my thoughts, my fears

Everyone is talking about the Newtown shootings, and I feel conspicuously silent on the subject. You all know my political leanings, and it seems strange to me (if no one else) that I'm not posting "Hey! gun control!" or "Hey! More attention for the mentally ill!" The truth is, I just can't deal with what has happened. I can't think about it. I can't.

I drop off my son at daycare every day. I leave him with people I trust to take care of him and protect him, and I usually don't worry about him because I know he's safe. But now a small part of me can't help but think of all of those parents who kissed their kids goodbye, not knowing they were kissing them goodbye for the last time. And I can't function. I can't breathe. I can't.

The truth is, I was disappointed when I heard the shooter had killed himself because, no bullshit, I think that monster deserved to have his still-beating heart ripped out of his chest. And if it were possible, I wish it could have been done to him again and again and again. Twenty-seven times. I don't care if he was mentally ill. I don't care where he got the gun. I want this to never happen again, so I understand how important these debates are, but please: don't try to excuse this man. Don't say "He was mentally ill. He needed more help than he got." Don't say "This was a cry for help." Don't say "He shouldn't have had access to a gun." If it had been my son...I just can't.  It's too painful.

I take a little bit of comfort in the thought that this man's in hell now. Here's hoping its a hell so horrible Dante couldn't even imagine it.

Am I Mom Enough?

So I haven't blogged in a long time. I've started posts. And deleted posts. I'm not even sure this post will be posted. But, this is on my mind at the moment, so I figured I'd start writing and see if anything sticks.

Time Magazine's new cover features an attractive, very slender mother nursing a 3 year old child as he stands in a chair and his mother strikes a supermodel pose. The article is about attachment parenting, a style of parenting that encourages...well, attachment. I've gone back and forth about whether or not I should claim this as my parenting style. I breastfeed. I wear my baby. I make his food at home. We don't let him cry it out. All of these things are consistent with the attachment parenting ideology--and I use that word intentionally. It IS an ideology. Hell, these days, it's practically a cult. The reason I don't claim it, however, is that while we do co-sleep in practice, I HATE IT. And I'm supposed to love it if I'm being all attached and stuff. More than I can say, I want Dresden to sleep in his own crib. And I have let him cry it out before, mostly because I was busy crying it out, too. So...I can't live up to all of the attachment parenting ethics, so I feel like I can't claim it at all.

And I'm not sure I want to, anyway. It has become, for better or worse, a THING now. Something to debate. Something to fuss over. And I really, really don't want other people debating how I choose to raise my kid. I'm not always going to be perfect, God knows, and I don't need society telling me when I've stopped being perfect because I always already know, thank you ever so much. I've never lived in any other time (that I know of) and I've never been a mom during any other time (that I know of), but it sure feels to me like there has never been more pressure on mothers to do certain things, say certain things, look a certain way, etc. Imagine having the hardest, most important, most emotionally and physically demanding job in the world and going about your business knowing that the whole world is watching, waiting for you to do something that could stir up some controversy. It makes an exhausting gig even more exhausting. And I don't think I'm being overdramatic, either.

For example, I talk about breastfeeding an awful lot. Why? Because it was important to me. I knew the benefits and possible drawbacks, and I decided that it was something I wanted to do. My husband agreed. So, together, we set out to breastfeed Dresden exclusively for six months. Only thing is...it was hella hard, guys. I mean. I wept bitterly for a long time because Dresden wouldn't latch, my milk took a whole week to come in (which is virtually unheard of), I threw out my back and couldn't give him any of the milk I had to keep pumping, he took five or six months to learn to latch without a nipple shield, and he nursed the whole day. I'd have to sit down with him and nurse him 14 times a day. No exaggeration. FOURTEEN TIMES. When he was four months old, I called his pediatrician, and the nurse refused to put me through, telling me that giving him any kind of supplement would lead to childhood obesity and that I had to tough it out.

O..k..a..y. But I'm a Ph.D. student who is taking classes and teaching and studying, and this just wasn't practical advice for us. So we BROKE THE LAW, y'all. We gave him cereal. And it helped! But man, the furor raised when I mentioned this on an internet forum! I had ruined my kid's entire life. I made a selfish choice. I was b-a-d, BAD. I vacillated between feeling intensely guilt and thoroughly relieved.

And that's exactly how I would describe motherhood. It's ups and downs all day long. One minute, I'll feel like a supermom, balancing my work, my family, and my social life as easily as I breathe. The next minute, I've just slammed my baby's face into an automatic sliding door because I wasn't paying attention and the stupid thing only opened half way. Now he has a bruised dome, and everyone knows I'm the worst mother in the world.

I feel so strongly about this new Time story because I feel like it promotes this kind of cycle. "Are You Mom Enough?" it asks. And the answer is always, always, always no. I'm not. I'm trying. God knows I am trying. But at the end of the day, I know I could have been more patient. I could have smiled at him more. I could have encouraged him to play with more educational, developmental toys instead of whatever he wanted. I could have made a point to show him what a loving, secure relationship his father and I have, even if I had to force it sometimes. I could have been better. These things are important to me, but they're frequently the things that I fail to do and the very things I wish I had done. I go to bed each night, asking myself if I've done enough for my son to grow up healthy, happy, and confident. I don't need Time Magazine asking me those same questions.

I've read a good bit about social attitudes towards mothers, and I've talked to my friends about their attitudes regarding breastfeeding, and the feeling I get from all of these sources is that it's all far too public. Women feel pressured to breastfeed, like they're somehow less of a mom if they don't. It makes me nervous to hear my friends say this because I wonder if I'm somehow complicit. I hope that I'm a positive role model should they decide to breastfeed, but I also hope that I'm not a nagging voice telling them they're mothering wrong if they don't. For me, it was the right choice. I had conviction that breastfeeding was the best thing I could do for my son, and I stuck it out even though it was difficult, and for that I am proud of myself. Staying true to your convictions in the face of adversity is something to be proud of, and I will not shy away from that or disclaim it one bit. That said, I would hope that I learned from hearing people say it wasn't enough and that I should have exclusively breastfed for at least six months. I hope that I've learned enough to be supportive of my friends, however they choose to parent. Being told that something you're proud of simply isn't up to muster is downright damaging, and that is exactly where a lot of the discourse surrounding motherhood is today. It's not enough for you to breastfeed. You have to exclusively breastfeed, on demand, for six months, preferably a year. It's not enough for you to share a room with a child, you have to share your bed. It's not enough for you to make his food yourself, it has to be organic and locally grown. The list goes on and on.

"Are You Mom Enough?" Bite me, Time Magazine. You are part of the problem.

My ode to breastfeeding.

The strangest thing happened this week. Dresden has been sick, in and out of the doctor's office every single day for the last 11 days, and we're all just run ragged and haggard and raw. My poor little guy was so congested that he couldn't even eat. I tried and tried to get him to nurse. I did everything. He just couldn't breathe. I didn't get him to nurse at all for almost 24 hours. And you know what? I cried the whole day.

It wasn't just that I was worried about him, although I know that was part of it. It was more than that. It was my father saying, "Give him a bottle already. He's done with breasts. They're his crutch." It was Dallas saying, "Maybe he's ready to wean." It was my mother telling me that I spontaneously stopped nursing at 4 months. It was realizing that someday, some not so distant day, I really will stop breastfeeding.

Now, I do still plan on breastfeeding until Dresden is ready to wean himself--or until he can walk up to me, pull my shirt down, and attach himself. I know that a healthy baby who has been breastfeeding successfully normally won't wean until around a year. I know. But the realization that this is it--that I have maybe six more months of breastfeeding--stung. And not like when small fry bites me. (Although, really, ow.)

Why? Because breastfeeding feels right to me. I have to make a thousand and one choices all day long: is he ready to be up for the day? does he need to be changed? does his poop look normal? should he have avocado? or does he need the extra calcium in yogurt? what's the weather like? what should he wear? why is his spit-up neon? can I get the stain out? who will watch him while I grade papers? is he sleepy or do his eyes itch? is he allergic to something? where do I put him while I pee? why is he crying? is he hungry? sleepy? wet? do his teeth hurt? does he have gas? AND YOU KNOW WHAT? It's exhausting, but the time I spend breastfeeding him is blissfully simple. I don't have to second guess myself at all. If he's nursing, I am doing everything right, and all of that noise just stops.

A few people have suggested that my decision to breastfeed is restrictive or that I'm accepting old-fashioned gender roles, like I'm betraying the feminist cause. Intellectually, I do understand that line of reasoning, but...are you kidding me? Being a mother is the most empowering thing I've ever done. My body is amazing! It made a baby. It birthed a baby. It is nurturing a baby. What can men do? Pee standing up? LAME! Men are lame!

(Except Dresden. He's impressive and great.)

It would take an acrobat.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X9g5d4bZdmI

We're still here!

First, here's a countdown of the last five months in pictures. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1!

Five Months

Four Months

Three Months

Two Months

One Month

I can't believe I have a five month old. I can't believe I haven't posted since July. So much was going on during the semester, I rarely had a moment to reflect. Mostly, I use every spare minute I have to clean and sleep. Even now, I'm wondering if writing this is such a great idea since it means losing twenty minutes of sleep. Also, I feel like I can never REALLY write what is going on or how I feel because I'm not sure that blogspot is super secure. I've thought about starting a private, password protected blog or something, but then I would feel like a jerk for thinking people wanted to know about my problems SO MUCH that they were willing to jump through hoops. Whatever. All is well, and all manner of things shall be well. That's Julian of Norwich speak for Hakuna Matata.

We survived the first semester of parenthood. Big D did well in school, but he had to take an incomplete in one class, so he's not quite done yet. But he DID get A's in the other classes. I still have my presh 4.0. Huzzah. Little D is the most adorable, wonderful, fantastic little terror ever. His new thing is...wait for it!...laughing! I'm willing to do the most absurd things to make him do it. The most recent is putting his fingers on my lips and blowing raspberries. He thinks it is hysterical. He's still nursing, but we have introduced some solid foods: rice cereal, sweet potatoes, avocados, and bananas. I know that everything says no food until 6 months, but the little guy was nursing CONSTANTLY and I just couldn't keep up. Nursing every two hours ALL DAY AND ALL NIGHT is impossible. Period. I tried supplementing with formula, but the more I breastfed, the less interested he was in bottles. I chose to keep breastfeeding as often as possible. He's sitting up by himself (mostly), he can pick things up and put them in his mouth, and he uses a spoon like a professional. Yes, a professional spoon-user.

Tonight is the first night he's sleeping in his crib, and it's not going well so far. I think I laid him down at about 9:15, and I've already had to rock him back to sleep three times. I don't know if the mattress is just that much harder than his pack'n'play or if the change in lighting is bothering him or if he just has gas. It could even be that when he does stir a little, he sees a high contrast black and white floral pattern. (That, for the record, was a terrible idea.) I wish someone had told me how much of parenting is guesswork. He cries, and I have to run down a list of things that might be wrong. Thankfully, it is a pretty short list, and even if it's not really what he wants, latching him on usually works. But then I feel like a bad parent for teaching him how to stress eat.

Let the fact that I'm not proofreading being a monument to my exhaustion.

Oh, woe is milk.

Dresden has been a little sick for the last few days--refusing to eat, throwing up, and not having any bowel movements. The doctor thought he may have been reacting to something in my milk, so we tried some formula for a few feedings. The first two went okay, but then--puke. Dallas suggested that we only feed him fresh breast milk for a little while and keep a closer eye on what I'm eating, and that seems to be going well. No vomiting for the last six feedings. (Please don't jinx that.) The only problem? I had to dump all this out.

That's over 35 ounces of breast milk. I know I'll keep making it. I know it's important for me to keep track of what I eat so I know if something makes Dresden sick, and I know there's a big question mark over all of that milk. I know, I know, I know. But don't think for a second I didn't squall as I poured it down the drain.

Le sigh.

It's a good thing I am crazy about this little man. He's hard, exhausting work, but all he has to do is make that little smile and I forget that I've only gotten two hours of sleep. He doesn't even mean to smile. It doesn't matter.

Quick update.

My doctor came through in the end. Dallas and I couldn't be happier with how she handled everything. She was there, and she was wonderful.

I did not give birth naturally. Oh no sir, I did not. And the epidural was easy. It did make my blood pressure drop enough that I had to have extra monitoring, but it made my labor bearable. The nurses kept telling me I could push the button to up my dosage if I got too uncomfortable, and Dallas tried to convince me to push it when we got to the pushing stage because it was very nearly gone. I'm pretty sure I could feel everything. It certainly hurt enough to be everything. And I remember most of the process. I remember the first contraction spent pushing, and I remember looking at Dallas and saying, "I'm having a baby. Oh, god." or something very similar to that. Everyone laughed. I was not kidding.

The feeding situation is out of control. I had my heart set on breast feeding as soon as he was born, but that couldn't happen because he needed extra attention. I didn't want him having any artificial nipples, but that couldn't happen because he had low blood sugar. My mom was able to help him latch on to my breast, but everyone who helped me get started after my mom left had no success, so I spent the first day or so using a nipple shield--a little silicone cap that goes over your natural nipple. And then he was so jaundiced we couldn't rouse him, so we started discussing my colostrum supply and I began pumping every two hours to see if I was producing anything. I wasn't. We had to start supplementing with formula in order to get him to go to the bathroom and start clearing the bilirubin. I started bawling with every feeding because I felt like such a failure. These big stupid breasts were completely worthless, and I was pissed off at them. By the time they sent us home, they were unbelievably sore and I was unbelievably angry at them. So I brutalized them. One late night, unproductive pumping session, I gave myself an extra vigorous massage (they told me to at the hospital, but I took this one to a mean level) and voila! The next day, I started making milk. Now I'm producing between 4 and 5 ounces per pumping session. Dresden's jaundice has not gotten any better, so I still have to bottle feed him, and I do hate that. But at least he's getting breast milk, right? I don't even mind the extra 30 minutes pumping adds to our feeding routine. I know it's better for him. It's not ideal, but it's the best I could do. I'm still pretty sensitive about it, but I believe I've done everything I could. I'm thankful for whatever milk I get. Pumping dry breasts was emotionally and physically painful.

Dresden! The birth.

I promise to post this blog no matter where it ends. I think I have about half an hour before my little man wakes up, and there's so much to say.

First! I gave birth to Dresden Luther Merritt at 3:27pm on July 15, 2011. He weighed 7lbs 6oz and was 19.5in long. He's perfect. I keep looking at him and thinking to myself, "Who knew I could make something so GOOD?"

Here's how it started. I'd been feeling so ill for about a week and a half, and after four straight nights of sleeplessness and intense nausea, I fell apart and made Dallas come home from work to be with me--something I swore I would only do if my contractions were regular or if my water broke. He came home and we went to the hospital for the second time this week. We checked in at about 9am on Thursday, and spent the day being pumped full of fluids and...I can't remember what else they did. My doctor (I'll get to her!) had appointments all day and couldn't see us until that evening, around 7pm I guess. Anyhow, she said my blood work came back slightly off that morning and had continued to decline throughout the day. I'm not sure about the specifics, but I think my platelets were low and my liver functions were high. She said it looked to her like I was developing HELPP syndrome, which I will eventually have time to look into? Maybe? She said it was basically a variation of preeclampsia and that she strongly recommended inducing. Just last week, she had insisted that everything was going well and that she didn't see any reason to think I wouldn't carry to full term or beyond and that she wouldn't support an induction until I passed the 41st week. I knew how she felt about inductions and I trusted she wouldn't arbitrarily decide it was time for my baby to be born. So I was induced.

The plan was for to insert a cervix softener to prepare my body for birth and then begin Pitocin on Friday morning, hoping to give birth sometime in the wee hours of Saturday morning. But my body and the Cervidil had other plans. I could feel my contractions start to change VERY soon, and four hours after the decision to induce was made, my water broke and I was 3cm. By 8am on Friday morning, I was 8cm. BUT THEN! I stalled. I sat at 8cm for hours, coming very close to a c-section two or three times. Dresden's heart rate was showing signs of distress. Poor Dallas went to get a few things from the apartment and came back to my room to find me like this:

Glamorous, right? Don't I make a lovely laboring woman? He was overwhelmed at the idea of a c-section and having to choose between letting the nurses take away our baby or leaving my side on the operating table.

But Dresden consistently recovered well, and I was able to deliver vaginally. I was fully dilated by 1:00 and started pushing shortly after that.

There are so many specifics I want to eventually get to, but now is not the time. I mostly wanted to explain something that I've been needing to say ever since this moment. Giving birth is traumatic. Dresden recovered fairly quickly, and of the four babies born that day, he was the only one who didn't have to go to the NICU. But when he was born? My heart shattered, and I'm still working on reassembling it. He was blue and limp and silent and the cord was around his neck. My doctor took him out and put him on "the landing pad" on my chest. I know it was only for a second, but I think that second has been the worst moment of my whole life. It took SO LONG for them to get him pinked up and responsive. His one minute APGAR was a 3 (out of 10). By five minutes, it had gone up to a 9, so I know they fixed him up quickly, but those first seconds and the minutes that followed? I can't think about it without getting hysterical.

We are so, so lucky.

I'll post again eventually. So much to say. And no time for editing.

38 weeks

I've put off writing this blog since Monday because all it's going to be is complaints, and I'm tired of being that girl. I'm never going to be pregnant again, and I'm trying to savor these last days, but...I'm so miserable. So here it is. This week's list of woes.

My doctor's appointment was worthless. I expected her to check my progress, talk about what might have caused the pain that sent us to the hospital on Saturday, maybe, you know, tell us about the test results from last week. Nope. She listened to his heartbeat and peaced it out. Well, she did take the time to tell us that she probably wouldn't be at the delivery--not because she is going on vacation, but because she's just so busy...Awesome. I wish we would have gone with Dr. Avery. He's wonderful. If you ever need an OBGYN in Tuscaloosa, you won't find a more personable, comforting person in town. He's like...a Santa Jesus who delivers babies. We love him.

So, the hospital trip on Saturday. I woke up at 1:30. Dry heaving. I woke up dry heaving. It was awful. I had an intense, painful pressure in the bottom of my rib cage, as if my bones were cracking. I could barely breathe, and each contraction made it so much harder and more painful. We were told to go to the hospital we planned to deliver at just in case I was in labor, so that's what we did. By the time we got there, my contractions were 2-3 minutes apart. But then they stopped about an hour later. The pressure/pain in my chest hasn't gone away, but it does go through lulls, and that's pretty much when I try to sleep. The only things that really help are showers and back rubs. I guess it's just my giant baby squishing my insides, but it's intense.

On a positive note, my stretchmarks don't hurt any more. On a gross and weird note, they're scabbing over. Yep, that can happen.

37 weeks! Full term!

I'm having more and more symptoms of early labor. Want to know how awesome those are? I'll tell you.

Days of contractions, getting stronger and more regular.

Cramping.

Back pain.

Diarrhea.

Increased discharge.

Massive heartburn.

Frequent urination (even for being pregnant--we're talking 30+ times a day).

Intense restlessness and despair at having to spend another day being pregnant.

ALL COMPLETELY NORMAL. I can't even describe my favorite symptom. It's something I've felt periodically over the last couple of months, and I can't really find much on what causes it. I can feel a sharp pinching sensation around my cervix (I think). The best explanation I've found is that the baby's head is resting on the cervix and the pinching is caused by any movements he makes. Okay, fine. Whatever. It's only bad when I'm up and walking around because it makes me feel like the baby might fall out with every step. I know he won't, but it feels so weird!

I know we don't have the pack'n'play put together. I know there's a big wooden piece of furniture in the middle of our nursery, waiting for D to put together. I know I don't even have the hospital bag packed. I don't care. I'm ready. Let's do this.

Really, even with all of this stuff going on, I'm thankful. My sister's week has been an absolute hell compared to anything I've faced this pregnancy, even the terrifying ER visit of the first trimester. Her mother-in-law drowned a few days ago, and my sister had to be the one to tell her husband (who was halfway around the world on an oil rig). Everything about the situation was wrong and awful and heart-breaking, and my sister has been so strong. She's grieving, of course, but she's also held it together for her husband and the little girl she's building. AND to make this week even more awesome for them all, she was just diagnosed with gestational diabetes. The diagnosis itself isn't so bad, but they have to admit her to the hospital! I want to be there for her, and I just can't. I'm glad that she at least lives close enough to my parents that they can visit her. And, even though I HATE the reason for it, I am glad her husband is there with her, too.

36 weeks (part deux)

My ultrasound went well! I finally have a better picture of little d's profile and an estimate of his size. Let's do the cute one first:

Look at his little nose! So sweet! They were also able to determine that the umbilical cord is not around his neck. He kept trying to grab it and put it in his mouth. Gross, yes, but better than having it strangle him. I was surprised that he IS in position--head down, feet up. Feet way up, actually. He's kicking my ribs as I type this.

And then there's his size. Dresden is already bigger than any of my mom's babies and all of my nieces and nephews. Already. According to Thursday's estimate, he's 7lbs 4oz. That means he's on track to weigh more than 9 pounds by his due date. Thankfully, everything is measuring a bit ahead of that. I was technically 36 weeks and 2 days when the ultrasound was done, but he measured closer to 38 weeks. That doesn't mean he'll necessarily come two weeks early, but I'm extra hopeful now, especially since I'm starting to "make progress." (See previous blog.)

Dallas bets that Dresden will be born around July 12 and weigh 8 lbs 10oz. I'm still thinking he'll be born closer to the 17th, and I have no idea how much he'll weigh. I just pray it's less than 10lbs.

36 weeks

I have been pregnant for 252 days. Dresden was the size of a small blueberry when we found out about him and now he weighs about 6 pounds and measures about 18 inches long. He'll technically be considered full term next week, but I don't think I'll go into labor that early. Don't get me wrong. It'd be nice. I'm so ready, and I would love the extra time with him before school starts. But I'm not expecting it. I'm not even convinced he's in position yet. I guess we'll find out soon! Our next appointment is on Thursday, and they're doing the last ultrasound. I think they also start checking "my progress"--which is what I'll call the state of my cervix to avoid actually talking about the state of my cervix. Of course, they can't really predict anything, even with all those tests. If I had to guess, I'd say I'll go into labor after July 12 (after 38 weeks). Myoriginaldue date was July 17, so...here's hoping?

Here are some pictures. The first one was taken last night, the second one was taken 23 weeks ago (just for some perspective and wistful thinking), and then the last one is photographic evidence of my stretch marks. You can skip that one if you'd like.

I think this is the picture I'll put in the baby book. I know it's in the kitchen and not in some beautiful, flower-filled field at sunset, but hey. It took me 12 pictures to get one this good. I'll take it. I do wish that my brother hadn't left his pan on the stove--or at least that I'd noticed it before taking the picture.

My hair was looking awesome, right? I remember being sad about my "pooch" at this point, and I was SO small! I'll probably never be that small again! And my stomach will never, ever, ever look that good again. Mostly because it looks like this now:

It looks like I was clawed by a komodo dragon or something. Honestly, I'm not too bothered by their appearance. It's not like I ever spent time with my stomach showing before, so I can't imagine I'd suddenly have the urge now. Again, don't get me wrong. I'd rather not have them, but I think I did everything I could not to get them. My skin is just so thin and sensitive, no amount of lotion or moderated weight gain would prevent them. They still hurt like hell, but it's mostly the dark, wide one in the middle bottom of my stomach. It's so bad, it's actually swollen. The others feel like indentations, but this one is raised, kind of like a welt. It's a beast. I know some people are embarrassed by their stretch marks, and I know a few others who are really proud of them. I'm not either. It happens. I'll just be happy when they stop stinging.

Biscuit Recipe!

The biscuits I just made are so good, so I thought I'd post the recipe here, for myself and for you, if you're interested. It's mostly that Alton Brown recipe, but I made a few changes.

2 cups flour

4 teaspoons baking powder

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon salt

2 tablespoons butter

2 tablespoons shortening

1 cup buttermilk

The directions are basically the same, but I cooked them at 425 for 13 minutes instead of 15 at 450. I also just noticed that the recipe says to leave the dough an inch thick, which I have not been doing. These were a little over half an inch before I baked them.

Better biscuits, better evaluations. True facts.

My biscuits are getting better! I've been using a...dough blender thing (this) to blend the flour and butter, and I've been careful about not patting the dough too thin. They're still not as good as restaurant biscuits, but they were some of the best ones I've ever made. This is the recipe I used: http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/alton-brown/southern-biscuits-recipe/index.html. I think I'll add a little more salt next time and leave the dough even thicker. I should probably get a real biscuit cutter at some point, too. I've been using the rim of a big cup, and I think it pinches the sides rather than cutting them. Maybe that's why they don't rise as much as I'd like? I'll keep working on them, but I'm happy to taste some improvement.

AND--I'm going to pretend these two things are related--my teaching evaluations from this semester are the best I've ever received. Only about 35% of my students took them, which isn't a solid percentage, but I just couldn't encourage them to complete the evaluations after the tornado. "Sorry you lost your belongings, friends, and peace of mind, but could you please...?" The funny thing is that I wasn't even nervous about looking at my evaluations this semester. I was more comfortable teachign than I'd been in the past, and I actually enjoyed it most of the time. I'll still change a few things in the future, but I am getting closer to where I want to be. Progress, progress, progress!

Here's my favorite written-in response: "She is very helpful and knows what she is talking about. You can tell that she loves what she does and she is always prepared for class. She is very personable and always there to help. If you have any questions she is very quick to respond to your email." Two other students said that they enjoyed my class so much that they're planning to take more literature in the future. All good things.

I'm most pleased with the responses about effective communication. I've always struggled with this. It feels like my students and I speak different languages sometimes, and I have a hard time explaining just about everything. But this semester! 90% strongly agreed that I was an effective communicator--up from 30% my first semester, 50% my second, and 60% my third. I'm learning!

(And yes, I have considered the possibility that all of these students were just really kind because I'm pregnant.)

Stretch Marks

Look. I imagine that first-time pregnant women tend to be the most needy, insecure, and anxious of all medical patients, and I know I am no different. I may even be more needy, insecure, and anxious than other pregnant women. But when my husband's first words to me in the morning are "Have you called the doctor yet?" it's hard for me to think that my concerns are completely invalid. I just want to talk to a doctor. I'd love to see a doctor, but since the first thing is apparently impossible, I'm guessing the second one is, too.

Everything is fine, and I'm sure my doctor would look at me as if I were stupid, but I don't care. I need to see someone about my stretch marks. They get worse--noticeably worse--every single day. Five or six days ago, I had one stretch mark from pre-pregnant weight issues and that was it. Now I have eight. Eight new ones. And four of them are much deeper and darker (purplish red) than the rest. And they hurt. I've tried googling painful stretch marks, and most of the things I read have plagiarized each other: "While not painful, the stretching of the skin may cause a tingling sensation." Tingling is not how I would describe this. I'm trying to remind myself to deal with all pain more patiently in preparation for labor, but this...this STINGS. I can deal with aching, bruising, pinching, even stabbing pains, but stinging? It's my least favorite kind of pain, and the fact that it gets worse every day and the terrifying fact that I have 7 more weeks of growing and stretching concerns me. Should it? Is this really normal? Is there anything I can do to help the stinging or slow down the stretching process? These are things I would love to ask my doctor. Unfortunately, no one can see me--or even talk to me--until Monday.

Dear belly,

Please don't burst open in the next few days.

Sincerely,

Uncomfortable Me

On the upside, at least my stomach doesn't look like this, which is supposedly an image of a first time belly at 33 weeks. Scary. Do not want.

33 weeks (and a report on birthing class)

The heat: Everyone told me that I'd be miserable this summer, and I mostly shrugged it off. I'm as accustomed to Alabama summers as one can get, and I assumed it would be the same as normal. "Hot, yes. Miserable? Eh. We'll see." Well, I SEE, thanks. It is truly hotter when you're pregnant. For real. I thought that maybe I would be the normal level of hot plus other kinds of uncomfortable and it would just seem worse, but I am now convinced that I am actually hotter than I usually am. (No jokes. You know what I mean.) I have completely given up on pants. Dresses and skirts ventilate better.

The panic: Dallas and I took a nap on one of his days off, and as soon as I woke up, I just knew something was wrong. I was completely and totally comfortable. My stomach didn't feel tight and my side didn't feel like it was full of extra elbows or kneecaps or skulls. It was TERRIFYING. Where was my baby? Why wasn't I pregnant anymore? Of course, as soon as I tried to sit up, I realized all was well. But how silly is that? I was comfortable, so I panicked. Awesome.

The belly: Oh, the belly. I suddenly have three new, deep stretch marks on my lower stomach, and they feel like streaks of bad sunburns--the tautness, the itchiness, the stinging. I didn't see that coming. Not the stretch marks, which I literally didn't see because I can't see the bottom of my stomach without doing some crazy contortions, and not the stinging. People leave that out. I swear they get worse every single day. I still put on the Palmer's lotion two or three times a day (as I have been doing the whole dang time, fat lot of good it's done) and they keep growing. My stomach is going to look AWFUL by the time this kid is ready to come out, but I'm trying not to think about it. Really, they're so wretchedly uncomfortable that I haven't much focused on the aesthetic problems they'll pose later. That'll come, I'm sure.

So...let me tell you about our experience at the birthing class. It was about breathing and relaxation for natural childbirth, so I thought it would be a good starting place. I also thought every first time mom went to these things, but apparently that is just not so, and I can see why. I left the class more confused, more concerned, and more anxious about the birth process and Dallas left being irritated that he'd wasted two hours. I'm pretty sure none of those were the intended "learning outcomes". Perhaps if we had not read anything about birth the class would have been more helpful, but we had. We'd read, we'd talked to each other, and we'd run a few things by my doctor. The instructor nurse was certainly nice enough, and I don't mean to make it sound otherwise. It's just...there was so much contradictory information. For example!

Everything she said about the bag of waters was wrong. It's NOT necessary to go to the hospital as soon as the water breaks, and it's NOT necessary to artificially rupture this membrane if you are checked into labor and delivery without your water breaking naturally. In fact, everything I've read suggests that staying at home for as long as possible after the water breaks reduces the risk of infection. Something about immunities to your own household germs. And the only reasons to rupture the membrane are to move labor along IF it stalls or to check the amniotic fluid for meconium IF the baby shows signs of distress. Again, Dallas and I have told my doctor that we will do whatever is medically necessary but would like to avoid every other procedure/medicine/whatever. (Get that pointy crocheting needle away from my baby's head!)

She also said that episiotomies were standard procedure. Again. They may be common, but they are not commonly NECESSARY. Everything I've read says that the *gulp* tearing that may occur naturally is often less severe and heals better than the incision. (Get those scissors away from my...!)

I can deal with the misinformation, but the breathing demonstrations were so disappointing. I can read about the theories behind breathing practices all day long, but I wanted someone to show me how it sounded and what it looked like so I understood what to do. She tried to show us, I guess, but it was all completely unclear. She demonstrated them, but I had no idea when she was exhaling and inhaling and she didn't walk around during practice time to observe us or give us pointers. And then there were these little charts that were supposed to show you how to breathe, too, but they mostly looked like the squiggles cartoon characters get over their heads when they're confused. Appropriate, but so not helpful.

31 weeks

Surprise! I'm super pregnant. At least three people this week have said, "Wow! You got big." I might be offended if it weren't so true. AND I read that little D is about to hit a growth spurt: half a pound every week until he's born. I'm trying to take my magically expanding belly as a sign that my baby is healthy, but I kind of hate how I look. AND my belly button is definitely popping out a little more every day. It's a crazy, upside down heart-shaped protuberance now. AND I got on the scale today for the first time in two or three weeks. I've gained about 24 pounds. Eep. The good news is that even if I gain a full pound every week for the next nine weeks, I'll still be below the 35 pound mark, which is considered healthy. I keep telling myself that I have lost 45 in less than seven months, so I can do it again. Right? Right.

My checkup was fine. I spoke to my doctor about a few of my laboring concerns, and she agreed not to induce, augment, slice, medicate, or mandate positions unless it was medically necessary. I couldn't ask for a better answer, especially after the intern doctor person brushed aside my question about the episiotomy with "She'll tell you before she does it." Gee, thanks. My doctor also said that not getting too set on a birth plan was a good idea since so much of labor and delivery is unpredictable and situational. I feel awfully under-prepared, but I have thought about these things and I do know my options. I guess that's enough.

I still don't know where I want to deliver. I thought that once I saw both of the hospitals that one would stand out, but they're both good. The only differences that I noticed were that the people at Tuscaloosa were slightly more personable than the people at Northport, and the rooms at N were larger than the rooms at T. I do like that you stay in the same room for the whole time at N and that there's a pull-out sofa bed for Dallas. I'll probably end up there, more because it's what everyone recommends than because it's truly a nicer place. But, really, there's nothing wrong with Tuscaloosa either. Dallas still prefers it.

Today is our fourth anniversary. We spent the entire day in hospitals before he had to go to work at 2, and he won't be home until around 11:30 tonight. It's hard to complain too much because my sister didn't get to see her husband AT ALL on their first anniversary, and I can't be upset that he's working after struggling to find a job for so long. I miss him and I wish I could be with him, but that's how I feel all the time. Really, an anniversary spent taking care of gestational business and paying the bills isn't so bad.

hospital touring and birth planning and pediatrician finding

I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow at 9am so I figured I'd post my (bi)weekly update after that. In the meantime...

MAN! There's a lot of planning that goes into having a baby. I've been on autopilot as far as pregnancy goes for the last 5 months, taking care of myself as well as possible and trying to minimize my daily stress level, and so much stuff snuck up on me. ["Snuck" is apparently not a word.] Before this week, I hadn't toured the local labor and delivery wards, which I have to do so I can decide where I'm delivering and register for hospital specific birthing classes, which I also haven't done. I'm also working on my "birth plan," mostly by reading The Big Book of Birth. I also forgot that we needed a pediatrician until the nurse at Tuscaloosa DCH asked who we'd interviewed. Say what? I feel so far behind.

I haven't come up with much of a concrete birth plan; it's still basically "don't let either of us die." I have, however, made a few decisions. I'll spare you the gross ones.

1. No systemic narcotics. It can make the baby groggy, which makes it harder for him to take those first breaths on his own.

2. No rupturing of the bag of waters if not medically necessary. (Trust me. You might think that's a gross one, but it's nothing compared to some of the other things.) It increases risk of infection, and they have to stick something sharp and pointy right up next to my baby's head. The only benefit (as far as I know) is that it can help a slow labor progress.

3. No episiotomy unless medically necessary. I don't feel like I need to explain that one. Just no.

4. We're going to try to manage early labor at the apartment, since everything I've read says that this is better than going to the hospital too soon. We're undecided on when early labor shifts into active labor. The book we're reading says that we should go to the hospital when my contractions are three minutes apart, and that's Dallas's plan, but I feel like three minutes apart will be cutting it pretty close. I say five. We'll probably split the difference.

5. I'm terrified (TERRIFIED!) of the epidural, and reading more about it hasn't helped like everyone said it would. You may not believe me, but I'm not worried about the pain. I'm worried about them putting a big needle into my spine and leaving (LEAVING!) a catheter in there. I'm worried that I'll have permanent back pain after. I'm worried that I'll be paralyzed. These are both pretty rare, but they do happen. Also, and this isn't usually considered a risk, but epidurals regularly cause drops in blood pressure, and mine is already really, really low with a tendency to crash. Also? Epidurals can cause anaphylactic shock.

6. I want the freedom to try different birthing positions, and, apparently, if you have an epidural, you're limited to laying on your back while you push. I can't lie on my back for more than 15 minutes without getting feeling really sick. I can't imagine doing it for an hour and a half. ALSO! Did you know that most first-timers push for an hour and a half? What the hell is that? I always thought it was 20 minutes, max.

7. The last two points lead to this: I'm going to attempt a natural childbirth, but I don't want anyone to get all judge-y if I decide I can't do it. I'm not crusading, and I don't want a nurse, doula, midwife, doctor, anyone who is. Honestly, I will start axe-murdering people if they tell me what I do and don't want while laboring. If I say I want an epidural, I want one. I also don't want people thinking "You're planning a natural birth? Oh, you're a brave woman." This is 100% motivated by fear--fear that the medicine will hurt the baby, fear that I'll have a rubbery tube in my spine, fear that my blood pressure will crash, fear that I'll end up paralyzed, fear that I'll have to push in a position that makes me ill, fear that the episiotomy rate for the epidural position is higher. It's not brave, I promise you. I'm just petrified of all the other options. Laboring naturally will of course be more painful, but it seems a lot safer to me. (And my mom had three completely natural VBACs in the 80s. Maybe there's a super-birther gene. Here's hoping.)

As far as the hospitals go, I'm still undecided. I've toured DCH Tuscaloosa, and I have an appointment to tour the Northport facility tomorrow. Everyone--yes, everyone!--recommends the Northport location, but I'm hesitant. We've had three really good experiences at DCH, and I know that they encourage rooming in with the baby, and they have central monitoring with the option for telemetry--which means I could be up and walking around more without being unhooked from machines. Northport doesn't have central monitoring, which means the nurse stays in the room with you the whole time, checking contractions, heartrate, blood pressure, etc. A lot of women have said they appreciated this, but I think I would hate it. Without seeing the hospital, the only thing I think Northport has on Tuscaloosa is that I would be in one room for labor, delivery, recovery, and postpartum in Northport. And the postpartum rooms in Tuscaloosa are kind of...disappointing.

29 weeks

It's hard to believe I only have 11 weeks until the due date. That seems like such a very long time. I keep thinking, "That's the WHOLE summer" and "That's almost like a semester" or "If it were 11 weeks until Christmas, I wouldn't even think about it." But this is so different than all that. It's not just 11 weeks until the summer ends, or 11 weeks until the semester ends, or 11 weeks until Christmas. This is 11 weeks until my life will never be the same. It seems like not enough time.

Everything is still going smoothly, I think. I had a doctor's appointment on Friday, and my blood sugar was normal, I'm not anemic, and Dresden is still growing at the proper rate. I've gained about 20 to 22 pounds, depending on the day. I've decided to stop weighing myself compulsively--really really this time. I was not eating properly or healthily and old body image issues started creeping up again. It's a cruel fact that eating disorders typically intensify during childbearing years and peak during pregnancy. And it's something they should tell you so you're not caught completely unaware. I want Dresden to be strong and healthy, and the logical part of my brain would rather overfeed him than underfeed him, but it's a constant struggle. I've started keeping track of what and when I eat to make sure I snack every few hours. I can't eat a real meal because I feel so very uncomfortably full after, and I swear Dresden can kick my stomach (the organ itself, not just the generalized belly area). So...a bagel here, an apple an hour or so later. All I wanted yesterday was a Panera cinnamon crunch bagel with hazelnut cream cheese. I think I need some more protein.

Dresden is extra active these days, and I love trying to figure out what he's doing. I'm sometimes surprised by how quickly he can move, mostly because I imagine him swimming around as if my uterus were a pool and I know you can't move like that underwater, but then I remember that he's now about 15 inches long and weighs over two and a half pounds. He might have had a whole lot of room a few months ago, but I think it's starting to get more like a small tub and less like a swimming pool in there. The kicks, rolls, punches, headbutts, and stretches all make more sense if I remember that he's not the size of an apple anymore. See?

He can and does move much more quickly and with much more force than I anticipated. Sometimes I think something is wrong, but if I visualize my insides like the above picture, it's less troublesome. It's all pretty amazing, actually. When he's really awake, I can feel him everywhere--close to my side, at the very top of my belly, all the way to the bottom. I think he'll be able to give my ribs a solid thwacking in a week or two. Exciting times.

OKAY! Here's my picture for today. This is why Dallas calls me Hair Monster when we get up.

Tornado

I wish there was more I could do to help everyone who has been affected by the tornado. My friends are all doing an amazing job of volunteering around town and cleaning up the wreckage, but I want to be with them, helping alongside them. I've heard so many stories about families who've lost everything, about parents who walk around with their babies wrapped in towels because they have no diapers or clothing. I understand that it's just not practical for a pregnant woman to be out there all day, and I know why Dallas wants me to be at home, but it hurts my heart to feel this helpless. He drove me down McFarland today, and I just started weeping. I kept waiting to donate money, thinking I'll go buy supplies tomorrow! or I'll go sign up at the church! but it never happened, mostly because Dallas needs the car for work, and by the time he gets home, he's physically and emotionally exhausted. He works at the Home Depot, not too far from where the tornado ripped through town, and it's apparently been turned into command central for many relief efforts. Anyhow. I realized today that while I can't do everything I want, I could donate money and that that would be better than just biding my time. So I did. (givetuscaloosa.com). We don't have much money, and I feel like an able-bodied person would be more helpful than what we can give, but apparently being pregnant means I'm no longer able-bodied.

I thought that I missed the caffeine, or the cigarettes, or the social life that went along with drinking, or chili dogs, or cheese dip, but nothing I've given up has compared to sitting on the sidelines for the last few days. Don't get me wrong. I know how lucky I am. I thank God every night that my baby is still healthy and that he still has a father, that I still have a husband. I thank God that all of my friends here in Tuscaloosa are safe. I just feel so...worthless.