Being pregnant makes you crazy. No, seriously. It is true. It is okay, though, a socially acceptable crazy, as is evidenced by the following poem. I write whenever inspiration strikes and I set out to write a funny poem about the placenta, likening it to Mrs. Baylock, the creepy nanny for Satan’s kid Damien from The Omen. However, I ended up with something quite different in the end. I like it, though. Not totally heinous, unlike some other things I have written lately.
Caretaker,
a Mrs. Baylock,
nanny
to baby's Damien,
protecting at all costs
baby's first friend,
constant companion,
placenta
thin, compliant
non-judgmental
keeping baby company
womb mates
together
safe, warm
silent placenta witnesses
baby's growth,
passes along nutrients,
then steps back
as industrious baby
turns shredded wheat
and chicken sandwiches
into fingers, toes,
a spleen
baby grows
enough to emerge,
fleeing the amniotic cocoon,
then goes on
without placenta
the first of many friends
to be forgotten,
outgrown,
left behind
placenta,
purpose served
slides away into
oblivion
See, I told you. Crazy.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Monday, September 24, 2007
Newer News
According to today's doctor's visit, everything looks good. The baby is stubbornly breech, resting as high in my uterus as possible without aid of sophisticated climbing gear. What can I say? I provide good accomodations: warm environment, plenty of food, a variety of activities designed to lull the baby to sleep. I am a gracious landlord, providing safe shelter and forgiving 3:00 a.m. karate kicks to the bladder. But, the tiny tenant and I both know that it can't -- and won't -- last. Therefore, I am afraid that the baby will be getting his eviction notice in four weeks and four days. I've even set up accomodations outside the womb to help him feel at home.
My bags are packed. I am ready to go. Seriously. I have already packed my bag for the hospital, though I haven't picked out clothes for the baby to wear at the hospital or to come home in. But by the end of the week, that will be done as well.
As Halloween approaches, I have become even more conscious of the scary movies and shows that I don't want Jude to see. Still, last week, he awoke one morning and said "Mom, I had a bad dream last night." My heart fell. What was scaring him in his sleep? After a bit of probing, he said "My boogers kept coming out and I couldn't stop them." Sounds like a nightmare to me. He has a cold right now, so it is a perfectly reasonably bad dream. Also, the cutest description of a bad dream ever.
Our evening ritual with Jude has been altered slightly. One night, Jude said "Get out of my room" after evening hugs and kisses. I figured he was just tired and let it go, though I did tell him it wasn't nice to say that and it hurt Mommy and Daddy's feelings. The following night, his eyes closed as we tucked him in and, as we turned to the door, I heard his little voice say "Get out of my room, please." So, we're making progress.
So, think of me however briefly four weeks and four days from now. Until then, here's hoping that your boogers stay put.
My bags are packed. I am ready to go. Seriously. I have already packed my bag for the hospital, though I haven't picked out clothes for the baby to wear at the hospital or to come home in. But by the end of the week, that will be done as well.
As Halloween approaches, I have become even more conscious of the scary movies and shows that I don't want Jude to see. Still, last week, he awoke one morning and said "Mom, I had a bad dream last night." My heart fell. What was scaring him in his sleep? After a bit of probing, he said "My boogers kept coming out and I couldn't stop them." Sounds like a nightmare to me. He has a cold right now, so it is a perfectly reasonably bad dream. Also, the cutest description of a bad dream ever.
Our evening ritual with Jude has been altered slightly. One night, Jude said "Get out of my room" after evening hugs and kisses. I figured he was just tired and let it go, though I did tell him it wasn't nice to say that and it hurt Mommy and Daddy's feelings. The following night, his eyes closed as we tucked him in and, as we turned to the door, I heard his little voice say "Get out of my room, please." So, we're making progress.
So, think of me however briefly four weeks and four days from now. Until then, here's hoping that your boogers stay put.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Twas the Night Before Last
I struggle to fall asleep amidst the lemon-scented crumbs, but sleep evades me and is not likely. The bed is wrong; no matter how much adjusting I do, it is not a suitable substitute for my own bed. My mind wanders back to a few hours earlier when the crumbs were made by my three-year-old, propped up in the bed next to me, his tiny fingers holding a lemon cupcake, crumbs scattering on the bed. When he is finished with the cupcake (a brief craving that I had that resulted in my baking far too many cupcakes for one small family to consume), he grabs a toy from the nightstand, a tiny elephant in a boat and proceeds to run the wheels of the elephant’s vehicle up and down my arm and occasionally over my sheet-covered leg. The elephant pauses once in a while at my face to inquire “What are you doing, Mama?” I smile and patiently answer the elephant’s question, marveling that I became “Mama” to countless pirates, Ninja Turtles and other assorted “guys” when I became Mama to this smiling, happy little person. The elephant seems satisfied with my answer because he proceeds to head back down my arm and after a moment of hesitation, gently heads for my stomach. “Remember: not on Mama’s tummy,” I remind him. He nods his agreement. “Let me see,” he asks again and I acquiesce, lifting my nightgown so that he can see the fetal monitors placed against my stomach. “Monitors,” he says as I smooth the awkward hospital gown back over my swollen stomach. “Just to make sure that Mommy is okay,” I tell him gently, knowing that he is already uncomfortable in the hospital room. It is not a kid-friendly place. There are no oversize characters peering down from the walls or cheery, bright colors. Still, the moment he stepped through the doors, the room brightened considerably. “Are we going home?” he asks once more as the elephant resumes his boat rampage up and down my arms. “You and Daddy are going home,” I tell him. “Mommy needs to stay here for the night.” Not the Monday evening I had envisioned surely.
When I awoke on Monday morning, it was like so many other Mondays, manic, as Jude and I both tried to squeeze every bit of sleep out of the morning. I carted him off to daycare, where he was immediately surrounded by his friends, in awe of his obnoxious (but cute), singing Spongebob Squarepants. I barely got a “Have a good day” from him as I walked out, but he was occupied and happy so I scooted off to work. I turned on my computer first thing, as I do every morning, then headed to the kitchen for ice (I absolutely cannot tolerate beverages that are less than ice cold). As I walked along the outer edge of the gym floor, I slipped in a wet spot and landed directly on my stomach. I fell hard and couldn’t get up. The worker cleaning the floors (who, incidentally speaks no English so we have to communicate via the rudimentary Spanish I have retained from college) literally lifted me off of the floor and helped me get to the kitchen. I couldn’t really walk on my ankle, but I was more concerned with the fact that I couldn’t feel any baby movement. I have grown accustomed to the kicks and rolls that signify the ever-growing presence of the person curled up inside of me. I called the doctor’s office and was informed that I needed to come in right away. So, barely 45 minutes after arriving at work, I headed out to the doctor’s office. One ultrasound later where I could see his movements and his little face and hear his heartbeat and I was crying with relief. The doctor strapped me up to a fetal monitor to chart his heartbeat and after just a few minutes, she informed me that she was sending me to the hospital for further monitoring “just to be safe.” So I headed off to the hospital for the four-hour monitoring. This turned into all all-night ordeal. Why?
The Mystery of the Phantom Contractions:
The nurse who kept checking on me asked me if I was having contractions. I told her I was not. I was as comfortable as I could be, lying in a hospital bed strapped to a monitor. She then showed me spikes on the monitor that indicated that I was in fact having contractions. So, much as the Scooby-Doo-like heading suggests, I investigated these mysterious contractions. Well, actually I stared at the monitor to see when they were happening. They were so few and far between (only 4 to 7 in an hour) that I turned my attention back to the television. Obviously if they weren’t strong enough to turn me away from a compelling episode of “Montel Williams” (okay, I really missed my DVD player and didn’t have any other distractions, since I didn’t know I would be spending all day and night at the hospital), then they obviously weren’t going to be strong enough to push a person out of my body. Still, having contractions meant that I had to spend the night for even more monitoring.
Long story short (I know – too late): I was released in the morning and everything seems to be okay with me and, more importantly, with little Sullivan and his sweet little face (I know – I saw the ultrasound. It is a sweet face.) If there were only some way I could avoid walking at all for the next five weeks, then maybe I would be less nervous that I will actually make it to the end of October.
Maybe.
When I awoke on Monday morning, it was like so many other Mondays, manic, as Jude and I both tried to squeeze every bit of sleep out of the morning. I carted him off to daycare, where he was immediately surrounded by his friends, in awe of his obnoxious (but cute), singing Spongebob Squarepants. I barely got a “Have a good day” from him as I walked out, but he was occupied and happy so I scooted off to work. I turned on my computer first thing, as I do every morning, then headed to the kitchen for ice (I absolutely cannot tolerate beverages that are less than ice cold). As I walked along the outer edge of the gym floor, I slipped in a wet spot and landed directly on my stomach. I fell hard and couldn’t get up. The worker cleaning the floors (who, incidentally speaks no English so we have to communicate via the rudimentary Spanish I have retained from college) literally lifted me off of the floor and helped me get to the kitchen. I couldn’t really walk on my ankle, but I was more concerned with the fact that I couldn’t feel any baby movement. I have grown accustomed to the kicks and rolls that signify the ever-growing presence of the person curled up inside of me. I called the doctor’s office and was informed that I needed to come in right away. So, barely 45 minutes after arriving at work, I headed out to the doctor’s office. One ultrasound later where I could see his movements and his little face and hear his heartbeat and I was crying with relief. The doctor strapped me up to a fetal monitor to chart his heartbeat and after just a few minutes, she informed me that she was sending me to the hospital for further monitoring “just to be safe.” So I headed off to the hospital for the four-hour monitoring. This turned into all all-night ordeal. Why?
The Mystery of the Phantom Contractions:
The nurse who kept checking on me asked me if I was having contractions. I told her I was not. I was as comfortable as I could be, lying in a hospital bed strapped to a monitor. She then showed me spikes on the monitor that indicated that I was in fact having contractions. So, much as the Scooby-Doo-like heading suggests, I investigated these mysterious contractions. Well, actually I stared at the monitor to see when they were happening. They were so few and far between (only 4 to 7 in an hour) that I turned my attention back to the television. Obviously if they weren’t strong enough to turn me away from a compelling episode of “Montel Williams” (okay, I really missed my DVD player and didn’t have any other distractions, since I didn’t know I would be spending all day and night at the hospital), then they obviously weren’t going to be strong enough to push a person out of my body. Still, having contractions meant that I had to spend the night for even more monitoring.
Long story short (I know – too late): I was released in the morning and everything seems to be okay with me and, more importantly, with little Sullivan and his sweet little face (I know – I saw the ultrasound. It is a sweet face.) If there were only some way I could avoid walking at all for the next five weeks, then maybe I would be less nervous that I will actually make it to the end of October.
Maybe.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Common
Two new features to the blog. First, since I frequently make mention of my dorkness and dorky ways, I have decided to embrace this part of me and incorporate an occasional “why I am a dork” feature into my blog. Over Labor Day weekend, I was at my mom and step-dad’s and my feet were a bit sore and dry, so I decided to prop them up on the couch. Then, I noticed my mom’s basket of lotions in the spare bedroom, so I grabbed some lotion and rubbed my feet to alleviate the soreness. Well, the lotion worked and I felt better. The next day, I had my feet propped up on the dashboard in Jeff’s car when I noticed brown streaks on my feet and lower legs. Turns out that the lotion was self-tanning lotion and I still have streaky brown feet.
Due to the internet, I know for certain I am not the only dork on the planet and there is comfort in that feeling. There is comfort in finding common ground with other people, no matter how tenuous the ground may be, which leads me to the second new feature: work irritation of the week. This week’s irritation stems from the fact that I don’t have much in common with anyone at work. Since I spend so much time working, this is irritatingly important to me, trying to find things I have in common with people around me. When I worked with many women, it was easier to find large things, like marriage and children. Being pregnant, I always appreciate being able to exchange thoughts and experiences on gestation. I learned just this week that the wife of one of my coworkers is pregnant and due in early December. Again, I realize that we aren’t the best of friends, but since I have to haul my pregnant form into my office every day, it seems that at least once it would have come up between us. He does on occasion ask how I am feeling, which might have segued into the comment “My wife is pregnant,” but now I realize that those queries are designed to gauge whether I am about to give birth while on work premises. So, that’s frustrating.
I find myself drawn to different message boards on the internet, where I could interact with others with similar interests – in my case, usually movies. However, more often than not I read posts by others but don’t often feel moved to post my own thoughts. I am unsure why. But sometimes when I read that someone likes pizza, I think that I should comment that I like pizza as well. It is rare to find two people in the vast sea of people, both liking pizza, finding common ground.
Sometimes there is just comfort in discovering sameness among people you already know. For example, my sister and I just discovered that we share the same blood type (B-). Blood type becomes important when you’re pregnant because of the RH factor. Since we are both negatives, we also discovered that our husbands are both AB+. Since Jami and I are step-sisters, we don’t share a genetic link, so it was interesting to learn we both had the same blood type. It was a simple example of a small connection. We bonded over the pains of pregnancy and the frustration of potty training (even though her two oldest children were potty-trained years ago). And despite having been married for six years, Jeff and I are still discovering shared likes and dislikes. We just alike enough -- and different enough -- to keep things interesting.
So, if you have a blood type or if you like pizza, please feel free to share your thoughts.
Due to the internet, I know for certain I am not the only dork on the planet and there is comfort in that feeling. There is comfort in finding common ground with other people, no matter how tenuous the ground may be, which leads me to the second new feature: work irritation of the week. This week’s irritation stems from the fact that I don’t have much in common with anyone at work. Since I spend so much time working, this is irritatingly important to me, trying to find things I have in common with people around me. When I worked with many women, it was easier to find large things, like marriage and children. Being pregnant, I always appreciate being able to exchange thoughts and experiences on gestation. I learned just this week that the wife of one of my coworkers is pregnant and due in early December. Again, I realize that we aren’t the best of friends, but since I have to haul my pregnant form into my office every day, it seems that at least once it would have come up between us. He does on occasion ask how I am feeling, which might have segued into the comment “My wife is pregnant,” but now I realize that those queries are designed to gauge whether I am about to give birth while on work premises. So, that’s frustrating.
I find myself drawn to different message boards on the internet, where I could interact with others with similar interests – in my case, usually movies. However, more often than not I read posts by others but don’t often feel moved to post my own thoughts. I am unsure why. But sometimes when I read that someone likes pizza, I think that I should comment that I like pizza as well. It is rare to find two people in the vast sea of people, both liking pizza, finding common ground.
Sometimes there is just comfort in discovering sameness among people you already know. For example, my sister and I just discovered that we share the same blood type (B-). Blood type becomes important when you’re pregnant because of the RH factor. Since we are both negatives, we also discovered that our husbands are both AB+. Since Jami and I are step-sisters, we don’t share a genetic link, so it was interesting to learn we both had the same blood type. It was a simple example of a small connection. We bonded over the pains of pregnancy and the frustration of potty training (even though her two oldest children were potty-trained years ago). And despite having been married for six years, Jeff and I are still discovering shared likes and dislikes. We just alike enough -- and different enough -- to keep things interesting.
So, if you have a blood type or if you like pizza, please feel free to share your thoughts.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
It Must Be Love
So, courtesy of Netflix and the local library I had two movies to watch this week: Raging Bull and Stranger Than Fiction. I thought that between them, there might be something to like, but, it turns out, I loved one of them. Yes, finally, a movie to love again.
Though it is widely considered one of the best films ever made, I had never seen Raging Bull, but was really curious and finally decided to watch it. I settled it to let the magic unfold for me -- and it never really did. It is a really good movie and I would recommend it, though I honestly fail to see what all of the hype was about. Jake LaMotta wasn't really a gem of a guy so it is hard to feel any sympathy for him. Still, I would consider Raging Bull to be a good movie.
Then, Jeff and I watched Stranger Than Fiction. This is, of course, the Will Ferrell movie from last year about the man who hears his life being narrated. Will Ferrell was really sweet, Emma Thompson was, as usual, brilliant and the script was funny and sad all at once. As I watched, I knew I was falling in love and, sure enough, when the end credits rolled, I thought "I really loved that."
After we watch a movie together, Jeff and I always discuss it. Sometimes these discussions are really, really brief, especially when the source material is really heinous. This time, Jeff was smiling when he asked me my thoughts on the movie and when I finished he said "I could tell you loved it. It seemed like a Kimbers kind of movie." He is pretty good at predicting how I will react to any given movie. I feel like I am such a fickle movie critic and I spread my movie love all over, not loyal to any particular genre. I can never really predict where movie love will strike, but I am just happy when it does.
Though it is widely considered one of the best films ever made, I had never seen Raging Bull, but was really curious and finally decided to watch it. I settled it to let the magic unfold for me -- and it never really did. It is a really good movie and I would recommend it, though I honestly fail to see what all of the hype was about. Jake LaMotta wasn't really a gem of a guy so it is hard to feel any sympathy for him. Still, I would consider Raging Bull to be a good movie.
Then, Jeff and I watched Stranger Than Fiction. This is, of course, the Will Ferrell movie from last year about the man who hears his life being narrated. Will Ferrell was really sweet, Emma Thompson was, as usual, brilliant and the script was funny and sad all at once. As I watched, I knew I was falling in love and, sure enough, when the end credits rolled, I thought "I really loved that."
After we watch a movie together, Jeff and I always discuss it. Sometimes these discussions are really, really brief, especially when the source material is really heinous. This time, Jeff was smiling when he asked me my thoughts on the movie and when I finished he said "I could tell you loved it. It seemed like a Kimbers kind of movie." He is pretty good at predicting how I will react to any given movie. I feel like I am such a fickle movie critic and I spread my movie love all over, not loyal to any particular genre. I can never really predict where movie love will strike, but I am just happy when it does.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
