Eviction Notice
It is hereby stated, on the 20th day of September, that the lease is officially up despite the fact that the original lease agreement expires on 10/6. This is a formal eviction notice for the occupant of my stretched out, sad and tired uterus. This eviction notice is being issued due to the following reasons:
- Occupant is causing daily lower back pain equivalent to an elephant tap-dancing on my spine.
- Occupant has moved into the basement regions of the “apartment” and is therefore causing frequent trips to the bathroom at ungodly hours, as well as whole body jolts from head butts to certain nether-regions.
- Occupant is dead-set on kicking down the “walls” and doing damage to the exterior structures of the rented space (i.e. Quit kicking my ribs already and if you could stop making me feel like I have to barf every time I eat, that would be fab. Also, the constant burping you’re causing is just wrong. I was not born to be a truck driver.)
- Occupant is encroaching on other residents of the “building,” including the bladder and stomach; both never did anything to you, so what’s your problem anyway???
I went from being told to “keep my legs crossed for two more weeks” to “I have two weeks left until this baby is officially due and I am just plain miserable.” For the past few nights, I’ve had contractions and low back pain for hours at a time.
Then they just stop, only to start up again the next day. This little man is already a player. He is totally messing with me.
I started taking evening primrose oil. I’m drinking red leaf raspberry tea. I ate a basil leaf the size of my head today for lunch. I drowned my mahi-mahi in a sriracha sauce the other night. I’m being active and am not just hanging out on the couch waiting for things to get rolling. Every linen closet in my house has been organized. The baby’s room is ready for a new little occupant and my bathroom has been cleaned top to bottom.
The other day, I watched a video on acupressure points on the back of the heel and on the inside of the shin. I even watched a video of some very pregnant girl dancing to “Ice, ice baby.” Apparently her moves sent her into labor about 8 hours later. If I could find my old “Vanilla Ice” CD, I would so be doing that right now.
I know I should be patient, and that I won’t be getting any more sleep after this little guy has made his entrance; but I guess I’m just nervous that I won’t go on my own. I’ve had to be induced the past two times (although once was on my due date so Sassy never really even had a chance to come out on her own). The midwives will let me go up to two weeks post-date which would put me at 10/20. That seems SO much further away than 10/6. I am praying that the dream I had in the summer that said 9/17 was the day, wasn’t really 10/17, because ohmygodicannotmakeituntiltheniwilldiegetthisbabyoutnowplease. I’ve been told by my one midwife that third babies do not need to be induced. I’m praying she’s right. I almost feel like mentally, I’m holding myself up. All the signs are there, but perhaps I don’t believe I can go into labor on my own.
So, if you should happen to see me in person, please avoid saying things to me like “You’re still pregnant!?!” and “You’re not in labor yet!?!” I kind of hate the whole overtly obvious statements thing. Plus, I haven’t kicked anything or anyone in a long time, and I just might choose to kick you.
Yeah, I’m that miserable.
He Won’t Fall Out Right?
On Wednesday, at 34 weeks and 6 days pregnant, my midwife told me to keep my “legs crossed for two more weeks.” Directed at someone who has had to be induced twice, this seemed like an odd request, unless you consider the circumstances under which she told me this bit of advice.
Every pregnant lady knows that part of your pre-natal visits include your healthcare professional measuring your belly while you hang out on your back. The number of centimeters measured is supposed to be equal to the number of weeks pregnant you happen to be. For the last month, I’ve been measuring a half week to a week ahead of schedule. The last time I was there, two weeks ago, I measured at 33.5. Yesterday I measured 31. Babies tend not to shrink during this stage, so immediately I questioned that number.
“How is that possible when I’ll be 35 weeks tomorrow?” I asked her. She asked me to bend my knees and placed her hands on my abdomen, below the bump. “Oh my God” she said. (Totally not what you want to hear when a midwife has her hands on you.) A couple weeks ago, the same midwife told me that the baby’s head was down. Yesterday, she told me that the baby’s head is basically locked and loaded.
When she was measuring me from the bottom of my baby bump to the top, she was only really measuring the little guy from the base of his neck down to his butt. She rearranged the tape measure and I measured almost right on. I don’t mean to get too personal and all, but let’s just suffice it to say that there is a reason I’m getting up to pee three times a night now. There is a reason I feel like I’m getting head-butted in the cervix on a near constant basis. It’s because I am; he is waaaaaay down there.
As a comparison, Big I “floated” until I was pretty much ready to push her out (after over 14 hours of labor). Sassy did almost the same thing. She wasn’t “engaged” at all until I was in the throes of 15 hours of labor.
Today I am 35 weeks and 1 day and this baby has assumed the position. I’ve been praying all along that I don’t have to be induced this time; now my prayers have switched to “Please just let me make it to 36 weeks and 6 days” (the earliest the midwives will deliver me at the birth center).
It has gotten to the point where if I just push on the little guy’s butt (which is hanging out close to my ribs and all up in my lungs’ business), I actually feel like I’m going to push him out. Fun stuff.
So I guess if there was ever a time to start taking bets on when he’ll actually arrive and how big and long he’ll be, the time is now. Place your guesses below and the winner will get the best prize of all. . . . bragging rights. If you’d like to take a guess on his name, you can do that too. Knock yourselves out.
7 Weeks and 2 Days to Go. . . Not that I’m Counting
Despite the smile, I am beyond tired of being pregnant.
32 weeks and change
After surviving the summer swimming season with heat waves galore, I figured the end of the summer would be fairly easy to tolerate. Maybe I’m just whiny, old or a combination of the two, but the constant stretching pains in the rib area are getting a bit annoying and my back is really hurting if I spend any length of time standing. I was talking to a friend the other day who said she always felt like her babies hung out “near the emergency exit” and that is very true of me this time around. When you can push on the little butt that is hanging out near your rib cage and you feel a head butt in the bladder, it’s cool in one way but also starts to make you feel like you could be the next Sigourney Weaver. Where’s my spaceship? And no, you can’t touch my belly unless I invite you to touch my unborn baby’s butt. Back off, no seriously.
Don’t get me wrong. This part of pregnancy is neat in so many ways. My stomach is changing shape almost constantly. I feel the little guy get ridiculously strong hiccups at least three times a day. Last night, I told Mr. BBM I was fairly certain he had discovered my hip bones because it truly felt like he was poking at them and pushing at them from the inside out. He is so present in my world already and I’m getting really excited to meet him. I’m just not so excited about having to go through the actual labor part again.
When I was in labor with Sassy, I hit a point where I looked at Mr. BBM and told him, “Now I remember. It’s all coming back to me.” It’s funny how new baby cries wipe away the remembrance of transition during labor and allow you to get pregnant all over again. Lately though, the nerves about going through it again are rising up to attack me. The other night, I had a horrible dream that I had to have a C-section. I know that plenty of people have them and that some people even request them, but having a C-section is my biggest personal nightmare. In my dream, they didn’t have time to put up the drapes so I spent the whole time, strapped to the table, staring beyond my forehead trying not to look. I woke up from the dream crying and sweating. The birth center where I go has a C-section rate of less than 10%, so my stress about this issue is really unnecessary; but you can’t help going there when you’re approaching the end of pregnancy.
Tomorrow, I have another midwife appointment and they will be doing another blood draw to find out if drinking liquid nails has brought my iron levels up to a point where I can truly start packing for and planning for an out-of-hospital birth. The extra loads of little laundry have already started. 51 days to go. . .
29 Weeks and One More Obstacle
A couple weeks ago, I felt like I hit a wall. All the things I could normally get done started being a whole lot more difficult to get done. Getting through a couple loads of laundry was just brutal. I figured it was third trimester exhaustion, combined with being completely wiped out from sitting at (or, more likely, running around like a crazy woman at) swim meets in 90 degree heat all the time. I figured it was completely normal.
Yesterday, I went for my midwife appointment and found out that although I passed my glucose tolerance test with flying colors, my CBC results came back with a less than glowing report. In order to have an out of hospital birth, one’s hemocrit level must be at 33%. When I started my pregnancy, I was at 35%. Now? 29%. I thought I had tackled all hurdles to having this baby at the birth center, but I have one more to go. Apparently eating six pickled eggs a day should have been a habit I kept up with past the first trimester. That might have helped to keep my numbers up.
The midwife explained how one can feel when you are anemic and suddenly I realized that the physical exhaustion that feels like it is weighing my arms down lately is not normal third trimester nonsense. It’s probably because of the anemia. Same with how dizzy I got while just sitting around last week and with the fact that I need a nap every two hours. We won’t even talk about how irritable I have been (You did read my last post right?) She told me to start taking additional iron. . . bring on the constipation, and that we’ll retest in a couple weeks. Goody, more blood draws.
Although I keep hearing people call me “adorable,” the only “able” word that comes to mind right now is “miserable.” My belly button is gone. The surrounding area itches like crazy and is all rashy. The minute I stand up, I get head-butted in the bladder and I seriously can’t eat over my plate anymore without feeling like I am crushing this baby. Couple that with a nasty heat wave during our most crazy swimming week of the year and you’ve got one very unhappy mama-to-be-times-three.
Right now I can’t even imagine my skin stretching any more than it already has; but I know I’m in for it. If you happen to be looking for me at the swim meets this weekend, where we’re expecting a heat index of like 105, you might want to direct your attention to the baby pool. That’s where I’ll be, tossing and turning like a beached whale, just trying to cool my body off the only way I know how without having to deck enter myself into a race. It’s the “baby pool” right? There aren’t usually signs restricting the lower end of the age bracket; and since my baby is about negative 11 weeks old, I should be good to go.
Antithebliss
When I was newly pregnant, nauseated 24/7 and basking in a nice concoction of “ohmygodImpregnantagain” and excitement, I had a conversation with a friend about the trimesters of pregnancy. The first one is just miserable if you’re anything like me. I spent the entire first trimester eating almost nothing but pickled eggs, and turning green at the slightest hint of a coffee smell. The second trimester, my friend called, “bliss.” The 4-6 month mark is where you’re still small enough that your belly isn’t a hindrance and the nauseated business is coming to an end. You feel like you’re getting somewhere and the shock of it all has somewhat worn off and has instead been replaced with hopeful anticipation. . .
I reached 28 weeks today and if the 2nd trimester is “bliss,” then the third can only be described as none other than “antithebliss.”
Sure, you’re excited that the countdown is on. Yes, those sassy Braxton-Hicks contractions are a reminder that the end is indeed near. But right about now is when I swear I could rip someone’s eyeballs out or worse. Don’t even try me.
My back has started to ache, pretty much 24/7 (sort of like the nausea of the first trimester, constant and annoying). This time around, my hips are absolutely killing me. It’s like I can actually feel them separating and getting ready for the big event. And if that isn’t bad enough, any phantom pains left over from the knee surgery of last summer, are amplified and making all my joints feel post-surgical. The baby is also waking me up almost every night with either crazy kicks, stomach-altering stretches that make me feel like he is literally pushing himself off of my bed or hiccups that are frequent and strong. And if you think I’m cranky, meet my husband.
Today I got up early and picked Big I up from swim practice, then rushed home for a quick shower before a friend stopped by to make a Miche Bag purchase. As soon as she left, I piled the girls into the car and was off on a 45 minute drive to meet up with my Miche distributor for lunch. On the way home, I realized I’d be driving past the appliance place where we bought our refrigerator. Our air filter has been on red for weeks now; as in “CHANGE ME NOW PEOPLE!” so I marveled at the fact that I had actually remembered something for a change and ran in to pick one up. I told them the model number and my name; they handed me the filter and I was off. I then found a discontinued crib at an awesome price and bought it, added a few items to my “sprinkle” registry, and then drove the new crib, in pieces, home. I then unloaded it from the van, piece by piece and carried it up to the baby’s soon-to-be-room, right now the most disastrous area in the house. Then I threw dinner in the oven, while doing laundry, watering the plants outside, and reminding myself that I really needed to sit down at some point. I got my break for all of 15 minutes while I inhaled my dinner before cleaning it all up. A few minutes later, I was sitting out on the patio, watching the girls play when Mr. BBM arrived home. He appeared at the sliding glass door holding the air filter and then proceeded to berate me for getting “the wrong one.” And why did I buy it anyway when he can just get it online?
Perhaps because the light has been red for like EVER and I thought I was doing us both a favor.If it can be purchased online so easily, then why didn’t he just do it? Chalk it up to a long day at work; but it wasn’t just tonight.
Last night, I got a much-needed back rub, most of the time with one hand while he scrolled through his Android with the other.
Yes, it’s different being pregnant the third time around, in many ways. And yes, I’ve been there, done that before, but that doesn’t make it any easier to get through it. In fact, when you’re going through it, many years older, with a 10-year old and a 5-year old already in the house, it makes it a whole lot harder.
I did get a taste of “bliss” this past Saturday, when my midwife called and said that I had passed my second 1-hour glucose challenge with flying colors. I seem to have avoided gestational diabetes this pregnancy, which means I can have this baby at the birth center, avoid all those bothersome fetal non-stress tests and sticking myself all the time, and along with all of that, stop worrying about it. Tomorrow I’m scheduled for my Rho-Gam shot and that is the very last time anyone should be sticking me for the duration of the pregnancy. There’s something to be happy about for sure.
Don’t get me wrong. Overall I am happy and excited that in about 12 weeks or less, I’m going to meet this little man. It’s just hard to be a happy pregnant girl all the time when you’re spending so much of your life doing crazy plie squats with cranky hips to pick up random little girl flip-flops so as to avoid squishing your baby, when the baby’s room hasn’t even been started and you just don’t know when you’re even going to get to it, and when your husband seems to be nearly as hormonal and unreasonable as you happen to be.
I’m warning you all; steer clear of me unless you’re offering up a complimentary back rub, volunteering to paint the baby’s room, or have an air filter for my refrigerator that actually works. Otherwise, I can’t guarantee I won’t bite.
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