Four Days Past Due and Still Waiting...

You are four days overdue. We went to the doctor this morning and he said that there is still virtually no evidence that you are motivated to come out anytime soon. Thus you’ve left us with no choice…we’ll be taking you by force on July 1^st. We never wanted it to go down this way, but you are turning out to be one stubborn little boy. That, or you inherited your mother’s inability to navigate direction and you can’t tell which way is up and which way is down. If it’s the latter, I feel bad for giving you such a hard time because you are in for a lifetime of being completely lost, even with a GPS. Regardless, it looks like you will probably be born in July. I hope you’re cool with a ruby birthstone and the astrological sign of Cancer.

They have scheduled an induction for 6:00 AM on July 1^st. The doctor said that just because we induce on that day, doesn’t necessarily mean that you’ll be born on the 1^st. For all we know you may be able to ride this gravy train for another two days after the induction. When I asked your dad if he was at all sad or concerned about spending potentially several days in the hospital, he responded that his primary concern was that he would run out of snacks. So we’re going to the grocery store this weekend to make sure that your dad has plenty to eat while my body is being poked, prodded, and pumped full of chemicals designed specifically to bring on excruciating pain as quickly and intensely as possible.  We wouldn’t want him to be at all uncomfortable during that process.

We got another ultrasound on Monday, and they estimated that as of then you were nine pounds, one ounce. They project you will probably put on another half-pound before you’re born, so that will be fun…for the both of us. I was one week late and nine pounds, 8 ounces, so it looks like you’re already taking after me in so many ways.

It’s kind of exhausting to wake up each morning with the thought of “will my life change forever today?” and to end each night with thoughts of “will my life change forever tomorrow?”  All told though, our stress levels are relatively intact given the very real fact that one way or another, very soon, our lives are indeed going to change forever. Actually, I think your dad is more stressed than he leads onto, but that stress has manifested itself through an ongoing war that he was waged with the cockroaches in our apartment.

Our new apartment has a bit of a cockroach problem. We had the exterminators come in, but they didn’t do much other than lay a bunch of traps on the floors. So your dad has spent hours upon hours on his hands and knees plugging every hole and crevice that he can see. He has sealed off all the doors and rinses out the drains nightly. And while the problem has certainly decipated, every time he sees one of those roaches (which is still about once a day) his eyes begin to twitch and he goes a little bit crazy. He spends a great deal of time reading up on roach psychology online, and is inventing his own patented roach poison in lab…which despite his protests I will NOT be allowing in our house, but kudos to him for trying I guess. At night he dreams about roaches, and gets up several times to see if there are any on the floor. I always know when he sees one because I hear what sounds like a fist fight with a bear followed by a diatribe of words you will never be allowed to say. Not to be too psychoanalytical or anything, but I kind of think that your dad feels like if he can control the roaches, that will make up for the loss of control he feels with this whole “you being born” thing.

Anyway, we are ready for you to come. The second my due date passed, I got the distinct impression that I make people uncomfortable. Your dad likened it to a Jack in the Box toy. Everyone is on edge as the handle cranks and the little tune continues to play “all around the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel…” because at any given point, the box will explode when the weasel pops. The problem is that nobody knows when that weasel is going to pop, so all they can hope for is that it won't be on their shoes. 

Be born.

Come. Out. Now.

Okay, party’s over. Come out now. Come out come out come out come out come out. I know that you don’t have to officially be out for another four days, but I think we both know that the time has come for you to leave. And I think we also both know that you have no intention of leaving on your eviction date whatsoever. I went to the doctor this morning and he basically said that I am the least progressed a woman can possibly be at 39.5 weeks pregnant. My theory is that you are going to begin consuming me from the inside out until you are in complete possession of my body. I will slowly cease to exist, and fade darkly into the deep recesses of my conscious, while you gradually take over my entire being and devour my soul for nourishment. Since you are still my son I won’t go as far as to call you an actual demon per se, but I probably would classify you as a parasitic sea monster.

Your dad thinks that your reluctance to come out has more to do with generalized anxiety about the process of birth, as opposed to my sea monster theory. Like maybe you’re claustrophobic or something and have a fear of being squeezed for up to 15 hours just to be born and then immediately circumcised after that. Admittedly, I can’t imagine your birthday will be much fun, but trust me when I tell you that you’ll be happy once you just decide to take the plunge. Plus, it’s not like you’ll remember any of it. It will actually be me who is left with all the emotional and physical scarring.

As a way to incentivize you to hurry this along, I will list some of the things that you can look forward to once you are finally born.

Grandparents: you, Son, are going to be bombarded with grandparents once you finally get here. You’ll get this figured out in your own good time, but I’ll go ahead and fill you in on the well-known secret anyway: Grandparents are like, the best part of being alive. While your parents will work hard to teach you good habits and not to spoil you and to restrict your sugar intake, your grandparents will be there to undo all of that progress and give you everything you want. If you will just be born already, I have it on good authority that you have four grandparents who are scheduled to come to Boston and start the spoiling process immediately upon their arrival. I’m sure you’re nice and cozy in that little womb hot tub of yours, but I can guarantee you that it won’t compare to the arms of me, Dad, and all of these grandparents who will refuse to put you down for the first two weeks of your life.

Presents: you have already been given so many toys and clothes and gadgets that are just waiting for you to come and make good use of them. For instance, you have a Sophie the Giraffe, which is your first official status symbol and already makes you a really popular baby. You have books, rattles, teething toys, and even an outfit from Paris that is all yours to have a blow-out in. You have a pristine nursery with freshly washed bedding and drawers full of neatly folded clothes. You even have a turtle diaper stacker. Did you read that right? A turtle diaper stacker!! Let’s face it, while I’m sure it’s a cushy life inside my uterus, I know for a fact that you aren’t getting any presents in there. Don’t you want all your presents? Good, then be born already.

Outside: right now it’s June 20th. The weather is amazing. I figure at this point we have a solid 14 weeks left of sunny, warm days full of long walks, hanging out in the park, and turkey sandwiches (the sandwiches are for me). But each day you procrastinate the inevitable, is another perfect summer day gone to waste, and another turkey sandwich I can’t eat because whoever banned cold cuts for pregnant women is pure evil. Trust me when I tell you that there is nothing better than this city in this summertime. Since I’ll be on maternity leave, you and I will spend all summer living it up. I’ll show you flowers, birds, grass, clouds, the sun…and the list goes on and on. Right now I assume things are pretty much just black and gurgly in there. But the sooner you come out the sooner we can go play, and eat some sandwiches. Plus we will take you to Frog Pond and let you dip your little toes in the pool. You’ll love that.

Are you convinced yet? Have you decided that 24 hours of stress is worth a lifetime of grandparents, presents and being outside? No? You aren’t convinced? Okay well how’s this: if you don’t come out soon I will literally smoke you out with a match.

Nine Months!

As promised, here is our official 9 month (!!) bump picture—better late than never. This picture was taken in our new apartment, which, after all of my whining turns out to not be so bad after all. In fact we like it a little better than our old one, minus all the pollen that blows in several times a day.

As of today, we have 18 days left until your due date. While I am determined to try and fully relax and just enjoy these last few weeks before you come, I can’t help but be a little hopeful that you’ll come sooner than later because we just found out that you are packing on the pounds almost as rapidly as me.

As I mentioned in the previous post, we had to go in for an ultrasound today because during the “Incident” last week it was discovered my amniotic fluid levels were high. The doctor said she wasn’t worried about it, but wanted us to get it checked out just in case. Despite the doctor’s reassurances, I did nothing but worry about it for the last week and did the thing expectant parents are not supposed to do—I Googled the condition incessantly and worried myself sick over all the possible things that could go wrong.  Apparently high levels of fluid can be associated with all sorts of birth defects and health concerns for babies, in addition to increased fetal size.

Well today we learned that while my fluid levels are indeed high, they are not outside of the normal range, which is a good thing. They checked your organs and your bones and all looks well. And then they measured you. You are supposed to be 6 and 1/3 pounds right now…but you are already measuring in at a solid 7 pounds, 13 ounces.  The doctor estimated you will certainly put on another pound, plus a possible extra 15%...putting you—potentially—at around 10 pounds on your due date. Bottom line is I really really need for you to only gain one more pound (if that, even) before you come. Don’t be a 10 pound baby. Don’t do that to your mom. I have been so good to you for all these months, letting you live inside of me rent-free with a constant supply of food and heat. I mean, it’s not like I can withhold your security deposit or anything. This relationship is pretty much founded on good faith in which I have no recourse if you leave my body destroyed. I am trusting you to do the right thing here, and just be a normal sized baby.

Your massiveness aside, it’s nice to be reassured that all still looks well with you. We’ve had a few scares this pregnancy, which have really just been more annoying inconveniences than anything. Even though your dad and I are grateful for the opportunity to deliver at such a large and highly accredited hospital, we do think that the advanced medical knowledge has caused more trouble than it has really been worth. Doctors are so trained to look for every little thing that might not be exactly right, and then feel legally obligated to alert patients to the 1 in 10,000 chance that there is something drastically wrong with their baby. I am all about having access to information, but there comes a point when too much information becomes a bad thing…and then add our addiction to online forums on top of everything else and you end up with a far more stressful pregnancy than necessary.   

I will say however, that I know personally some people who haven't been as lucky as us and who have had children with some health problems. I try to be sensitive to the fact that each time we've been relieved with good news, there's someone else out there who is not so lucky. Moreover, even though we keep getting good news, there's no guarantee with these things and we really just have to wait it out. And then I remind myself that even if something was wrong, the end result doesn't change. We love you and want to meet you and even though everyone always hopes for a healthy baby, just because a baby might not be 100% healthy, it doesn't mean that he's not perfect.

Now that we have this last little episode behind us, I am looking forward to these next couple of weeks of rest and relaxation. We are all moved into our new apartment, your nursery is set up, and most of the loose ends are taken care of at work. Now I guess we just wait.

Our Memorial Day Misadventure

I realize I am behind on posting a 9 month bump photo. I will try to get to that tonight, but with all the moving and rearranging and misbehaving on your part (we'll get to that shortly) it's been hard to find time to take a lot of pictures.

But we are at nine months nonetheless. The doctor said that if I were to go into labor at this point there would be no stopping either of us. This is usually the part where I rehash what we are up to, what you are up to, and how excited we are for you to get here, etc. But given recent events, I feel I need to address some things instead. Now that we’ve both had time to reflect on what you did last Monday (Memorial Day), I would like to process your behavior and troubleshoot ways we can avoid that kind of acting out in the future.  In case you forgot, here is a recap of our little adventure:

(warning: this text below might invoke unseemly images in the minds of the reader)

Your dad and I had just returned from a very pleasant evening walk to the Public Gardens and back. Upon returning to the apartment, your dad went to the kitchen to retrieve a Cherry Coke, and I went to the bathroom to wash my hands. While washing my hands, there was an immense surge of water that gushed out of my body and all over the floor. I stood there, looking at myself in the mirror, completely stunned. My first thought was “did I just urinate all over myself?” But upon further reflection, I realized that couldn’t have been it since I didn’t have a full bladder, and more importantly, being a relatively experienced urinator in my life, what happened felt nothing like anything that had ever happened before.

I immediately sat on the toilet (pants still on) only to experience a second large gush of water descend from my body. At this point I managed to gather my wits about myself enough to call out to your dad for help. Dad rushed to the bathroom only to find me on the toilet, with my pants completely saturated. I told him that I thought my water just broke.

Now, before I go on, a little background context might be useful here. First of all, you were only 36 weeks gestation at that time, which means that if you were on your way you’d technically be premature. Even though you would be perfectly fine in the long run had that been the case, you still really needed a few more weeks to bake. Additionally, all of our stuff had already been packed, including all of your baby gear, since we were moving the next weekend. None of your clothes had been washed, we hadn’t installed the car seat, your cradle wasn’t finished, and we didn’t have much in the way of diapers. Also, it would technically be illegal for us to bring you home to our current apartment since it has lead paint. And finally, I WAS NOT READY FOR YOU YET.

Your dad found the phone number to Tufts and had me call the doctor-on-call so I could describe what happened. I spoke to the doctor and told her that I was 36 weeks along, and that I think my water just broke. She told me we had to pack our hospital bag and come to the hospital as soon as possible, because if my water had indeed broken, we would need to induce labor that night. I told her we’d be right over and I hung up.

Then I started to sob uncontrollably while still sitting on the toilet. I was startled, and I was genuinely scared, and I was truly unprepared for this. I had just gone to the doctor four days prior and he said that labor was nowhere on the horizon. How could this be happening? Your dad, bless his heart, did everything he could do to soothe me, while also trying to get things in order for us to leave. He calmly found a book with a checklist of things we’ll need to pack and began to open up boxes searching for various items. As he packed the cameras and the change of clothes and your little going home outfit and our insurance information, I just stood in the middle of the bedroom paralyzed by the decision of whether or not I should take out my contacts or leave them in. In the end, the only contribution I made to the hospital bag was a package of 20 elastic hairbands.

15 minutes later we grabbed your car seat, the hospital bag and my purse and headed towards the hospital. While Dad maneuvered through Red Sox traffic in downtown Boston, I just rambled on like a crazy person. I bounced from topic to topic, like how I had an important meeting that next day that I couldn’t miss, to how much I was looking forward to a sub sandwich after I delivered you since Tufts is pretty close to my favorite deli.

We got to the hospital and they immediately ushered me into the exam room. They performed a non-stress test on you to monitor your heart rate (which was strong as usual). They asked me a series of questions about what happened, the history of my pregnancy, whether I was still leaking fluid, and then performed an internal exam. And then they performed an ultrasound.

Now, prior to the ultrasound and during this whole debacle I had actually felt bad for you. On the drive to the hospital you were more active than you typically are for that time of night, and I envisioned you frantically flopping about looking for your lost amniotic fluid—like a goldfish that had jumped out of its bowl.

But once we saw you on the monitor, it became abundantly clear to me that you were in no distress whatsoever. In fact, you clearly seemed quite pleased with yourself. Not only was there ample fluid in my womb, but there was actually a slight excess. She said there was no way my water broke given how much fluid I had, and how active my baby was. You were practically dancing on screen.  It wasn’t until you quite literally opened your little hand and WAIVED AT THE CAMERA that it dawned on me that this whole thing was a ploy to get attention. It’s as though you were bored and schemed a way to rush to the hospital just to get your picture taken.

And why did I think that? Because the final diagnosis was that you head-butted my bladder and made it explode all over the bathroom. My water did not break. I did, indeed, just uncontrollably urinate all over myself.

And it was at that moment that I saw your dad practically melt on to the floor in relief (and probably a little bit of embarrassment). It turns out he was a little more stressed than he had lead on to during the whole ordeal, and the physical release of that stress on his part was palpable.

After attempting to regain some semblance of pride (I couldn’t), I asked the doctor if there was anything I could do to prevent this from happening again, and she said that unfortunately, no, there is nothing that can be done since some babies just do this for fun. Her only practical medical advice was to bring an extra pair of pants with me to work in the event that you have your way with me there.  And then they sent us home.

It was a long drive home, as your dad needed to remind me about every 41 seconds that I had wet myself. Epically so. I knew right then that I would never live this down. We returned home with no baby, a big mess to clean up, and a warm bottle of Cherry Coke. I fell asleep shortly thereafter out of pure exhaustion, but your dad stayed up for several hours because he was pretty wired and couldn’t relax. You really did a number on your parents that night.

So, let’s discuss how we can ensure that this will never happen again. Look, I get that it’s boring in there. It’s dark and cramped, and I’m sure you’re getting tired of the menu. Just know that your time is almost up and then you’ll be introduced to this world and all of its glory (again, don’t get your hopes up about your new apartment though).  However, in the meantime, rather than taking out your angst on my bladder, why don’t you play with your umbilical cord? I hear that babies do that from time to time. How about rather than head butt things, you use your head to think about ways you can be nice to your mom, especially considering what she will have to undergo in order to get you out in a short few weeks. Keep in mind that if you make my bladder explode at work, I will obviously have to quit out of pure humiliation, which means we will have no money to buy you fun things after you’re born. The bottom line is that from here on out you probably should just keep your hands to yourself. Hopefully I have given you some things to think about and this won’t become an issue.

One unfortunate thing that did come out of our little misadventure was that I apparently have high levels of amniotic fluid, which might be indicative of a problem with you--or it might be indicative of nothing at all. Tomorrow we have to go get another ultrasound to remeasure everything and see if things are okay. We're trying not to stress too much about it, but it's never fun to think that things might not be okay...especially this late in the game. I'll keep you posted.