low - so low that I'm still unclear why malpractice insurance companies won't cover them in most small hospitals.

I'm leaning toward the VBAC option primarily because of the recovery times. While I can't imagine a recovery much quicker than the one I had last time, I hear vaginal recovery times are even quicker. And, they say the recovery from a cesarean is much harder the second time around, especially if you have another young child at home. And - mind you - my child is a clingy, 30-pound toddler who still wants to be picked up, carried around and held by his mommy everyday. That's not likely to change when a new baby comes. Yet, I'll be under orders not to lift anything over 10 pounds for up to 6 weeks.

Jeromy was leaning toward the scheduled cesarean until he learned about the dangers of repeat cesareans. Though slight, your odds of complications in future pregnancies - including miscarriage - increase with each cesarean. Since our family plans may include more children, and since I have a history of miscarrying, why increase the risks of future pregnancies unnecessarily?

But then there's the 60-mile drive to the hospital. Did I mention my labor progressed quickly the last time? Seriously. I only labored at home for 90 minutes before the pain and the spacing of the contractions was enough to send us to the hospital - where I was admitted at 5 cm. I know every pregnancy is different, and I might not progress as quickly this time, but I could progress even faster. And I'm definitely  not likely to stall out at 9 cm again.

Realistically, the odds of a highway delivery are slim, but the odds of a painful, hour-long drive in a highway-bound vehicle are a sure thing. That's 60 minutes of active labor with no drugs in sight. While we're likely to get there in time to deliver, we're also less likely to get there in time for me to be numbed from the waist down. Yes, I'm talking about an epidural. I don't know if I'll be screaming for it or not, but after laboring for 60 minutes in a highway-bound vehicle, I'd like to have the choice (see it's all about choices with me).

I don't have to decide today. Right now, I'm 26 weeks, so I have about 10 weeks to mull it over. In that time I'll be listening to my body, watching the baby's position, praying about the decision, reading about VBACs and asking advice from friends, doctors and co-workers.

So - if you have any advice or experience with VBACs, let me know sometime in the next 10 weeks.

A Threat

Jeromy says, unless we get a title for the truck that's parked in our backyard soon, we're going to name this boy JACK (then he let out an evil, gripping laugh).

Guess the Sex