Announcing the arrival of Henry Jett Butler!
Yes. He’s here. I’m here, too, stuck in the hospital for at least another day, due to delivering via c-section after 20 hours of labor.
Wow, did the delivery ever suck. Sorry, but it did. I mean, results were – obviously – totally worth it, but the experience itself? Yikes.
So, as I mentioned a couple of posts ago, I heard my bag of waters pop, and it kept leaking after that initial gush for the next hour or so while I waited for my doctor to call back. Once he did, he sent me on to the hospital so I could get hooked up to antibiotics right away. We stayed at home long enough to shower, and then headed over, albeit with a few curses since we’d both forgotten that the Brooklyn Bridge was closed to Manhattan-bound traffic, so we ended up taking an unfamiliar route.
Up on the L&D floor, they tested to make sure I hadn’t just wet myself, and then immediately put me into a birthing room instead of making me wait it out at a triage station. Which was nice. At this point, I was the only one on the floor, so I had LOTS of nurses/residents coming to check on me all the time.
And nothing was happening. All hooked up to a fetal monitor & a bag of antibiotics for an hour or so, and nothing.
No contractions whatsoever. So they called my doc, who asked me to go on Pitocin. I objected, because the resident had done an internal and I knew I really wasn’t even starting to dilate, but my OB told me that we were now on a countdown clock, due to the broken waters, so we had to get moving. The nurse I’d bonded with promised to increase my pitocin dose slowly so that we could get the best hits with the lowest amount of meds. I agreed to the pitocin.
Which, at the time seemed reasonable – ah hell, I’d probably do it again with the same info at hand – but proved to be a mistake. Not because the pitocin contractions were so miserable, but because of an unexplained hospital policy that pitocin patients are not allowed to leave the bed, or their monitoring belts even for long enough to use the toilet. I was still only having contractions that felt like mild menstrual cramps, but by this point in the IV I had to pee, and I didn’t want to pee crouching in my bed, I wanted to use a toilet like a big girl, damnit. Slight tiff with the resident on call here, who called my doctor because somehow having MY doctor explain that it was against hospital policy would impress me more? Hah.
So no bathroom, no moving around, no warm shower, no birthing ball, no ability to change my own fucking position. This was the real misery of this labor, in the end, and THIS is what I kind of blame for the necessity of the c-section. But anyway…
Throughout all this, Henry’s heartrate was doing great. All indications were that he was tolerating labor quite well, which was encouraging. Less encouraging was the fact that after 4 hours on pitocin, I was dilated less than a centimeter. Even less encouraging was that even after they had me pumped up to 20 MIUs/hour I was having killer contractions, but they weren’t doing much at all. Over the next 3 hours, I was having major contractions every 3 minutes or so, but only made progress to 2-3 centimeters, with Henry’s head not yet fully engaged.
Add to this the fact that he was presenting with his spine against mine – back labor – and the fact that I couldn’t so much as shift to my side. Pretty agonizing, actually, and after laboring from about 2:30am – 3:30pm under the influence of pitocin, I was ready to call it a day on the natural childbirth thing —though for anyone interested, I still think the hypnobabies tapes helped immensely and if it were a more ‘normal’ birth probably would have been adequate to the job. All the nurses remarked how high my pain tolerance was, and how calm I was. Since I don’t think of myself as being particularly tough or zen-like in my day-to-day life, I’m crediting HB for any of that.
So I asked for my painkiller options and was told that at this point of labor, an epidural might be my best bet, since it would let me relax which could possibly help relax my cervix enough that it would start to dilate. I asked about the possibility of it stalling my already-slow labor down and was told that since it was looking less likely I was going to deliver without some intervention it probably didn’t matter. This made sense, actually, since it was now after 4pm, and I agreed to the epidural.
Epidurals are nice.
For one thing, I got to change my position, and sit up with my head and arms leaning over a table – this was incredibly comfortable after being confined to my back for the previous 13+hours. Again I say – I don’t think this would have turned into such a horror-show if not for the stupid hospital policy on patients walking while on Pitocin. If I had it to do over again, I’d’ve totally blown off the staffers who kept me in bed. That policy sucks and should be changed.
But anyway, the epidural was lovely – the anesthesiologists were very good, and I got enough relief to be able to doze off in between contractions which – sure enough! – slowed down considerably. The catheterization was less fun, but livable. We went on in this way til about 8 or 9, at which point I had made no progress at all – still at 3-4 cm. My doctor started talking c-section, and I was beginning to feel like that might be a really good idea, since they’d upped my P-dose again – 30 mIUs/hour? – and the contractions were coming through my lovely epidural as if it wasn’t even there. The anesthesiologist ‘topped off’ my epidural, which helped some, but which also made me shake uncontrollably, like I was freezing, even though I actually felt over-warm. Not fun.
The topped-offedness didn’t last long, again with the back-labor thing – wow that sucked. Think the worst pain you’ve ever had during the worst period of constipation you’ve ever endured, and multiply it by a factor of about 30. Really excruciating. Tired of hearing me moan, the nurses sent the anesthesiologist back to me, and they were getting sort of cranky now – demonstrating to me that the epi was working by putting an ice cube on the numb parts of my body, then on the un-numb parts. Yes, I understood that the epi. wasn’t designed to deal with pressure, but please, couldn’t they understand that when pressure reaches a certain point it turns to agony? Also, the cath
By this time, (after sunset) L&D was filling up. My doctor, in fact, had another patient come in during this time, deliver, and head up to the mother/baby suites. Actually, by this point, many women had come and gone and I was getting pretty frustrated with my complete lack of anything to show for my day.
By about 10pm I was getting to be pretty out of it. The pain control wasn’t working at all, I was contracting – pointlessly – every minute or so – I was shaking uncontrollably – and I couldn’t get up or change positions at all. What happened next I can only think was some sort of weird panic reaction, but I sort of freaked out. Was having a hard time getting enough breath, and sort of fading in & out of sync with the rest of the world. My doctor was still willing to let me keep laboring if I’d made any progress, but then he checked me again, and I was still only at 4cm.
I knew I was looking at a c-section as the most appropriate response to this completely stalled labor, but the fact that I was already enduring rather significant ‘pressure-not-pain’ didn’t have me feeling confident about how my body would interpret the ‘pressure, not pain’ of a normal c-section. I’ve woken up under anesthesia before, and while I know it’s a different kind of helplessness, the last 20 hours definitely caught up to me then, and I was freaked out about having a c-section, freaked out about NOT having a c-section, and generally just freaked out.
The Boy was wonderful throughout all this. He talked me down over and over again while I tried to get my brain under control and utterly failed. I can’t imagine going through that without him there.
So they prepped me for the c-section, and we were in the operating theatre within fifteen minutes. They completely numbed my lower body through the epidural catheter and kept me calm while they started excavating. It took about 20 minutes to get him out – he was sort of wedged inside my pelvis, but once he was free of me, he immediately started crying – nice strong, healthy cries. The long process of being put back together was disconcerting, and more than a little painful at times. In fact, I saw a photo of Henry before I saw him for myself, because they had to shoot extra painkillers into my IV at one point.
But he was born, and is healthy, and taking to nursing like a champ. In fact, he’s also learning that everything in life is a little easier if you eat after the stressful thing is over. And yesterday was a day filled with stressful things for my little guy. He got himself born. He had blood drawn, learned to nurse, discovered his hands (oh, he loves having his hands free!) got circumcised, had his diaper changed about 7 times, met his mom, dad, one of his sisters, one of his aunts, one of his cousins, and a set of grandparents.
As for me, I’ve had a couple of hours of sleep a few times since 1:36am on Saturday morning. Tired? Beyond. Happy? Over the moon. Henry is truly wonderful, with a personality that’s already emerging. He likes to fold his hands together. I swear he remembers songs I must have sung while he was inside, because of the rapt interest he shows when I sing them to him. He likes to look at people – so solemnly! and he definitely prefers being held – even being held somewhat haphazardly while I type away here – to being in his nice, comfy bassinette.
That’s all from his first day, I’m heading home tomorrow morning, and greatly looking forward to the prospet of seeing Nellie – though I’m less excited about all those stairs!
Life is good.
Henry is healthy.
I am happy.
Just like his mama, this child o’mine is nothing if not prompt.
So this is what it feels like/sounds like when your bag o’ waters breaks. Interesting. It went ‘pop’.
No real contractions yet. I’m sitting here, washing sheets, petting the dog, checking my hospital bag, sending the boy out to install the carseat, and waiting for my doctor to call me back.
In the meantime, a blessed Yom Kippur to you all – Way back in January I told my doc I was due on a high holy day and asked if he’d rather pass me off to an OB who happened to be a goy – or at least a non-practicing Jew. But did he listen? Hah.
Wish he’d call. I’m GBS positive, so I’m assuming I’ll be heading into L&D right away. Which isn’t the way I wanted to do this, but it’d be good to get the 2 doses of antibiotics so the kiddo doesn’t have to get stuck.
Looks like I might be having a baby today.
This is an impossible post to have to write, and yet I can’t really get on with my online life until it’s written – and this is a busy week for me, potentially, so I can’t ignore this; I can’t look past it and pretend it doesn’t exist, because it’s going to be a huge part of what my son’s birth evokes for me and for the rest of my family for the rest of our lives. Also, if you’re a writer, things aren’t really real until they’re written down, and as much as I wish what happened was NOT real, it is; and so it needs to be acknowledged. I don’t want to get into excruciating detail here, because my family needs privacy. But again with the ‘honesty even when it hurts’ meme, this blog, this journal, c’est moi.
So here goes.
I have one brother. He’s five years younger than me, and lives with his family on the other side of the country. We don’t see each other anywhere near often enough. I love him and his family with every iota of my being and I know he feels the same way about me & mine. He’s been one of my most steadfast supporters during this long and non-traditional road to parenthood, and days when I get a note – or a comment on this blog! – from my little brother are days that I treasure.
He has been married almost ten years now. When his daughter was born, I was still with my first husband and in complete denial about everything that was so wrong with my life. Then I saw my brother’s face as he looked at his daughter, and the expression he wore changed me forever. Everything in the next chapter of my life – leaving my husband and the house (the life) we’d built together, getting a professional degree so I could get a better job so I could afford to raise a child, eventually marrying a wonderful man who didn‘t hate the idea of another child in his life, enduring the awfulness of learning I’d waited too long for baby-making to come easily, dealing with multiple miscarriages and heartbreaks and finally miracles – it all began when I saw my little brother’s face as he watched his daughter playing one Christmas, and realized that more than anything else, I wanted what he’d found.
He is my parenting hero, my guide to ‘how it’s done’ and my inspiration. When his son was diagnosed with autism, my brother became, essentially, a stay-at-home parent. Early intervention in the form of intensive specialized therapy did exactly what it was supposed to, and my brother and his wife had every expectation of being able to send their son to ‘real’ kindergarten next year. He was well on his way to becoming one of the success stories that you hear about every so often, where the parents’ and teachers’ dedication breaks through to an isolated, autistic child and rewires their brain, lets them come out to be a part of this world with the rest of us.
My four-year-old nephew died yesterday. As best we can tell, he climbed over a supposedly childproof fence and drowned in the backyard swimming pool. My brother gave him CPR until the paramedics arrived, and apparently for a day or two doctors thought he might possibly pull through with minimal brain damage. But in the end, his little body had just been through too much. They let him go yesterday, surrounded by family and friends, held tight in the arms of his father and mother.
And now my brother has to bury his child – the son who was the center of his universe. He has to remain alive and present for his wife and daughter, when all his mind can encompass is how much every breath hurts, how much pain will be a part of his life from this day onward. He is surrounded by friends and family, and yet I have to think he is lonelier than anyone has ever been.
When I spoke to him two nights ago, he apologized – apologized – first for not telling me until everything was over, and in the next breath for telling me at all – because – in his words: “this is supposed to be the happiest week of your life”. He wanted so badly to protect me from this anguish that has consumed his world. And that hurts more than I can say – I’m the big sister. I’m supposed to be the one protecting him.
And I can’t. I can’t be there to hold him and weep with him and to play silly auntie-games with my niece to try to distract her. I can’t bake a casserole or help with any of the burdensome ‘arrangements’ that must be made. I can’t field the phone calls or do the laundry. I can’t even sit and reminisce and share how much I’ll miss this little boy with everyone else who will miss him. Instead I’m here, on the other side of the country, waiting to have a baby – a baby whose due date is the same day as his cousin’s funeral.
My brother and his wife have an incredible group of friends who are doing everything that can be done – even when there’s nothing that can really be done. My parents are staying with them through this week, and her parents live nearby, and friends have flown in from North Carolina, from Thailand, from California. My brother and his wife and daughter know how much they are loved, and how much their son was loved. The laundry is getting done, the phone calls are being answered. People are talking and reminiscing and realizing how much they are going to miss this little boy.
And I am not there. I am here, on the other side of the country, making phone calls, praying I don’t go into labor during my nephew’s funeral, and wishing. Wishing things were different. Wishing I could do anything to make any of it better or easier. Wishing I could wake up in a different world where children were always safe and well and happy, and where no one ever had to outlive their child.
Feeling just kind of off today. A little sick – though that could just be heartburn-y remains of yesterday’s futile struggle to keep down the yummy (but way onion-y) gazpacho served at lunch. And I’ve got a headache. And I can’t concentrate for shit. And. And.
And I’m pregnant, and tired of being pregnant, and ready to have this baby and not be pregnant anymore.
Can I fit any more whining into a single sentence?
I also learned that according to an up-to-the-moment popular baby names database, Henry is the number one name right now, even though it was only in the top 75 in 2009 (which is the figure I based our ‘not so popular that we don’t want to use it’ decision on). This sucks. I was so happy to have found an old-fashioned name that had somehow escaped the faddishness that is old-fashioned names right now. Guess he’s going to be one of 75 Henrys in his class, though. Grrrr.
Not that it matters, because he’s going to still be waiting to be born when he’s 18 years old.
D0n’t want to go stand in line to vote.
Want to have a baby.
Cranky-Sprogblogger, signing off.
Had a lovely lunch with neighbors/friends in celebration of Henry’s upcoming arrival. Here’s a scary thought – three healthy ladies, with 8 kids between them. Guess how many vaginal births? One. One vaginal birth, and seven c-sections – and this was 20 years ago!
Can you say: “NYC is the U.S. capitol of c-section-happy doctors???”
But that little aside, aside, it was a very nice time. They brought yummy food and presentses and we talked dogs and kids and donor eggs and what IVF entails and recipes for cookies and all about the NH house and Italy and the economy and retirement age and all the good gossipy stuff that makes for a fun afternoon.
Nellie’s doctor appointment also went well – I like her new vet a lot. However. Remember me talking about the sores the Wonder-whippet brought home from the kennel of doom? The ones that were diagnosed as a bacterial skin infection and duly treated with oral antibiotics and that were, ultimately, so much less upsetting than the flea infestation that I didn’t pay too much attention to them? Well, they came back and so I took her in this morning and while it now seems apparent that she was certainly harboring bacteria, the vet thinks it likely that there’s an underlying ringworm infection as well. *sigh* So now we have to be on the lookout for ringworm infections on OURSELVES as well as any new outbreaks on the long-suffering whippet. Oh blech.
Actually, given that she’s been home for over a month, sleeping in our bed, and in our laps, and we haven’t developed a case yet, it’s likely that we won’t – that this strain isn’t super-contagious to humans. (It’s also possible that it’s not ringworm, but since the lab results take 10 days we’re treating it as if it were definitely the case just to get a head start on it.) And I’d rather deal with ringworm than fleas again. This isn’t the end of the world. Still. Yuck. Again with the yuck.
Going to go wash the sheets. Again. Going to try not to let my squeamishness affect how I treat the dog. It’s not her fault she’s been colonized by a fungus. Going to try not to feel like an utter failure as a housefrau/dog owner. It’s not my – or my housekeeper’s – fault that she picked up some nasties in her time away from us (though I suppose I should have taken her to the vet as soon as we brought her home, to get a second opinion on the ‘bacterial infection’ that the kennel’s doc diagnosed – which wasn’t a wrong diagnosis, per se, just an incomplete one…)
And yeah, it’s still pretty damned yucky.
Maybe it’ll be a GOOD thing if Henry isn’t born for another couple of weeks.
(I can’t believe I just typed that…)
Hello Little One. Little Long-Anticipated One.
I can’t wait to meet you. None of us can. Your daddy is excited and usually pats you these days even before he says hello to me. Nellie-the-wonder-whippet knows something’s up, and seems awfully interested in your crazy movements these last few days – she’s taken to trying to lie down on top of you: a trend we’re hoping doesn’t continue after you’re born. Your grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins and sisters are so looking forward to meeting you that every time we call them, we can barely say hello before they demand, “Is he here yet? Is the baby here?”
But none of them are as excited as I am, I think. None of them can be. You’re my first, my only, the child of my heart, and I have loved you forever. I will love you forever.
And yet I’ve never seen your face.
I don’t know what color your hair is – or if you even HAVE hair. What color are your eyes? Are you a happy baby or a cranky one? Will you love to be held, or will you fuss until we figure out what makes you tick? Will you love to read as much as your father and I do, or will you be more interested in computers. Or Nascar. Or growing orchids? Or playing football? Or fishing? I want to know the answers to these questions, but more than that, I want to learn those answers. I want all the time in the world to learn all I can about you.
You’re due to make your first appearance in the world in less than a week, now. September 18 is the most eagerly anticipated day in my whole life. Nothing that has ever happened to me previously can compare with how excited I am to meet you, to touch your hands and feet and smell the top of your head, and tickle you, and stare at you. Talk to you. Listen to you. I’ve been completely unproductive this week, because all I can think about is that you’ll be here, soon. You’ll be here, in my arms, where you belong.
So I sit and daydream and stare at the walls, wishing you were already here, trying to rest, since everyone tells me you won’t give us any peace for the first few weeks. Looking forward to peacelessness. Looking forward to sleeplessness.
Looking forward to you.
So very much looking forward to you that there’s hardly any room in my brain right now for anything else. Dinner? Yeah, whatever. Conversation? Is it going to be a conversation about you? Because otherwise, I really can’t be bothered.
(Please hurry, Little One. Mama’s impatient. Wants to meet you. Wants to meet you now. Please hurry.)
New Year’s Day, this year, was two days after transfer. I couldn’t drink because – hey! PUPO!, but after the previous two years, I also wasn’t all that optimistic that I choosing not to get sloshed for a good reason. So “Happy New Year!” – sure, I was hoping – in the very same way that one hopes to win the lottery. Sure would be nice if…
Lunar New Year fell during a time when this pregnancy did not necessarily seem fated to continue. I was spotting – hah – I was bleeding, and HAD been bleeding for weeks at that point. I threw myself into the making of a tiger-themed stroller blanket as a magical way of giving my little one the tenacious strength of their birth-year animal. Which worked, but it still wasn’t a comfortable holiday for me.
Today (well, actually last night) marks the beginning of the Jewish New Year. Also celebrated on a lunar calendar, this year it almost coincides with the end of Ramadan, Eid al-fitr. I’m not Jewish, nor am I Muslim, but I’m waiting to begin a new life (any day now!) so I’m rather pleased that all of us who live in a multi-cultural world have two holidays of new beginnings and good wishes going on around us this week. It bodes well for my son’s life that he’s already being wished sweetness and goodness and blessings in this last week (or three!) before he’s born.
A good and sweet year to everyone who starts counting today as the first day of a new year; and while we’re on the subject, a blessed & joyful Eid to everyone for whom the fasting month just ended. And for the rest of us? Let’s just have ourselves a better year than last year, eh? Good, sweet blessings to everyone, and a happy new year.
Ok, first off, when your doctor and hospital are both on the ‘L’ line on the NYC subway system, and when that line – which is the only line that serves the area at all – goes kerflooey, it really fucks up one’s travel plans in the city.
Also fucks up the staffing situation at both places. The sonogram unit at the hospital was still locked a half hour after my appointment was supposed to begin. Not a really big deal, except there’s nowhere to sit outside of the unit. I started to get an ocular migraine – what my husband calls ‘sparkles’ and was so very relieved to be brought back to the NST room almost immediately upon entry, since it meant sitting in a big cushy chair with my feet up for half an hour.
Baby Thor was inactive – as is usual for him early in the morning. So they buzzed him. Which he hates. A few minutes later, someone in the next room started what sounded like a minor construction project – some machinery – sounded like a jigsaw – made a buzzing sound that came through the walls. My clever son started jumping all over the place in response to that sound, too. Better yet? I tried to calm him down a bit by rubbing his feet. And it worked. I calmed down my irritated son. How cool is that?
On the not-so-cool side of things, it’s Rosh Hoshannah, and there were no doctors on the sonogram unit today, so instead I got a tech who was sullen and refused to send my results on to my OB since there wasn’t a doctor to sign off on them. Seriously, people, find a freaking doctor and have them ok the results? I’m at 39+ weeks, and MY doctor is going on vacation tomorrow – I’d actually really like for him to have these growth results before he’s unreachable!
As best I could tell – for again, the tech was surly – Henry’s head is measuring in the 94th percentile, his abdomen in the 84th, and his limbs in the 65% – 75%. He’s weighing about 7.5#, which is good (though not if he stays in for another 3 weeks!)
At my OB’s I was able to get in right away, despite them having to double book me because of SuperStar’s upcoming holiday. They finished up my FMLA paperwork, and I was able to drop off all the bleach-bottles filled with needles & syringes I’ve been hoarding for about a year now. SuperStar did an internal – ouch! – and pronounced my cervix ‘high & mostly closed’ though he was pleased to hear I’ve been having random contractions. I asked him what his policy was on overdue babies, and he said that since I’ve been so healthy, low BP, no protein in the urine, etc., that he’d let me go as much as two weeks past my due date before inducing, though they’d start keeping a wicked-close eye on me after my due date and go immediately to induction/emergency C if there was any sign of a problem. But otherwise – two weeks. Two weeks from NEXT Saturday. Which would be, like, October.
Which is good, right? I mean, my brain says that’s good. My brain says that I want this baby to come out when he’s ready, that I really don’t want to be artificially induced, since it ups the chances of a c-section so dramatically – not to mention the fact that it’s apparently much more painful dealing with pitocin-induced contractions than with naturally progressing ones, and I’d like to avoid an epidural, as well. I like that SuperStar is anti-intervention, particularly since he is a high risk OB in a town where women get induced far too often.
But still – three more weeks? It could be THREE MORE WEEKS? Oh my heck. I’m simply not sure I can do that. Sorry. I don’t think it’s actually possible. Sorry! Of course, if Henry arrives two weeks late, then my folks could be here for the birth – lucky them! Getting to spend part of their NYC vacation hanging out in Beth Israel’s waiting rooms! (though I’m sure they wouldn’t mind getting to be in the first round of ‘meet the baby’ relations!) And it wouldn’t be the worst thing for the weather to start cooling off before the baby’s here – even a vague possibility of SIDS scares me, and our basement is on the warmish-side these days even with the a/c on.
But three weeks? Give me strength, give me patience, and please, someone, have a margarita waiting for me after delivery?
So is it very wrong that I think it would be hilarious to go into labor today?
Yeah, I’m easy to amuse. What of it?
I’m also bored. Bored & antsy. I’m ready to start this thing, get going, let’s have at it and BEGIN ALREADY.
And no one’s listening. My husband laughs and says it can’t be long now because I’m crankier than usual (which is nonsense, he’s just being so much more irritating!) 11 days – how can I be impatient for these last 11 days to be over – after everything we’ve been through, shouldn’t I be enjoying this last break, this reprieve from real life?
The change in the weather has me already feeling all nostalgic and slightly off my game; I had my first real bout with “oh god, what have i gotten myself into? i don’t know nothin’ ’bout raisin’ no babies!” last night. Truth to tell, I’m surprised it took this long to get into the serious self-doubt phase of things, because really, that’s something I’m usually pretty good at. But I talked myself off that ledge (with a little bit of help from ice cream) and I hope to deal with the existential terror as it comes & not let it build up again like I did yesterday.
And to that end, it would be really helpful if I could maybe go into labor today. By way of distraction, you know.
Come on, Labor Day!
So the closest I can come to describing how impatient I am, how eager to move on to Labor! Delivery! Baby! is to say, “remember when you were six, and it was 4:30 in the morning on Christmas morning, and you thought the next 2 & 1/2 hours would NEVER pass until you were allowed to wake up your mom & dad? it’s like that, only, um, worse.”
Every hour encompasses days of real life. And every day? Let’s just say that I’ve officially been pregnant for well over three years since September 1.
Seriously. I obsess over the fact that I got my first pimple in months yesterday. What’s that on the toilet paper? Discharge? Yes? Please? Honestly, people, they should make a pee-stick for this. Someone’s missing out on a fortune.
I’ve done every online quiz with a title something like: “Will your labor begin soon?”
I’ve read birth stories til I’m considering applying for doula licensure in the state of NY. Surely, reading birth stories ought to count at least as much as actually witnessing live births, eh?
I’ve packed and repacked my hospital bag and Henry’s. I’ve listened to my Hypnobabies CDs until I fall into a deeply relaxed state just by hearing my MP3 player kick in.
I’m ready. (No I’m not.) Yes I am.
Yes, I really am.
Seems that my boring, non-partying ways are awfully confusing to my SDs. On the way to the airport, youngest SD asked her father if there had been a baby shower that she hadn’t been invited to. He reassured her that the only shower I’d had was thrown for me by my co-workers at the library. Since she’d already made a point of asking to be notified as soon as possible once Henry was on his way/here, I was only slightly saddened that she even thought for a moment that I’d leave her out of that, and decided to be more encouraged that she so much wanted to be a part of it that she’d raise the subject with her dad.
And then last night, I got an interesting phone call. Well, I eavesdropped on & then inserted myself into an interesting phone call. From the eldest SD. Who heard, from our upstairs tenant, that I’d had a baby shower the night before.
To which she obviously wasn’t invited.
Turns out that because both my friends who came over the previous night were let into the building by our tenants – who just happened to be getting home at the same time – and since it was obvious that these were strangers who’d never been here before. And since it’s obvious that I’m about to pop, our tenants (who went to school with eldest SD) just made the obvious assumption and then called Eldest SD to ask if she wanted to hang out with them when she was done with the baby shower.
Which she thought I didn’t invite her to.
I am glad she called, though sorry she was so upset – glad she got to hear that of course she would have been invited if there was a shower, but knowing me, did she really think I was going to have one? I’m not the party type, and don’t actually enjoy being the center of attention. But glad she called. Think how awful if she’d just gone on assuming that she was being deliberately left out of her brother’s birth celebrations? While on the phone, she emphasized that she wants to know when I go into labor, wants updates from the hospital, can’t wait to meet Henry, and is totally on board and wanting to be a part of all this baby stuff. I reassured her that we want her there, want her to be a big part of her new brother’s life, hell – that she’s welcome at the hospital if she wants to be there.
So that’s settled, and I think everything is going to be just fine between Henry and his grown-up sisters.
And that makes me happier than I can say.
So, the Boy’s going out to his beach club to time swimming races on Sunday – about 25 miles (about 1 hour by car, and maybe 2 hours by bike) from home – and didn’t see why I thought it might be a better idea for him to drive, than to ride his bike out there, and have to wait for one of his daughters to arrive mid-afternoon to give him a ride home.
He also asked how Ben was doing. Repeatedly. (I’m thinking there’s a good chance that Thor’s official name is going to be Henry, but everyone’s going to call him Ben. That’s not such a stretch, is it? Perhaps we could go with ‘Benry’.)
I’m feeling antsy today, but not particularly up for much. My foot really enjoyed the last 2 days of taking it pretty easy, but I can feel it this morning, thanks to yesterday’s trek to the grocery store. Wondering if it’s worth going out into the world, or if I should just keep my feet up and resign myself to living the life of a total slug for the next 2 weeks.