I watch a lot of TV, because I'm waiting for my Netflix, and I have to lie on my left side, because of something I forget apparently I'm a ticking time bomb which will explode at any moment if I sit up for too long. And as usual there are things on TV that I find odd.
There is an ad on TV for something completely lame like motrin or insurance and she says "If there's a problem, I solve it." and my brain always ads "Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it." If you don't know the reference, I'm not going to help you with it, because... All right, fuck it, it's from Vanilla Ice's "Ice, Ice Baby" Stop collaborate and listen...
Why on the "Food Channel" (yes there is a Food Channel and it's all about like amazing world class chefs and pastry chefs and candy makers and you know like the people who made Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore's wedding cake) are all the ads for Ranch dressing? Ranch. Dressing. The universal culinary symbol of super-bland American cuisine.
Why, you may ask, am I watching the Food Channel? Well, because that's the channel that has the Japanese version of "Iron Chef" on it. Which I am totally addicted to. There was one recently I couldn't really watch though. The secret ingredient was cod roe and the cod roe comes in the little cod roe sacs and then they had to turn the sacs inside out and scrape the stuff out and well... I had to skip most of the preparation part. I'm taking a medication for Gestational Diabetes and it makes me feel a little uhm icky. So food on TV that looks like pureed uterus is just a little too much for me right now.
More baby news, for those interested. I had an ultrasound to see how big the baby is and to see if there's enough amniotic fluid blah blah blah. The baby as of today is about 5 lbs 9 oz. I had some false labor this weekend. Now I'm just pregnant and nothing is happening.
Tttttthhhhhhbbbbbbttttt!
I went to the doctor today, which is what I usually do. Go to the doctor. I told her what kind of labor I wanted and she was totally cool with it. My BP is fine. My Blood Sugar is not fine but it doesn't really matter.
Know why?
Because they're taking me off of all the medication that stops me from having the baby. And I'm already 2cm dilated. And when the medication wears off I'll probably start having contractions and then we will have a 4 weeks early tiny baby with perfectly healthy lungs and everything.
If you were for some reason to find yourself with your fingers in my vagina, you would actually be able to touch the baby's head.
As much as I've been bitching and moaning about this whole thing, now I'm completely freaked out by the idea that there will be a Baby. At my house. All the time. A real baby.
Erp.
Fuckin' Fuck. I just wrote this huge entry and I lost it somehow, between previewing it and posting it.
I'm not doing it all again. But I will do part of it again, cause that's just the kinda gal I am.
I had a fantastic house/baby warming party. I got to talk to adult humans that I like and who are fun and cool for hours and hours and then they all left by 7pm to beat Seahawk's traffic. We knew they'd won because the folks in our neighborhood set off fireworks. I was going to invite our neighbors and forgot which turned out to be just fine because a lot of them were appalled that we were having a party and not watching the game, not game related in any way. THE Game to be precise. The Seahawks are goin' to the Superbowl people.
The party for me was like a miracle. I just sat and talked about babies and pregnancy and made fun of myself and told horrible stories and talked to people who had recently had babies and who have never had babies and don't care about babies and Paul showed them the house and went for a drive with a friend of ours to practice for his license and it was just great great great. We got presents and opened them while people watched. I got slipped cash by people who didn't bring presents. I was so cute and cool and fun. We got a couple of toys and Tobey the Ten Month Old helped break in the plush blocks, so they are dutifully and rigorously pre-slobbered. I drank a beer and my face turned bright red (I'm allergic to sulfites) and I've never been so happy to have a bright red face and a headache ever.
Today, Paul and I went to our Infant CPR and Safety class. There were two couples there from our Childbirth class and we explained to them why we didn't go to the last class. Turns out they're great when you get them in a small group. They told us they missed us and gave us the info for the reunion for our class. They were really nice and I got the impression that part of the reason they didn't complain so much about things like heartburn, constipation, gas was they felt like it was trivial. I forgot about that weird white person thing about like you don't complain to someone you think is really sick/sad/in pain that you've got a hemorrhoid.
I had a very good sleepless night after the whole puking in public, tearing a muscle in my side fiasco week. And, of course, I realized what had happened. I forgot something very simple. I am in Charge. I am actually the Only One In Charge. I am the HNIC of me. I don't have to do anything I don't want to. In fact, I don't have to do anything at all. I could have this baby in my bedroom if I want. I don't have to "try this test again". I don't have to "take this medication" even though it makes me feel like crap.
My blood pressure is not high. It's on "the high end of normal". I do not have gestational diabetes. My blood sugar is on "the high end of normal". I had the experience I've had at a few crucial junctures in my life of realizing I'm at the bottom of some well I don't remember falling into. Cause I didn't fall into it. Somone was carrying me along because I thought they should and they were like "Here, this is where you should be." And they dumped me off there and I sort of wake up and go "What the hell is this? This sucks. Where's my flashlight?" And I crawl out and the people who were helping are still there and they're like "Wow, that exercise did you good. Do you need anything? We can help you get to..." And I'm like "No thanks I think I've got it. I feel much better." "But we have this cool tram and we can just put you on it and..." "No, no I'm good. I can walk from here." And they're like "Well, we don't recommend that. No one knows what's between here and where you think..."
No. Thanks. I'll Walk.
This is sometimes what I my thinking is like:
"I'm just trying to be thorough. Which is different from trying to be Thoreau, cause then I would be dragging a refrigerator box and a tin cup out to come public land with a fresh water source."
The baby crib has been put together and we're having a house/baby warming party on Sunday the 22nd at 2 if you want to come.
For anyone who reads SGNPs Jrnl comments carefully, I am NOT giving up acting. I'm not in a play that is running DURING my due date and I had to give up that part, but I haven't been convinced to let all that go or anything retarded like that. For some reason the comment that I had and that was a good thing made me so mad it actually kept me up for a while last night. When I asked Paul why he hadn't set this person staight about that he said "I don't know. I didn't say it, she did."
Which made me madder. Cause I can't post on his Jrnl myself cause I don't belong to Live Journal. But I CAN post on my blog and be all huffy about it if I want. And I want.
It's true in a way that dudes have a hard time plugging into the whole pregnancy thing. The thing that makes me crazy is the idea that they don't know how. I've actually told Paul EXACTLY what I've wanted him to do and he has done some things and really hasn't done others. BIG others, like learning to drive so he can get me things and run errands when I honestly am too uncomfortable to move. In fact when I found out I was pregnant I told him he had to get his license as soon as possible.
Still waiting.
But he HAS learned to cook some things. He does the trash and recycling thing. He calls me all the time to make sure I'm okay. He goes to the doctor with me as often as he can. He has been doing the dishes and straightening up. He is my love and my sweetest darling and he completely drives me crazy.
Early on, when we were talking about the birth I told him I needed him to be my advocate and make sure that the doctor and nurses didn't do anything to me I didn't want. At our third childbirth class, he said he finally understood what I meant. When pressed, he told me he thought I was placating him. Giving him a meaningless job to do while the nurses and doctors did whatever they wanted to me. He promises he really gets it now.
I hope the baby is more like the cleaning and cooking thing than the driving thing.
I had my own room at home for a great deal of my childhood. There wasn't anything useful in that room except for a bed and a radio and books. But I had my own room. When I left for the summer, I had roommates in the same room. In college I had dorm mates and used the computer lab for writing papers and whatnot. I got a laptop when I left college and kept it in the living room of an apartment I shared with my boyfriend. When my boyfriend and I broke up, I moved into an apartment with a roommate and my computer was left in the common room. I've had my computer in a common room since that time, until SGNP moved into the apartment we shared on Cherry and 24th where we shared a bedroom and had our computers in the second bedroom. The second bedroom was such a disaster area I rarely went in there and used his laptop in the living room.
Since we've moved into this house I've created for myself a little office area. It probably was a dressing room or walk-in closet of some kind. There is a half-wall that looks over the staircase and a built in vanity with a HUGE heavy round mirror over it. I put my sewing machine on that (on the vanity, not the mirror). I brought up a little table I've had for years and set up my computer on it and have our printers on a coffee table that is precious but has dangerous corners on it. Not good for babies in the living room.
It is a magical wonderful place, my little office. It is tiny and crammed with computer junk and has a shoji screen in front of the doorway (there is no door to it).
I love it.
I love it more than I thought it was possible to love a little weird room
I was unprepared for a lot of things about pregnancy. Heartburn, constipation, early contractions, immune suppression... But I have to say there was one thing I really did not think about. Abject Humiliation.
Today I went to the doctor to have another glucose test and to check in about some contractions I'd had on Sunday. I had to be fasting so went in early for me. Around 9:30 am. SGNP and I had been sniping at each other since he was tired and I was too and wasn't looking forward to three blood tests over three hours and drinking icky sugar crap, so he left the clinic abruptly to go to an appointment he had. Both of us sad and angry and tired and hungry. I sat in the waiting room for about a half hour and started to feel nauseated. It wasn't too bad, nothing worse than taking a big honkin multivitamin on an empty stomach. Then my eyes started to water and do this blinky thing they do right before I throw up. I got up as quickly as I could. Made it about three steps and threw up copiously and noisily into a trash can. Then again. Then again. Then again. I hadn't imagined I had so much water in my stomach on top of that little icky drink they gave me. It went all over the garbage can, the floors, the walls, my shirt, my pants and my hair. Still hanging onto the trash can, I looked up and there was a nurse at the counter, her lips curled in obvious and understandable digust and she leaned over to the receptionist and said loud enough for me to hear eight feet away "Is she even a patient here?" I also admit I did look like a homeless person, as I had just gotten back my German Army coat that I love, but is really pretty nasty looking.
The receptionist said,"Oh that's Jennifer. Jennifer who are you seeing today?" And I started to bawl. I howled, "I dont KNOW!" Because I really couldn't remember. I was covered in vomit and appalled and had the post-vomit weepies anyway. I just stood there with my hands over my face and sobbed. Three more nurses came out with towels, washclothes, an emesis basin and some tissues and hustled me into an exam room.
I saw the doctor a little while later and cried the whole time. I told her I didn't want to take the medication they'd given me in the hospital. She asked me why, and the bawling started again. Once I had collected myself enough to speak I told her that I take 9 pills in the morning and five at night right now and I didn't want to add another one because the ones I was already taking hurt my stomach and I had been on a medication like this one before and I'd gotten really sick and I just didn't know if I could handle another one anyway, and I was tired of feeling bad all the time and my stomach hurting and being tired and all the medicine, and going to the hospital and having tests. You get the idea.
She left the room a couple of times during our visit, to get this and that, and check on this and that, and each time she came back she kept saying "Tears still?" Surprised that I still hadn't gotten it together? Surprised at how bad I was really feeling? Who knows.
Now here comes the making of a good doctor, maybe. She sat there and talked to me for a bit, rubbing my back saying "You're so close. I know you feel bad and your sick of all these medicines and everything, but you are so close. Look at how far you've come. You're going to have a baby in six weeks! You're almost there and you've had some problems that you and we have been trying to take care of. There is no way someone could have the hematocrit you have and not feel bad all the time. And you're struggling with depression. And that's just really hard all the time anyway. You're tired and you feel crummy all the time, but you are not alone and you're almost there. You're going to be a great mom."
I cried some more and said "I'm tired of feeling bad all the time." She thought I had said "I'm tired of feeling FAT all the time." So she said, "You are NOT fat. You look really good. You're slender and pregnant." Which, even though she misheard me made me feel good. And made me cry some more.
Then they gave me a shot of the immune globulin I need so I don't get antibodies to my other babies, which is a painful shot, and a lab order to go in tomorrow and have a different glucose test. No drinking sugary crap this time.
Paul came back to the clinic and we had lunch and I couldn't even speak. I still felt so bad. I still feel pretty bad right now. I'm thinking, I'm not going through this alone. I call my mom and my sister and Meaghan and Jaye and I have Paul and I'm still not okay. I can't do this alone. I can't do this with all the friends in the world. I can't do this. So at lunch I said to Paul, "Let's just give up. No more classes. No more medicine. No more appoinments. I'll just lay in my room and wait and evenually I'll have a baby. I can't do this anymore." He said, "But we have our last Childbirth Class tonight." And I said, "I'm not going. I'm NOT going to hang around for two hours with a bunch of people who treat me like I have some kind of contagious terminal disease they'll catch if they even talk to me. I'm not going. YOU go." He said, " I don't want to go alone. We'll go home and you can rest and we'll see how you feel later." To which I said LOUDLY, " I'M NOT GOING!" And cried into my Quizno's napkin.
I'm thinking in my head on the way home it'll be more like this:
I'll lay in my bed and go into labor and we'll go to the hospital and say I want to have a baby and for them not to mess with me or stick anything in my spine or give me surgery and then something will happen and they'll give me medicine I don't want and tell me things aren't going how they should and they'll tell me I have to have surgery anyway and then they'll just do it and we'll all feel terrible about it. Which is kind of what Childbirth class makes you believe is what will happen.
And then I'll end up back in bed. This time with a baby who I'll want to breastfeed, but the baby won't like it or whatever and we won't be able to and then we'll all feel terrible. Which is what Breastfeeding class makes you believe will happen.
And then I'll end up with a colicky baby who will cry all the time for no reason and won't sleep through the night until s/he's ten at which point s/he'll hate me because actually s/he'd just had some undiagnosed hiatal hernia or ear infection the whole time and I didn't get it taken care of and then we'll all feel terrible. Which is what reading too much makes you believe will happen.
I've peed my pants in public. I've pooped my pants in public. I've vomited in public. I've bawled and howled in public.
Perhaps I'm just a schizophrenic street person really and this is all a terrible meaningless delusion. Or it's all really happening. I have no idea which is worse.
I have heard about this nesting thing that happens before you have a baby, but I was unprepared for the level of psychosis involved. Last night/this morning I stayed up until 7:30 in the morning cleaning the kitchen. And when I say cleaning. I mean CLEANING.
I cleaned the INSIDE of the salt and pepper shakers. The bottom of the microwave. On the OUTSIDE. I scrubbed the floor with a bowlfull of warm soapy water and a regular sponge. I cut little patches of paint out of the carpet. I washed the cabinet doors. I did a load of dishtowels because I used them all up drying the floor and cabinets as I went. I got most of the primer scrubbed off the baseboard heaters. You get the idea.
But the truly amazing part is what I was thinking the whole time. I was THRILLED. I was like "Now I know why anal people do this. This is AWESOME!" It felt like being on a really great ride or being really high on cocaine.
Up until 7:30 am. Cleaned the INSIDE of the salt and pepper shakers.
Yeah.
Addendum: I called my mom and told her about it and she said I'd just had some sort of "cleaning frenzy". I informed her that I've never had a cleaning frenzy in my entire life. She said, "Yeah, me neither. I hate cleaning. I don't know what I'm talking about." Also she was in labor with me for only 5 hours and my older sister for 11 hours! Hooray. No 56 hour labors for me!
If you haven't been yet, check out SGNP's moblog. There are talking cups, cannibalism and mitt fish. Could it get better? I bet it could. But we will have to see...
http://sgnp.textamerica.com/
I went to the doctor yesterday and she gave me a magical medication which makes it so I don't cough and I can sleep and I can have adult conversations and I can think and all kinds of things.
What is this magical medication you ask? Why Claritin-D.
It is truly amazing how babied I have been by over the counter medications. How being able to just take some ibuprofen or sudaphed or Pepto or benadryl without consulting a physician when they have an appointment two weeks from now has kept me relatively comfortable and happy my whole life. I had NO idea how horrible a cough could become without Robitussin or Dayquil. I've actually done real damage to my abdominal muscles. So I have to lay down a lot for the next few weeks. Which isn't so bad. Except for daytime television.
Judge Joe Brown rules. It's the ghetto version of the People's Court.
He calls people trifflin' jive turkeys.
Rowan really wants to make some kind of point, so I'm leaving up his most recent post which is related to my entry on 12/30. I haven't read it and don't intend to, even thought I'm SURE it's full of sweetness and happiness and kindness, but I'm not going to delete it either. So there it is.
PR from Rowan. At least now we know he can do PR of some kind when he feels like it.