BrooklynGirl

Birth Announcement

I am thrilled to announce the arrival of our daughter (henceforth The Girl) on Friday, June 1st, at 8:51 am.  She was 7 lbs, 3 oz, 20 inches long, and arrived by uneventful c-section.

We came home today and are figuring out nursing and sleeping.  The Boy doesn't really understand what's going on, but he likes to hug and kiss The Girl, and right now that seems like a lot.

Friendly Skies

This is why I'm staying home this weekend.

Happy Memorial Day.

Both Sides Now

When I was expecting The Boy, it just seemed like one thing after another: the drama of IVF, the low beta, the subchorionic hemorrhage, the low progesterone, the two vessel cord, etc. and so forth.  I was scared all the time--afraid to believe and afraid that my own lack of faith was creating further jeopardy.

This pregnancy has been different.  It's not that I've been relaxed, exactly.  Just busy and distracted.  With The Boy, I sweat the peaks and valleys of every non stress test.  This time, I'm still nervous until I see the fetal heart rate, but after that, I'm more likely than not to fall asleep right there on the gurney.  I worry now, of course,  that I haven't worried enough.

At my doctor's appointment today, I needed to have some blood drawn, and the phlebotomist was new.  I know that pregnant ladies are supposed to have big, juicy veins, but my veins are as deep, tiny, and uncooperative as always so she was frustrated.  She poked around for awhile, tied tourniquets here and there, and finally picked her best target on the back of my right hand.

"This is going to hurt," she said.  "And it will probably leave an ugly bruise."  And she kept apologizing.

I couldn't help but remember all the blood draws of long ago--the mornings I had left the apartment when it was still dark out so I could be among the first in line at the clinic, the afternoons spent waiting for the call from the nurse with my instructions for that night, or worse, for the news that my beta was falling as expected.

In the face of those memories, this awkward blood draw was nothing.  Less than nothing.

It  makes me feel like I'm trying to get away with something.  And that scares me.

Long Time No Post

Whenever The Boy, my stomach, and  I are out together, someone gestures toward my ever increasing girth and says something like, "You didn't waste any time."

I usually stammer back, "We were surprised." But I don't think that's the ideal response.  For one, it makes me sound like I couldn't quite master the concepts of Sex Ed.  For another, it doesn't sound sufficiently grateful.  For yet another, it's not really true: no, we didn't plot the interception of this particular sperm and this particular egg, but we had met with our RE not one month prior to the appearance of that double line to talk about throwing a soiree for some sperm and  some eggs in the near future so it was...on our minds. 

When I'm feeling frisky, I say something about the "difficulties" we had conceiving The Boy, which either sends my conversational partner running or prompts them to tell me about how sometimes all you need to do to get pregnant is just "relax and stop trying."  Which makes my head explode.

*****

After much sturm und drang, I did wind up selling or giving away a lot of The Boy's newborn paraphernalia last spring so I find myself once  again thumbing through my now out of date copy of Baby Bargains and wondering what truly essential items we can't live with out.   I didn't enjoy this the first time around, and it's causing just as much angst now.

The sitter continues to pester me about how we absolutely MUST get the au courant double stroller that anybody who's anybody is piloting around the Slope these days, and though I suspect we will eventually give in to this particular item, I was so self-righteous in my rejection of the $600 Bugaboo that it causes me great pain to contemplate spending that much money on a stroller after all.  Feh.

*****

I'm scheduled to have a c-section on Friday, June 1st unless I go into labor on my own before then in which case I'll give VBAC a shot.  Today is May 14th so that's, um, freakishly, mind bogglingly, unbelievably soon.

Since we don't really have local family, the logistics of plotting this event seem somewhat ludicrous.  I keep trying to remember what the days in the hospital were like when The Boy was born, but I can't recall a thing that's not in the pictures.  For example, the only meal I recall from my 4 days in the hospital was the turkey sandwich my husband brought me when I was first allowed non-liquid food.*  Surely there were other meals?  Or did we just sit around and stare at The Boy?

*I realize this is perhaps not the most pressing logistical issue, but it was on my mind today as I waited for an elevator to the antepartum testing unit (for my NST) which is on the same floor as Labor & Delivery, and all the people waiting with me were husbands bringing their post partum wives tasty treats from the outside and comparing notes on who'd been asked to travel the furthest.  It was kind of cute in an eye-rolling, only-in-New-York sort of way.

How to Be a Jackass

The post I was trying to find the time to write was about how we're all sick again, which doesn't even seem possible.

Yesterday, in between coughing, wheezing, and feverish delerium, I called in sick to work (I know, I know) and was stunned to get a call back just a few minutes later insisting that I return to work the next day.  Or Else.  The Or Else wasn't spoken, but it was implied. 

I crawled back into bed and felt sorry for myself: I was a crappy mom (sending The Boy out with the sitter so I could get some sleep), a terrible teacher (calling in sick AGAIN), and a generally inferior human being who had somehow wound up in a part-time, low paying job that had not even an iota of sympathy for a 34-week pregnant woman with a fever and a bad cough.

The next morning--this morning--my fever had broken and though I was still a little woozy, I felt up to making the trek into work.  But I felt pretty put upon by the whole situation.

My colleagues mentioned a  last minute staff meeting scheduled for lunchtime (there have been a lot of these lately)--and I mentioned my intention to skip the meeting t0 go out and get some tea.

"You can't," they said.  "One of the things on the agenda is your position."

Fuck a duck.  As I think I've made clear here and at school, I do not intend to return to the position even if it is offered to me, but I do think it's important for the position to be filled by someone, and I worry that the lack of rigor with which I have approached the job may jeopardize its existence.

I stumbled into the meeting with such a large chip on my shoulder that I don't know how I fit into the room--especially since the room was filled with cake.  And presents.   And baby-themed decorations.

It was a surprise shower--rescheduled from the day before--organized by two of my colleagues.  Not just that, but two colleagues who've gone through miscarriages this year.

Could I be a bigger jackass?

Yeah, I didn't think so.

Sleepless in the South Slope

The Boy is not sleeping again, and it's really starting to affect my sense of humor.  It's my fault: he's had a bit of a cold so I've been coddling him during his nighttime wakings and now that's become his favorite time to wake up, snuggle, and share his toddler gossip, "Gee da roh las da ug!" 

It's not that interesting at 2 am either.

It's making me panicky--even more panicky, I should say--about how one does all this with a newborn.  Before The Boy arrived, I didn't really understand tiredness.  As a lifelong insomniac, I thought I knew all about sleep deprivation, but it turns out I was wrong.  I hadn't really experienced tired until I'd been woken up every 2 hours during the night, cajoled a cranky toddler into a diaper change, attempted to spoon some oatmeal down his gullet, and then realized that I still had 10 unassisted hours to go until (his) bedtime.  If I was lucky.

How does one shoehorn a newborn into this schedule?

Decisions

At the last appointment, my OB asked--ever so casually--about my future plans for child bearing.  This is not a conversation I can really have with a straight face.  I mean, come on, how much choice do we really have in the whole number of kids thing?

She was asking because, if I was planning on having many more (again, ha ha ha), she might counsel me away from a repeat c-section to reduce wear and tear on my uterus.  Though once upon a time it might have seemed to me that three was an ideal number of offspring to have, the very thought of two is so overwhelming at this point in time that it's almost impossible (for me) to think that now.   

When I told her some version of this, she asked, well, if I did wind up deciding on a repeat c-section (and the jury's still out on that), would I want to get my tubes tied at the same time.

Huh.

Apparently, if I'm interested in this option, I need to fill out the paperwork well ahead of time so that everyone knows I'm not making an emotional decision that I'll regret later.

It's weird to even think about it.  Like I said, realistically, we will probably be done after this, but it's hard to imagine closing the door. 

Monday

I'm feeling a little tongue-tied.  Also, anxious.  I feel like things are swirling just within the realm of control and the slightest thing could send us floating off into the ether.

Things going on:

*We're redoing the kitchen--new cabinets, new appliances--in case we decide we need to move in the near term.  We're not doing anything fancy, but since I am not remotely handy, the whole project is daunting, and everything seems to cost 50-75% more than it seems like it should.

*The nanny's daughter is sick.  In the hospital sick.  She showed up as usual this morning and told me this, and I told her to leave and go be with her daughter, but she said that she'd been there all weekend and she has family there now and has another babysitting gig this afternoon that she can't miss so she'd just as soon work and take her mind off things. But, gah--do I force the issue and insist?

*I think I found a Twos program for The Boy for the fall.  It is calm, unpretentious, relatively affordable, and totally unlike the programs to which most of The Boy's peers have applied.  All I have to do to reserve his spot is send in a check.  Why can't I make myself send in the check?

*I don't know what to do about work--now and in the future.  I really enjoy the time I spend at school.  I like working with the kids.  I hate how utterly inflexible my schedule is.  I need to tell them my news and devise an exit strategy for this school year (since my due date is at least 3 weeks before the last day of school).  My position is fairly ad hoc so I never had the expectation that I'd automatically be back next year, and if asked, I'm not sure this is the job I would want, but closing that door feels scary.

And the fun thing:

*The husband and I are  going away for a weekend--a weekend without The Boy.  My parents have agreed to watch him in their unchild-proofed house that is a plane ride away, but we're taking them up on it.  God help us.   

The Miranda Factor

My life has never had anything in common with "Sex and the City"—either the television show or the book that inspired it—but recently I found myself thinking of the episode in which Miranda finds out she's having a boy and "fakes an ultrasound," that is, manufactures the level of enthusiasm people around her think she should have at the whole child bearing business. 

Well, the Miranda Factor looms large in my approach to pregnancy: not satisfactorily enthusiastic for the normal world.  I don't rush out to buy maternity clothes or baby clothes or nursery furniture.  I don't call friends and family to debate possible names or describe new symptoms.  It's just not my style.

It's not that I don't feel grateful and fortunate.  It's that I also feel apprehensive and insecure and overwhelmed (and horribly ungrateful to even think of voicing those feelings).  I want this—of course, I want this—but it all makes me so nervous that I'd just as soon not think about it, talk about it, or acknowledge it that it's happening until I actually have to.

As a result, I've been an absolute freak about informing people about this pregnancy.  For example, the woman I sometimes see at the playground knows, but many of my other friends do not.  We haven't specifically discussed it with my sister- and brother-in-law (though I suspect they've been informed by my father-in-law).  Weird, right? I know! 

I haven't told my nanny.  Or my boss.  Or my co-workers.  Their lives will be affected by this development, so I know I need to tell them, but if it were possible to say nothing to no one and just show up with a baby sometime in early June that would suit me just fine.  Besides, I don't really know what to tell these people: can I afford to keep the nanny for a fraction of the hours she works now (and would she be interested in that)?  Assuming I can work up to my due date, do I want to?

And then of course there's The Boy.  My God.  The poor boy.  Do we kick him out of the crib and into a toddler bed or do we try to shoehorn another crib into his 14' x 7' room?   What do we tell him?  When do we tell him?  And what future plans do we make for him: should I sign him up for a Twos program for the fall just so he has something stimulating to do?  Do I still have time to sign him up for a Twos program?

My window of secrecy is ending.  Baggy clothes and winter sweaters aside, some things are becoming obvious (to me, anyway…does anyone ever look at a friend and say, "Hey, you suddenly look A LOT bigger.  Anything you want to say about that?").

I can't help but think these decisions would be easier to make under the influence of cosmopolitans.

15 Weeks

I had blood drawn for the quad screen today,* which must mean I'm in my second trimester.  Go figure.

*****

The Boy came with me so I had brought all the snacks, toys, and books I could carry to distract him, but he was happiest running around the office and annoying the other patients.  One woman and her husband sat down across from us and as he leafed through a copy of Fit Pregnancy, she took out her Blackberry and scowled at the lackluster cell phone reception.  I was feeding The Boy goldfish in an attempt to buy his obedience, and he was smearing me with a paste of goldfish and saliva in an attempt to show me who wears the pants in our relationship.  Blackberry Gal—when she wasn’t reading the Wall Street Journal—looked at us with undisguised disdain, clearly vowing that she would never be the food covered woman she saw before her. 

Don't bet on it, toots.

*****

The OB and I had our first (laughably early) VBAC versus repeat c-section discussion.  Honestly, vaginal birth isn't that important to me; I had my shot at vaginal birth, and it didn't work out as we'd hoped.  If I can avoid the sheer terror of an emergency c-section, I’m eager to do so. 

But damn it's early to even be thinking about this.

*Results after the holidays