It’s not just the mean and nasty stuff that bothers me either. Yesterday, my daughter showed me the “status” of some of her friends on Skype. Two of her friends have something that says they are “in a (sic) relashinship.” My question is “how can you be in one if you can’t even spell it?”

I happen to be friends with my daughter on Skype. I don’t allow her to have a cell phone at the very young age of 10. However, she does have an iPod Touch that she saved up for and bought herself. She has Skype on it and uses it primarily to communicate with her grandmother and grandfather who live hours away.  I like being able to text her at swim meets and when she’s at a friend’s house. I am constantly monitoring her communication on Skype, and I often don’t like what I see from some of her “friends.”

Yesterday, she had a friend telling her to change her status to reflect that she is also in a “relashinship.” She happens to have a boy who is a friend that she hangs out with a lot at school. Sometimes he calls her. I monitor those calls too. Mostly, they talk about cannibalism, funny movies they’ve seen and other random, harmless stuff. They don’t talk about their feelings. There’s no “I love you” or not drama. They are just two kids who get along really well and have a lot in common. They remind me a lot of me and my best guy friend in school.They frequently sit together at lunch or talk at recess. They are friends and it is a completely innocent friendship.   I see quite the opposite with some other girls who are her age.

The truth of the matter is that many girls her age like boys; my daughter likes to swim. Swim Girl spends at least five days a week in the pool which amounts to about eight hours minimum each week (not including meets). She practices “up” with the older age groups and she more than holds her own. A couple weeks ago, she heard a couple girls talking about her in the locker room after practice. They were talking about how hard she works and how much she deserves the successes she has had. She has found a really great group of girls at her swim club, a group that supports her accomplishments.  At this past weekend’s meet, one of the 13 year old girls came up to her after her 50 free race and gave her a high five. This 13-year old then turned to me and said, “She had an amazing race! She is only like two seconds off of my time and I’m 13! That was awesome!” I only wish she had more girls like that at school.

There are a few of them. One girl swims with her at her club and is quite good herself. The two times in recent weeks when Swim Girl has been attacked by the very jealous “You’re mean” girl, this friend has stuck up for her. They do exist; I have to keep telling myself that, because otherwise I would want to rip her out of school and just home-school her. I know you can’t protect your kid from nasty people. The truth is they exist and they’re everywhere. At some point, she’s going to have to learn how to deal with them; she actually did a pretty good job of it yesterday. I just wish she had a little more time to be a kid before her dad and I had to start having “insult class” with her at home, to teach her how to hold her own when girls are nasty. I wish I had a little more time before I had to be lying in bed at night thinking about how to insulate her from this crap.

While  many parents dread the day when their daughter moves on to middle school, I can’t wait. Diluting the nastiness is exactly what needs to happen; and I’m hoping that she will expand on the few good friends she has at school now and form a solid group that insulates her from all the drama. When  my daughter hears about someone else doing well with swimming, she congratulates them and she truly means it. She shakes hands with the girls who beat her at swim meets and the ones she beats too. I have raised a good little athlete, but I have also raised a good sport. Shame on the parents who haven’t.

I decided I would keep “Are You There, Chelsea?” on and keep an open mind. Then, one of the characters began talking about how her mother got diabetes after eating some cupcakes. She then made a joke about how she ran off with her diabetes doctor and it all worked out ok because he was able to catch it early, before she “lost her feet.”

This isn’t the first time I’ve heard comedies make “jokes” like this about diabetes. But it’s been a while since I’ve heard one this blatant and stupid. When you have a Type 1 Diabetic mother who has had the disease for over 30 years, it’s no laughing matter. In fact, I can’t think of a single person on the planet who thinks that having to get your feet amputated is funny. It’s not.

What also drives me insane is that these so-called witty comedies perpetuate the myth that sugar causes diabetes. It doesn’t. Diabetes is an aut0-immune disease that attacks the t-cells that make insulin. Sugar has nothing to do with it.

My Mom has adult-onset Juvenile diabetes. She got gestational diabetes when she was pregnant with my sister. It never went away. She is constantly attached to an insulin pump and a sensor that beeps when her blood sugar starts to drop or rise. She hasn’t slept through the night in years because of her sensor. She has had blood sugars so low that she has woken up to find herself in the hospital, or unaware of what she was doing. One time I came home from school to find my Mom unconscious due to a low blood sugar. It is a serious disease and is no laughing matter.

I had just a small taste of what my Mom’s everyday life is like when I was pregnant with Sassy and had gestational diabetes. I have never been more miserable. It gave me a whole new respect for my Mom and what she deals with every day. It gave me an entirely new appreciation for how much diabetes is a constant part of your life when you have it. Your fingers start to hurt from all the pricks. You have to think about everything you eat and drink all the time. There is no escaping it, not even for a minute; which makes me wonder even more why comedic writers find diabetes so very funny. It’s not funny at all, and perhaps they should find better writers for these shows if all they can come up with is tired “humor” about maladies that affect people’s everyday lives.

This is one show I won’t be giving a second chance.

I actually thought about creating work-out resolutions for this year. Last year, I was on my way to being super in shape. I was working out with my trainer and feeling strong and awesome. Then I got pregnant and started feeling nauseated 24/7 and all that working out business slowed until it stopped.

My trainer also moved to California. He’s now a celebrity trainer. Wayne Brady is one of his clients. Have you seen Wayne Brady lately? Clearly, I was getting him at a steal. And man, do I miss him. I’m thinking about asking him to record a work-out for me. (My sister never did cash in her gift certificate I bought her with him, and I didn’t get to use up my last two sessions since I was too nauseated to make it to the gym). Somehow though, without his physical presence pushing me to hold that plank for 10 more seconds, I picture myself watching the work-out with a handful of chocolates in my lap.

I still remember a lot of the exercises he taught me. The other day I was doing some boxer crunches and decided to follow that with a plank. Since there are no nursing shirts that property conceal “the girls” (or long arms-what is up with that?), and since I was trying to distract myself from the agony of the first plank in many months, I looked down and saw my stomach. . . hanging there.

I won’t go into details. It will suffice it to say that it’s going to take a lot more than crunches and planks to help this stomach. After three kids and the third who decided to stay 15 days beyond what he should have, it’s going to take a plastic surgeon to firm that sucker up. What makes me frustrated is that the muscles are returning. You can feel that they are tight. Standing up straight and tall with a slight arch in my back produces abs that look amazing, especially considering I’m just 10 weeks post-delivery. However, it’s not going to be possible to spend my whole summer standing straight up. When I bend, the illusion is gone. You won’t be seeing me do a plank without a long t-shirt on either. I’ve decided that no one’s skin goes back the way it’s supposed to without surgery; and if you’re one of those people whose stomach skin went back after having three kids without surgical intervention, then please do share how you made that happen. Otherwise, enter ruched swimsuit this summer.

I have to keep it in perspective though. I may not have perfect abs anymore, but I have three amazing kids. Baby Belated is sleeping through the night (and has been for weeks). Swim Girl has qualified for the Junior Olympics in five events already, with many more meets left to qualify in even more. Sassy is currently where she’s supposed to be at the end of the Kindergarten year when it comes to reading and writing. I have much to be thankful for and that stretch-marked skin is certainly worth it. It would just be nice if the reward for bringing such amazing little beings into the world would be a free pass on stretch marks. A little elasticity perhaps?

It would also be nice if I wasn’t feeling like such a total hermit. Having a baby in October turns me into a crazy person. I don’t want visitors who have runny noses. Little kids and their grabby hands around my baby scare me half to death.  Why does every stranger who approaches a baby always grab for their hands??? When Baby Belated was just a few weeks old, his sisters both had a terrible stomach virus. I almost locked the two of us in my room until the barfing stopped. It’s also hard to be social when you’re a nursing Mom. Let’s face it, not everyone is comfortable with my revealing method of feeding my son. Although I have a “Hooter Hider” (does just what it says it does), Baby Belated gets irritated with being under wraps while trying to eat his food. Imagine if someone covered you with a blanket when you were trying to eat your dinner! And as comfortable as I am with nursing my baby, it’s not comfortable being in a room with someone who is trying so damn hard to avert their eyes.

My Dad practically has a heart attack whenever I decide to nurse in front of him. Little kids stare at you like you’re a dirty magazine or get way too curious. Some people just get really uncomfortable to the point that they make me uncomfortable. Not everyone is as cool as the lady I sat beside at a swim meet a couple weeks ago. She carried on a conversation with me the whole time and never acted weird for a minute. I wish she could give others lessons. And let’s face it, how many nursing moms want to feel even MORE isolated by taking the baby into a different room. I spent half of our family Christmas party at my aunt’s house, hiding my hooters in her upstairs office. That’s not isolating at all.

I’m also in the new Mom wardrobe slump. Sweatpants with Uggs, a nursing shirt and a zip up sweatshirt is pretty much how I roll these days. The other day, I almost left the house in slippers. I was in the garage until I realized I needed actual shoes.  I might soon find myself on “What Not To Wear.” Perhaps that would be a challenge for Stacey and Clinton. Dress a nursing Mom in nursing clothes that doesn’t reveal the girls unless they’re supposed to be revealed during feedings AND camo a set of abs that is less than up to par.

Until I can figure out a way to fix it, I might as well just eat more. If my stomach is full it might just stretch out those marks. Because eating more won’t cause me guilt at all, right?

See, it’s never-ending.

Last Friday, my friend’s husband lost his battle with esophageal cancer after a 14 month all-out war. He was 37 years old. I met her husband a couple years ago and he was one of those people who could light up a room with his smile. Mr. BBM and I instantly liked him. You couldn’t not. Although we didn’t know each other well, whenever I saw him he addressed me with such an easy way that he made you feel like you had known each other forever. They have two children, ages 12 and 8. Their daughter swims with my daughter in the summer.

On Wednesday night, Mr. BBM and I waited in line for over an hour at the viewing. The line was out the door of the funeral home and to the corner. From what I hear, it was like that for over five hours. Yesterday, Mr. BBM and I attended his funeral. At both the viewing and the funeral, I watched my friend stand tall. There she was on Wednesday night, comforting everyone else it seemed. Throughout the last 14 months, I’ve seen her look tired. I’ve seen her lose weight as she watched her husband’s treatments fail, one after the other. But I’ve never seen her cry. I’ve never seen her anything less than rock solid.

In fact, when Sassy broke her leg in February and I had a pity party for myself about how I couldn’t even go to the grocery store anymore, it was this very friend who showed up on my doorstep with three bags of groceries for me.  In the summer when I stood around rubbing my sore back and hips from carrying around Baby Belated, it was she who stood behind me, rubbing my back when I least expected it.

After the funeral yesterday, I had a terrible headache from all the tears. Mr. BBM and I had a conversation about how pissed off we both were about the whole thing.  If all those people who attended the viewing and the funeral were praying for a cure, why didn’t one come? It’s times like this when I get so angry and wonder, why? I question my faith and what all of this means. I have a hard time being patient and waiting for an answer. I have a very difficult time understanding why prayers go unanswered. . .

I’ve spent months being worried about my friend, and I spent all week thinking about her too. She’s been so strong for her husband, her kids and for everyone else around her. How can she possibly continue being so strong? At some point, she has to grieve and I’m worried about her and how hard that’s going to be for her. Will she ever really be able to grieve for him, when she’s trying to be so strong for her kids?

And then it occurred to me that I’ve been praying all along for a cure for her husband, but I’ve also been praying hard for strength and courage for her. If all those people who circled the block for hours on Wednesday night were doing the same, maybe that explains why she’s been so strong. Perhaps, at least that part of my prayers was answered.

So if that’s the case, then I hope this Christmas, that we can add even more people to the prayers for my friend and her family. I hope you’ll join me. When something terrible like this happens, it makes you appreciate your family that much more.  Merry Christmas to you and your families.

You haven’t heard from me in about a month. This time around, the last time around, I’ve been spending some of those nap times snuggling with my little man. I’ve decided that I won’t, at the end of my life, be looking back and saying, “I wish I had spent more time cleaning and organizing,” or “building my blog readership.”   I want to look back on my life and know that I soaked in those minutes with my infant son, every last one of them. I don’t want to miss a coo, a smile, or one of those cute little noises he makes when he’s curling up his legs and arching his back in a mega-stretch.

So, I’ve been a little preoccupied with this. . .

On Thursday, October 20th, Mr. BBM and I arrived at the hospital. After waiting it out until 42 weeks, there was no sign that the baby was coming on his own. After an appointment on Wednesday revealed I was only 3 cm dilated and 50-60% effaced, an induction was the only option. I was encouraged that my midwife said the baby’s head was at 0 station. I was hoping that would speed labor along.

Clearly experienced parents, we arrived with only one bag and a bag of sandwiches for after the delivery. We were quickly escorted to our labor and delivery room and I was less than thrilled. The walls were this pale awful green and the bathroom had a big shower, but no tub. A water birth, this would not be.

I changed into the hospital gown I was given and they started the monitors. I was told that the induction would begin around 6 p.m., but nothing in the hospital is ever on time. Mr. BBM watched the contraction monitor and it was showing contractions every 7 to 10 minutes. It was nice to know that the many weeks of contractions I had been feeling were not just in my head.

Finally, my midwife arrived. She had been monitoring me from the desk. If my contractions had been any closer together, she would not have been able to induce me with “miso.” Pitocin would have been the drug of choice. I was so thankful they weren’t any closer together. Pitocin. . .been there, done that and never had a plan to revisit that. My midwife placed the miso behind my cervix. I was 3 cm dilated and about 50-60% effaced. I had a feeling it was going to be a long night.

It wasn’t long after the miso was put in place that I started having some serious contractions that were pretty close together, as in 2-4 minutes apart. I had to remain on the monitors for an hour and I spent that time trying to close my eyes and rest.  At one point, a  nurse came in and told me they could give me something to help me sleep. I asked what the options were and when she got to injected dilaudid, I got annoyed. They were all told I wanted to do things naturally. That would have made me unconscious and the baby groggy after birth. That’s the drug they gave to Mr. BBM after emergency abdominal surgery. I told her “no thanks.” After an hour or so I was finally able to get up and walk.

Mr. BBM and I started the first of many laps around the labor and delivery floor. Just like with Sassy’s birth, I was the only one doing laps. After a couple hours of laps, the contractions were getting wicked enough that walking was becoming really difficult. Still though, the breaks between contractions were nice and every once in a while I would get a 4 minute break. This, although a nice reprieve, also had me scared. I kept asking Mr. BBM to keep track of the contractions. I was afraid at several points, that they were slowing down and would just stop. Clearly, the weeks of contractions that went nowhere had me traumatized. Still though, there was much laughing as we did our laps. When I was in labor with Sassy, during a particularly wicked contraction, I had actually drooled/spit on the floor at one point. Mr. BBM was waiting for a repeat.

During one of our laps, a med student approached me and introduced herself. She asked if she could be present at the birth and I agreed. She was giddy with joy when I said, “yes.” During one of the many laps I walked, I heard my midwife talking to her about natural child birth. I’m sure some of those nurses thought I was a freak for going without the drugs; to others, I was a rockstar, same with Sassy.

For 15 minutes out of every hour, I had to be on the monitors and they showed a strong labor pattern almost from the start. I used those 15 minutes to refuel and ate lemon ice, jello and drank tons of water and juice. I knew I needed to do it early, because when things get rough, you don’t feel like doing anything except surviving.

My midwife suggested I get in the shower and try to relax. The nurses set it up for me and I spent a lot of time in the shower with the hot water focused on my back. Eventually I was feeling water-logged and like I just needed to sit down for a bit so I got out and was busy telling Mr. BBM how good it felt to just rinse off and feel nice and clean.

It was around midnight now and my midwife came in to check my progress. I was happy to hear that I was 80-90% effaced, but only being 5 cm was a huge disappointment. My midwife was encouraging, telling me that being that effaced would mean faster progress. I wasn’t buying it. She brought in a birthing ball and recommended I contort myself around the ball. It was tough. There I was on my bed, with my left knee on the bed, my body bent over the birthing ball and my right leg up around the right side of the ball. The baby needed to move into position with his back against the front of my belly and he wasn’t rotated there yet. During the rough contorted contractions, Mr. BBM rubbed my lower back and my midwife massaged my shoulders.

My midwife decided she would get everything ready for the baby’s arrival. She said she had a feeling that when it was time, it was going to be time quickly. She wanted to be ready. At the time, I was thinking that I hoped she was right but I wasn’t convinced myself.

After spending so much time in the shower and feeling all nice and clean, I weathered about two contractions leaning on the birthing ball before we all heard a pop and my water broke. I couldn’t help but feel a little happy that even though I was being induced, my water had broken on its own. I immediately asked if the fluid was clear or not. When you’re carrying around a 42 week gestation baby, you worry about meconium a lot. There wasn’t even a trace of it and the relief I felt was huge. Soon after my water broke, I began to feel kicks in different areas. My midwife confirmed that the baby had moved into position. I wanted to keep him there so I went back in the shower and spent the beginning of transition in there weathering the contractions with help from the wall hand rails. It felt good to rinse off again.

I came out after quite some time in the shower, and planted myself on the birthing ball. Mr. BBM moved the pillows to the edge of the bed for me and between nasty contractions, I rested my head and tried to sleep.  The shower and birthing ball were quickly becoming my best friends. My midwife had also shown Mr. BBM a wonderful little trick to do while I weathered contractions. Using the heel of his palm, he pushed it hard into my lower back/hip area and simultaneously pulled the knee on the same side back towards the pressure. It took the edge off the contractions. Between that, my breathing, and visualizing myself sitting on a warm beach, I was surviving. I just hoped it wasn’t going to be much longer.

I knew I was going to feel worse laying down in my bed, but I needed a break from being upright. I got into bed and settled in on my left side. I told Mr. BBM I was feeling nauseated. I was also starting to shake a lot. I knew this was a sign of transition; I had been shaking since I was in the shower, but I was still in denial about it.  I closed my eyes and tried to take each contraction, one at a time. I couldn’t allow myself to think about the next one before I could get through the one I was riding out. I heard Mr. BBM say, “well, we’re not going to have a 1 a.m. baby” (like our other two). I felt like I was getting close but I still had the 5 cm in the back of my head. I hoped it would be over soon. It was now 2 a.m.

At about 2:05 a.m., I had a wicked contraction and as it peaked, I felt the baby begin his journey out. It took me by surprise because with the other two, I had always felt such an urge to push. This baby just decided he was coming. I immediately started telling Mr. BBM that something had changed. They needed to come check me immediately. I hit the nurse call button and told them I was having a lot of pressure and that I needed to be checked now. I must have sounded pretty serious because my midwife and a bunch of nurses came running in seconds later.

My midwife arrived with her team of nurses and the med student. I could hear her telling everyone that she was glad she readied all the gowns and things she would need a couple hours earlier. In my head, I kept thinking, “why is she gowning up before checking to see if this is really it?” I guess I was still in denial. I heard her say something about pushing the lip of my cervix back and then she was telling me to push when I felt like it. I couldn’t believe I was already pushing. The next contraction came and I pushed as hard as I could. It felt different than with the girls. I felt like I was pushing out a boulder. I made a decision then and there, that I was getting this baby out as fast as possible. I couldn’t stand the pain anymore. With each push, I started throwing up too. They weren’t prepared for that so my midwife told me to just spit it out. A minute later, someone brought me a cup.  I was really glad I had been on my left side. If I had been on my back that would have been even nastier.

All my showers had been for nothing. I was turning into the girl from “The Exorcist.” After about five contractions, my midwife told me to reach down and feel my baby. I felt his head, which was finally out and knew the next contraction and push was going to be brutal. I pulled back on my legs, with help from the nurse and Mr. BBM and decided he was coming out with this contraction. Enough was enough. The shoulders were brutal, but after a lot of yelling, groaning, and some throwing up, he was out. I had pushed for only 8 minutes.

I sat up a little and grabbed my baby son and pulled him up onto my chest. I heard my midwife say something like “see, he’s about 7.5-8 lbs. He’s not too big.” His body was pink but his face was purple and he wasn’t making a lot of noise and didn’t seem to be breathing like he should. I kept asking if he was ok. My midwife assured me he was fine and allowed the cord to continue to pulse.  As they continued suctioning his mouth out, and as I rubbed his back, he started to pink up. He seemed to know right where to look and we spent the next 10 minutes or so just staring at each other and studying each other’s faces. He was so calm and adorable. His skin, completely free of vernix after cooking those extra 15 days, felt warm and like velvet. Within minutes, he was trying to nurse right through my hospital gown.

After delivering the placenta, they decided to weigh and measure him and get him swaddled. When they put him on the scale, everyone was shocked. 8 lbs. 15 oz. My midwife didn’t see that one coming. Neither did I. The nurse said something about needing to check his blood sugar since he was so big. If I hadn’t been so exhausted from the previous two hours, I would have told them to use common sense. He cooked for an extra two weeks; he’s fine. And of course, I was right. The baby’s temperature was also a bit elevated; but the midwife told them to hold off and wait a little while. I had spent an awful lot of time in the hot shower. His temperature came back to normal in no time.

Swaddled and content, they handed him back to me and I spent the next two hours just staring at him, nursing him and getting to know my son, the third baby that I had wanted but didn’t think was possible, the third baby that started as an “oops” had turned into a “meant to be.”

My son was born on the 50th anniversary of his grandmother’s death. My Dad lost his Mom when he was only 10 years old. This little man may have arrived “late” to me, but to my extended family, he arrived right on time. . . right in time to replace a bad memory with one so amazing, so very good.

I brought him home from the hospital one week ago today and we are already so completely in love with him. This is just the beginning of all the wonderful memories we’ll all be making together.

Welcome to the world, my baby meant-to-be.

I see the midwife this afternoon. She’ll probably offer to try stripping the membranes again, a pleasant experience (insert a heap of sarcasm) where they basically go elbow deep and try to separate the bag of waters from your cervix. It’s supposed to start contractions. I’ve had it done twice this time. It resulted in me feeling absolutely miserable for an entire day. I felt abused and in no condition to push a kid out the same way. Today, I’m going to decline. What’s the point? Tomorrow is induction day. I’d rather go into it not feeling like I’ve been violated.

The other theme song that would be part of my “musical” is Alanis Morissette’s “Ironic.” Do you understand how rare it is to get through a third pregnancy without having gestational diabetes after having it the second time around?  It rarely happens. I thought I was home free. I thought I had nothing holding me back from having a birth center birth. And here I am, on induction eve, facing a hospital birth. I really thought that the third time around, I would get to do things my way. I really thought, after passing my due date, that I had 14 days to get going on my own and that it would happen. It had to happen! It hasn’t.

95% of moms at my midwife’s practice go into labor within 10 days of their due date, on their own. 95%. Does it surprise you that I’m part of the 5%. For me, I guess it shouldn’t. I’m the girl who has the screw back out of her leg after an ACL surgery. My Mom should have named me “Murphy” because when it comes to medical stuff, I’m a walking “Murphy’s Law.”

I woke up this morning at 4:44 a.m. and couldn’t go back to sleep, as per usual. I was feeling sorry for myself and then I thought about something else. Boo-freaking-hoo for me. There are friends of mine who desperately wanted a baby, who would feel fortunate to be in my situation, 13 days post-dates and about to meet my baby tomorrow (hopefully tomorrow). I have several friends fighting cancer right now who would probably welcome the kind of hospital visit I’m going to have over the multiple unpleasant ones they are always having. And when all is said and done, no matter how he comes into this world, I’ll have my baby.

It just goes to show that having a birth plan is pretty much a waste of time. Nothing ever goes exactly as planned.  Here’s hoping that the 13+ days I waited after my due date to meet this baby will count as “time served” and the labor will go quickly. The stubborn nature of this little one should help me figure out an appropriate blog name for him so I can introduce him to the blog world soon. Maybe I’ll call him “Baby Belated.”

I feel like my body is failing me. I keep wondering if, because I’ve been induced twice, my body just expects it to be that way again. Maybe my body’s natural ability to get things rolling doesn’t work anymore. My evening primrose oil is gone; so is my red leaf raspberry tea (my third box of it). No amount of walking, pressure point hitting or consuming of supposedly labor-inducing foods and supplements is doing a thing. As each day goes by, I’m getting more and more concerned about the labor, how big this baby will be, if I can make it through without him destroying me in the process and of course, the baby’s health and well-being. I know that there are certain risk factors that go up after 41 weeks. I’ve read all I care to read about meconium aspiration. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I’m getting a little worried.

Last night, I was having some stronger contractions but they still weren’t getting closer together or getting more intense. Then I started having hot flashes. I’ve been having them since Friday. Of course, I consulted almighty Google to see if this can be a sign of early labor and it can be. However, this morning, I’m more convinced of the fact that I could be simultaneously pregnant and starting to go through early menopause.  I’ve had so many signs that labor is right around the corner. . . and then they disappear. It’s getting to be really emotionally and physically exhausting.

In addition to all of that, I’m starting to feel like I’m going to get robbed again. With Fly-girl, I was scared into having an induction that was largely unnecessary. The entire labor experience was full of unpleasantness and threats of a c-section by my doctor who clearly would have rather been sleeping than be inconvenienced by me. The experience, although it ended with a healthy baby, left a lot to be desired. I would have done a lot of things differently, which is why I decided to go to a midwife with Sassy.

I had planned on an out-of-hospital birth with her, but gestational diabetes robbed me of that. Although my midwife did a wonderful job of trying to insure a birth experience in the hospital that resembled a birth center birth as closely as possible, it still involved an IV port that was annoying and painful, pressure to get Sassy her first vaccine in the hospital and a fight to take her home when the midwife said we could go home on the same day I gave birth, and the old-school pediatrician disagreed.

This time, I was able to avoid the gestational diabetes and despite the fact that this pregnancy was largely unplanned (although not unwelcome), I felt like it was my opportunity to get the birth experience I always wanted: a birth center birth with as little intervention as possible. I can feel it slipping through my fingers now as Thursday evening looms so soon in front of me.

If I do end up at the hospital, I’m six years older than I was the last time. I keep telling myself that I won’t allow a pediatrician to reduce me to tears (even with all the postpartum hormonal issues); and if my baby and I are fine, I’m getting us out of there as soon as possible. I’ve been trying to convince myself that being induced at 5 p.m. instead of in the morning, is a good thing. Yeah, I’m going to be exhausted, but my midwife will probably be there the whole time, not stuck in office hours at the birth center while she’s updated of my progress via the phone like last time. I can try to find the silver lining, but right now, I’m feeling upset, angry and like Thursday will be here all too soon. I really hope I’m wrong.

So does this:

Can you see what I see? Two closed little eyes, a squished nose in between and a little arm that is across the mouth and smashing into his little nose.

Today at the amniotic fluid index ultrasound, everything was 100% fine. He has plenty of fluid in there. He’s perfectly comfy and cozy. He may or may not be eating his arm. Once they were done measuring fluid, they moved in for the “fun” shots of his face. In 2D, they were pointing things out to me and asking me if I could see them. Honestly, it looked like a profile picture of Jesus with a long pointy and curled witch nose and possibly a beard. I told them so. They moved to 4D and it suddenly became clear what I was looking at; and boy was that part fun. Right away, I said, “He looks like Sassy!” and my Mom, who was there with me, agreed. The techs think that he is also bald. Usually hair shows up white on the 4D ultrasounds and nothing showed up on his head at all. This will be my second bald kid if that’s the case.

After the ultrasound was over, I went upstairs for the non-stress test. Right away, there were accelerations. In fact, there were so many that they just needed me to stay on a little longer in order to get a minute of baseline. I told my Mom he was so active because he is in there lining the exit with sandbags. He’s definitely cozy and not willing to come out.

I’ve been having lots of contractions since last night, many that have continued throughout the day. I’m trying not to get my hopes up and am instead just going with the flow. Yesterday, I considered going the castor oil route. Today, I decided it’s not worth it. He’ll come when he’s ready, or he’ll come when they induce me next week. For now, he’s healthy and I’m managing the best I can. That’s all I can ask for. I know the midwives think that ultrasounds are largely unnecessary; but I have to say, seeing that little face today gave me a definite mood boost. He’ll be here soon; I can wait.

Everyone’s advice to me while I was at the mall yesterday was, “Keep walking,” like I hadn’t just spent three hours walking around the mall. When your hip bones have loosened so much so that the only thing keeping your legs from crumbling to the ground is the skin that surrounds them, “keep walking” is not what you want to hear. I also didn’t really want to hear the three women speaking Spanish who were clearly discussing my stomach. It wasn’t in a nice way either; it was in a snarky way and less than three feet from me. They also cut me in line as I waited to get another size for Big I. It made me wish I could say in Spanish, “Well, my belly isn’t nearly as big as your a$$.” I considered having a “Bridesmaids” moment where I just started rattling off Spanish words. . . “azul. . . hola. . . ” with an attitude. You can’t even imagine how much I wished I was standing there with one of my many Spanish speaking friends. Instead I just pretended I knew they were saying awful things and gave them evil, “I will follow you to the parking lot and take you out” glares. Some might say I was being paranoid or just miserable because of my current state of being; but when Big I, who lives in la-la land, notices, you feel validated in your wanting to kill and maim.

In case you haven’t figured it out, I’m pretty much over the whole “advantages of being 40 + weeks pregnant” thing. The positive outlook I had post massage the other day is long gone. You try having a killer contraction and sneezing at the same time. Bad things happen. Trust me. It’s hard to be positive when you feel like you’ve been reduced to an incontinent invalid.

My Mom’s friend had a really fantastic idea for me. She said that anytime someone asks me “Didn’t you have that baby yet?” I should charge them a dollar. At the rate I’m getting asked, I would have a college fund ready to go, enough for Harvard, by the time he’s born.

Today at the grocery store, where old people gawk at me like I’m Hester Prynne, I bought tropical fruit to eat. Tomorrow I will add it to the list of crap that’s supposed to send you into labor and doesn’t work. So far. . .

• Evening primrose oil (both ways if you know what I’m talking about, and if you don’t, please don’t ask)
• Red leaf raspberry tea (have consumed enough of the stuff to fill the Chesapeake Bay)
• The thing that got me in this predicament in the first place
• Walking, like a lot
• Massage with accupressure point stuff
• Foot massage
• Eggplant Parmesan
• Fresh basil
• Pineapple
• Baths
• Spicy food
• Excessive cleaning (mopping, dusting, vacuuming, reorganizing every closet in the house, etc. etc. etc.)
• Trying NOT to think about it.
• Trying TO think about it and telling myself I CAN go into labor on my own.
• Even prayer. . . hey God, what’s up with that???

Tonight is a full moon and tomorrow rain is moving into the area. Perhaps Mother Nature will have something to say about this inhabitant of my body. I’m starting to feel like Sigourney Weaver. You’re cooked baby; move out. At the rate I’m going, he may come out with teeth and possibly talking. Heck, he might even be able to walk.