My Little Man is 2 Months Old

I took Austin to a professional photographer this weekend so we could send out some cute, Christmas cards this year, and he was SO good. Of course I made sure he had napped and nursed immediately beforehand, but still. He was amazing! We tried to do the "baby in a basket" photo (ala Anne Geddes), but he didn't fit. Darn it, I should have brought him when he was smaller. Although, he just started smiling voluntarily (as opposed to gas-induced smiles) so at least we were able to capture that in his photos.

Welcome, Baby Austin!

My precious baby boy must have read my blog from the womb because he arrived less than a week after my previous post - 10 days before my due date. The 'quick and painless' part he have skipped over, however. Here is how it all went down:

At 4am Monday, September 20, I woke up with mild period cramps, but after a quick pee, I was back to sleep. At 5am, I woke again and they were more painful. I remember thinking, could this be it? Are these cramps contractions? I had no idea what they would feel like so I wasn't sure. I told my DH, and he jumped up to grab a notepad and pen to track them. Twenty minutes later, I felt a little trickle like I peed myself just a little. "Whoa", I remember thinking, "Is that my water breaking?" I was kind of hoping for something a little more dramatic, like in the movies.

We immediately called my doctor to report a possible 'membrane rupture'. He said it sounded like it and told us to come into the clinic when they open at 8am so they could check me. Damn, it was only 6am. Could I really wait that long? Well, the cramps weren't that bad so I tried to go back to sleep, but I was too excited. I was finally going to meet this little soccer player! I decided to have a bath to ease the cramps. They seemed to be getting worse, but still bearable - who knows, maybe I'm bad ass and have a really high pain tolerance...

Wrong! They had gotten worse. By 7:30am they were full blown cramps and I was starting to wince through them. When we arrived to the doctor's office at 8am, I was now bracing myself for each contractions (which no longer even remotely resembled period cramps). All I could think about was how much worse they were going to get. I couldn't believe it, when they checked me, I was only 1cm dilated. Sweet Lord, what would 2cm feel like?! Before they sent me back home to wait it out, they put some belts on me and sat me in a room to monitor the baby's heartbeat and my contractions. It was fun listening to the heartbeat (and helped me focus away from the pain), and my DH and I enjoyed listening for about 20 minutes.

Then nurse came in to check the readout of belt devices, and said there was some variability in the baby's heart rate and that we should go to the hospital now. This surprised and worried us a little because we knew I wasn't dilated enough for that, but they assured us it was just a precaution. By the time we checked in to the hospital and went into one of the monitoring rooms, it was 10am, and I was at 4cm and in a crap load of pain (so much for avoiding the epidural). Well, I ordered that epidural right then and there, so the anesthesiologist would be waiting for me in the delivery room when I got to there. Unfortunately, my doc didn't tell my nurse that I'd asked for one (assuming I would have filled her in myself) and when I asked, "where the hell is that bitch (kidding)" at 5cm (an hour later), she was only just on her way.

During the wait for the epidural, my DH and I put into practice all the techniques we learned from our birthing class (leaning over him, swaying side to side, etc). He also brought me some ice chips and we turned on the ipod mix of soothing music I had made a few days earlier. I read somewhere it was supposed to reduce pain up to 20% - just by relaxing you.

Finally! The epidural...and after about four attempts to thread it through my spine (I couldn't help it, the needle pricking my spine kept making me jump), it took effect. Then my parents arrived, and we all watched the contraction readout, which looked like an earthquake Richter scale. It was 2pm, and I was 7cm and pain free. By 4pm, I was up to almost 9cm, and they had readied the newborn cart and everything. Even the little blue hat was sitting out and ready to be adorned.

When I was checked an hour later, I hadn't progressed and baby was posterior, which means face-up (they're supposed to be face down). So we waited some more and I changed positions, hoping for gravity to move him into the correct position. I kept thinking I would be pushing at any minute and would hold my son in mere minutes! But by 6pm, there was still no progress and now I had a fever and baby's heart rate was climbing. The doctor made the call to do an emergency c-section. I was devastated. I had wanted to bond immediately with him doing skin-to-skin and nursing and now I couldn't.

I guess I would have to suck it up because baby's health was everything. I was wheeled in the ER and a tarp was thrown up in front of me. My DH scrubbed up and sat behind me, holding my hand. I had to do this awake because the epidural was already in. It was freezing in the room and the added drugs were making me shake and convulse like an insane person. I was told it would take only minutes to be cut open and the baby to be pulled out and almost an hour to stitch me back up. It was the most uncomfortable experience of my life, being pulled and man-handled and pressed on, knowing my guts were hanging out, even if I didn't feel the pain. But when they got him, when I heard his little tiger cry, it was all worth it. It was such a teensy tiny, little cry and it was fast and hard. The sound made me burst into tears and I instantly wanted to hold him, but of course, I couldn't. Instead, my DH got to hold him for a few minutes before they whisked him away, enough for us to see his beautiful face and FULL head of hair. Because of my fever, he had to spend two whole days in the NICU laying alone in the corner and getting an IV under a warming light while I recovered upstairs in the maternity ward.

It was heartbreaking not to have him with me for those two days, but I counted my blessings because he was a healthy, beautiful baby boy; seven pounds, twelve ounces. We named him Austin.

A Letter to Baby

Dear Baby,

I am ready for you to come out now. I know you are enjoying yourself in there - I mean, who wouldn't be - you have everything you need, and it's comfy and quiet and warm. But really, I think it is time.

I realize that while you are inside me I don't have to deal with the 3 P's (pee, poo, + puke), and this should make me want to prolong your inevitable arrival. However, I am running out of clothes that fit, my back hurts, and I can't sleep. I have reached gargantuan proportions and cannot possibly stretch any further. While your health is far more important than my vanity, I'd like to retain some resemblance of my former self, if possible.

Your papa is probably getting tired of my complaining and of waiting on me hand and foot. Also, football season has also started, and he needs a buddy to hang with him in the new "man-cave".

If you hurry, I promise to read you stories and sing you to sleep until you reach the age when it embarrasses you - at which point we can renegotiate, since I may need to use it as leverage if you try to pierce your tongue or dye your hair green.

I love you very much already, and I haven't even met you. If you love me, too, you will throw down those boxing gloves you've been using lately, and come out as quickly and as painlessly as you can.

Love,

your mama

Hot n' Bothered on the Home Stretch

So it's hot as hell here, mid-August in Connecticut, but here I am still chugging away at my pre-baby checklist:

1. Paint nursery & assemble crib...check!
2. Attend childbirth preparation classes...check!
3. Describe to all my friends (with shame and horror) the state of my hoo-hoo, as I can no longer reach it to trim it...check!
   
4. Tour the hospital and get familiar with its layout, procedures, and staff...check!
5. Whine like a baby every night to my husband because I'm hungry but I don't want to cook and I don't know what I want him to cook...check!
6. DVR every episode of "A Baby Story" on TLC and then sob violently at the end of each one I watch...check!
7. Pack my hospital bag -- in progress.
8. Squeeze something the size of a watermelon out of a hole the size of a lemon -- not started.
   

Full Steam Ahead to the Third Trimester

OK, so I know it's been awhile, but there has been a ton going on around here. We are moving into a new home and out of our shoddy rental (hooray!), but we're taking our time because we are renovating the kitchen (new appliances, countertop, etc.) so we won't be in until the end of the month. But what I'd really like to discuss is the transition from second to third trimester because it has officially happened, and I was pretty unprepared for it.

For one, I am not able to walk distances of more than a 1/8 mile without getting a painful side cramp (which I'm told is the stretching muscles of the uterus, already being taxed by baby). So walking the dogs or getting ANY sort of exercise in is out. So is any intense shopping excursion (such as IKEA or the outlet malls) without frequent and inefficient breaks.

Which leads to another shocking discovery. I have become extremely unattractive. No matter how many times people tell me I am a cute pregnant person (which I think is just the polite thing to say to someone who's body, in a matter of mere months, is inflating like Veruca Salt RIGHT before their eyes), I still feel like "Large-Marge". And what the humidity has done to my poor hair doesn't help (think Cameron Diaz in "Being John Malkovich"). I mean, if I'm going to have "kankles" and a "gunt", the least I could have is shiny, flawless hair. Come on!

Ironically, this sudden onset of poor self-esteem, bad hair, and hot weather has made me bitter and insecure half the time and the other half of the time quite content with letting myself go. I've really started to accept it. Plus, the fact that I get to spend all evening watching my belly jump around like crazy as a little, living human being (who can now open its eyes in the womb and as of this week, would survive if born) moves and plays. It makes it all worth it, really.

You Know You are Pregnant When...

You know you are pregnant when... no one can find a spare pillow in the house because they are all tucked between your legs and under your arms.

You know you are pregnant when... you engage in a high speed car chase because "that asshole just cut you off".

You know you are pregnant when... you leave work to make a bank deposit and come back with the deposit receipt...and an ice cream sundae.

You know you are pregnant when... your breasts now need their own zip code.

You know you are pregnant when... everyone gets your voicemail when they call because you don't have the strength or motivation to get up from the couch to find the phone and answer it.

You know you are pregnant when... shopping no longer interests you because nothing fits over your muffin top anyway and too many accessories increase your risk of varicose veins.

You know you are pregnant when... you look like a hairless monkey from the waist up, but everything below the belly button resembles Chewbacca.

You know you are pregnant when... peeing feels better than sex.

You know you are pregnant when... you grunt like a pig every time you get up out of your chair.

Pregzilla

I. am. hormonal. I may seem to hide it well in public, but let's just say I am lucky to still be married right now. I am a nasty, nasty person, and I can't help myself. Sometimes, I feel it coming on, like I'm just sitting there happy as a clam, and then - boom, I am irritable and snappy. It is usually triggered by delayed mealtime ("Lay off me, I'm starving!") or when I am in the middle of one of my shows and am interrupted (I'll be all warm and snuggled in a blanket, riveted by an intense episode of Law & Order or a Lifetime Original Movie). This inevitably leads to shouting and throwing of things nearby (remote control, dog bowl - whatever I can get my hands on, really). And then, I feel the baby kicking, which makes me feel REALLY guilty and sad, so I cry. Multiple this 4x per week, and you have an environment that no one likes coming home to, not even me: the Aggravator.

I think they should have a temporary compound or assisted living home where pregnant women can go during the second and third trimester to seek shelter and serenity from the daily grind. Somewhere where they can gorge themselves on rocky road and danishes and watch all the Grey's Anatomy they want. Just saying.

Cakes and Cookies and Pie - Oh, My!

The bump has finally appeared, although in some clothes I still look like a heavy beer drinker. My soon-to-be favorite summer outfit? The mumu. Typically, these come in bold, bright colors or with some enlarged, Disney character on the front, but I will do my best to find it in black so I don't embarrass you. I can't promise I'll wear any underwear with it, though. The ribbing on the edge of my current undies are starting to cut into my skin like the string on a Christmas ham.

Speaking of ham, my recent cravings include baby back ribs and anything with mayo on it. Last night, I convinced Kevin that since we were low on butter, I might as well take one for the team and roll my corn on the cob in mayo (sprinkled with cayenne pepper and parmesan cheese, of course). He saw right through that and suggested I also top my ice cream with a dollup of Hellman's. Hmmm...don't tempt me.

20 Week Update - Halfway there!

It's a boy, and he is now the size of a cantaloupe! :) Very exciting, except for the fact that it was the one sex that I did not have a name for. I could really use some suggestions, but know that I prefer classic (but not overused) baby names - none of those weird, nouveau names like Sebastian, Brayden, or Mason.

I'm feeling pretty good, but my appetite is increasing, and I am now well over 12 lbs heavier than I was last Christmas. Yikes! The baby bump is not very noticeable because of the frumpy clothes I now wear, but if you are unlucky enough to catch me in a camisole, it's a pretty good size lump although it seems higher up than it should be (I must be carrying high?). I have occasional leg cramps, but it gives me a good excuse to sit on my ass and do nothing - which I have gotten REALLY good at doing.

17 Weeks and Well Read

Now that I am feeling more myself (despite frequent trips to the ladies and a grueling case of muffintop-itis), I have taken to educating myself on all things baby. Here are a couple of my favorites:

• Secrets of the Baby Whisperer
• Your Pregnancy Week by Week
• What to Expect When You're Expecting

I've also read a couple of fun novels about pregnant women who cope with the symptoms and say good-bye to the party-going/socialite self they once knew.

• Belly Laughs: The Naked Truth about Pregnancy and Childbirth by Jenny McCarthy
• Knocked Up: Confessions of a Hip Mother-to-be by Rebecca Eckler
  

Needless to say, my sisters will have a whole library of books to choose from when I'm done.

Cletus the Fetus

As I become more and more demanding and hormonal, I have an increasingly overwhelming desire to blame my disposition on the baby growing inside me. The ever so common "the devil made me do it" blame-game has morphed into "It wasn't me, it was Cletus-the-fetus", or "Pat wanted it". Because in truth, it is Pat (my currently androgynous, unborn child) who is dictating my every move. If I crave cottage cheese, snap at you without cause, or hog all the blankets and pillows, you can bet your ass Pat is behind it. So stay out of the way, and you can be sure that no harm shall come to you. Eat the last of my Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice cream, and it's open season, bitches.

A Womb with a View (not really relevent to my post but isn't it a cute title?)

At the suggestion of my sister, I am determined to make this latest post a sunnier, more positive (less-whiny) one.

Besides, now that the nausea and exhaustion has subsided, there is not much else to complain about - unless of course you count the relentless, two-week long migraine that it has been replaced with. But I digress... Positive, positive. OK, here's one: I am learning to accept my changing body. I've stopped complaining about feeling bloated and chubby mainly because I bought myself a pair of black stretch pants (sans stirrups) further affirming the fact that I have officially "let myself go". While I realize that these bottoms are currently and lovingly being referred to in the fashion world as "must have" leggings, come on, people. Let's just call a spade a spade... I wore these when I was 6 and accessorized them with a scrunchy and high-tops. Now I wear them so my continually expanding body can breathe (and so that when I get home from work, I no longer have to change into sweats). Yes, these little beauties double as both business and pleasure. The physical effort it took to change after work has been cut out and replaced with more couch time. Ahhhh, it's the little things...

I call bullshit

OK, I call serious bullshit. Whoever said pregnancy was bliss was lying through their teeth. Why? I don't know. Maybe they felt the need to encourage procreation so the world doesn't end up like that film, "Children of Men". Or maybe because the joy of childbirth was so overwhelming, they completely forgot about the previous 9 months. I don't know why, alright? But I'm here to set the record straight.

At every minute of the day, I am either gassy, bloated, nauseous, tired, cranky, weepy, or hungry. Right now, I am all of the above. While I sit here at my desk, I can't decide if I should bed down underneath it with an alarm clock (ala George Costanza) or haul ass to the nearest Chili's for a double order of baby back ribs. And last night, I failed to fight back the tears after watching a U.S. Senate campaign ad. A. Campaign. Ad. For some reason, it just tugged at the heart strings... I'm getting emotional just rehashing the memory (excuse me for a moment).

Ladies, do yourself a favor and become a lesbian. Save yourself!!

Shakin' it up!

Now that my mother has returned from snow-birding, she has begun rigorously preparing my nutrition and health regimen (aka: stuffing horse-pill sized vitamins down my gullet and banishing my recent fast food tendencies). Good bye, Five Guys Burgers and Fries. Hasta luego big macs and quarter-pounders. Au revoir Friendly's double-thick chocolate milkshake. My efforts to squeeze you in throughout the day as much as possible have been thwarted. There is a new milkshake in town. And there's only room for one of us (said with the voice of Wyatt Erp).

Thanks to my mother, my NEW milkshake is no longer a rich, creamy, chocolately-delicious piece of heaven. It now contains equal parts dry, crusted scoops of whey protein, Metamucil, and wheat grass. It is blended with fortified non-fat powdered milk and topped with a raw egg. A. Raw. Egg. It's time to plug my nose and toss 'er down the hatch. This baby better freaking love me.

Notorius P.I.G.

I love it when they call me big mama...wait - no, I don't. But am going to start resembling Biggie Smalls, if I don't keep my cravings under control.

I start out OK. Actually, I start out great! Like a seasoned Olympic gold-medalist, I prepare myself cereal, grapefruit, yogurt, trail mix, and dried fruit, all in 2 hr increments to keep my blood sugar in line and the nausea to a minimum. Later, I'm out making a routine bank deposit and then - BAM - the next thing you know I've devoured a big mac and a milkshake before I even make it out of the drive-thru parking lot. It's shameful. And something tells me if I keep it up, my baby's going to pop out looking like Baby Sinclair ("I'm the baby, gotta love me").

Hopefully, this crappy fast food won't appeal to me during my two remaining trimesters. In the meantime, I'm going to have to buy a maternity band so I can unbutton that top button and still remain inconspicuous.