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Pregnancy week 40-plus: No, I have not had the baby yet

July 9, 2014

The cashier at Trader Joe’s nodded her head toward my pregnant belly. “When are you due?”

“Last week.”

“My goodness!” she stopped scanning my groceries, her hand paused above a can of split pea soup. “You’re overdue? What are you doing here?”

“I need food.”

I guess the cashier assumed what most everybody does — right around that magical due date, there’s a gush of water, some contractions and pushing, a poop-splosion, and then TA-DAH! A baby comes out.

Is that a watermelon in your uterus? Or are you just happy to see me?

But my due date has come and gone, and still no baby. No contractions. No labor. No crowning. What I do have is growing anxiety and a whole lot of time to waste. And it’s so frustrating, these in-between days. On the one hand, my own life is on hold while I wait for this new life to begin. At the same time, I still need to take care of business. Fill my afternoons. Buy food.

It’s actually more of a mental challenge than a physical one, and it’s way more difficult than I expected. It’s like reaching the end of a marathon and finding that someone has moved the finish line. Every time I inch closer, the line is moved again. There’s no end in sight.

My friends can’t win either. Every day I receive thoughtful, well-intentioned texts, messages and phone calls about the status of the baby, and it makes me grouchy. With every “Where’s the baby?” and “Have you had that baby yet?” the subtext feels more like, “You’re doing pregnancy all wrong. What’s the matter with you?” But when I don’t receive inquiries, that makes me grumpy too, because then I feel isolated and sad, like I’m marooned on the Island of Misfit Pregnant Ladies.

Trust me, I’ve tried all the tricks. Bouncing on the birth ball. Sex. Spicy food. Squats. Garlic pizza. Hot baths. Hula hoop. Curry. Nipple stimulation. Evening primrose oil. Acupressure. Weird yoga moves. Walking. So much walking.

I am trying so hard, and I really thought there would already be a baby in my arms by now. So when someone casually says, “You should have that baby already,” I want to start throwing punches. Really? GREAT IDEA. After 40 weeks of pregnancy, I wasn’t sure what I should do next. But maybe I should HAVE THE BABY! Why didn’t I think of that? I was just hanging on to an extra 35 pounds in 112-degree heat for the hell of it.

HAVE THE BABY? You have the baby.

Yup.

It’s nothing personal. I’m a little on edge.

I’m just ready. I’ve packed and re-packed my hospital bag. The house is clean, and the fridge is stocked. I’m as prepared as I’ll ever be. This part feels like the last few days at a job I’ve already quit — there’s nothing more I can do here. I’m just watching the clock, wasting hours. It’s time for the next phase to begin.

Let’s do this, baby.

Lemon is bored too.

P.S. On a good note that is completely unrelated to my pregnancy, I’m thrilled to see my name among the finalists here. It’s a nice reminder that I have a life outside of watching “House” and waiting to go into labor.

Pregnancy Week 39: Seven Things to Do While Waiting for Baby

July 2, 2014

We’re in the home stretch! I’m full term! Over easy! Well done! If I were a Thanksgiving turkey, the red pop-up thermometer would be poking out of my tummy right now.

And yet, there’s not a lot happening at this stage. I’m bored. It’s hard to write, because my laptop no longer fits on my lap. I’ve outgrown most of my clothes, so I don’t feel like leaving the house much. Mostly I just wait for baby.

The waiting is the hardest part. (So wise, that Tom Petty.)

If you’re in the final countdown like me, here’s what you can do to fill the time:

1. Take some last belly bump photos and get into a fight with your husband.

ME: Frame the photo so that you cut out my arm, okay?

HUSBAND: I’ll try. But you’re beautiful, and your arm looks fine.

ME: My arm looks doughy.

HUSBAND: You’re pregnant.

ME: My arm isn’t pregnant.

And so on.

I want to love the skin I’m in.

I hate being this person — the 15-year-old girl who shrinks from photos because they might reveal a flaw. I know I should be wowed by my body’s amazing ability to create life instead of disappointed by how it looks. And there are definitely times when I feel like a curvy pregnant goddess, but lately those moments are few and far in between.

It can be strange and surreal to fully embrace a body that now requires GPS navigation. Sometimes I look in the mirror and I don’t recognize this landscape at all.

Maybe I shouldn’t take anymore photos, so I wouldn’t even have to deal with it. But I regret now how little documentation I have of my teenage years, all those times I turned away from the camera — and I’m sure I’ll be sad someday if I let my droopy triceps stop me from having pregnancy photos.

So I take the photos. And I fight with The Husband about chopping my arm from the image.

Look, ma! No hands! Or arms.

2. Answer a lot of phone calls and have this script ready: “Nope. No baby yet. I’ll let you know.”

See also: “It’s fine. My due date is still three days away.”

3. Read all the child-rearing books.

I have all these really great literary books on my nightstand. But I’ve temporarily pushed them aside to plow through parenting guides instead. Now I know how to have the happiest baby on the block, and I’ve become “baby wise.” I know how French women raise their babies, and I know the essential life skills every child needs. And I also know that all these books offer radically different, conflicting advice.

I told my friend Dean that I feel like I’m cramming for the biggest exam of my life.

“Yep,” he said. “And you won’t know the results for 20 years.”

4. Exercise.

I’m desperate to leave the house and go walking, but it’s been a little hot in the desert lately. Even in my air-conditioned house, it’s hot.

Today was Nazi-looking-at-the-Ark-of-the-Covenant hot.

So I’ve been doing laps around Home Depot and Costco. I swim every morning. I do yoga DVDs. I still don’t feel like I’m doing much, but it’s something.

Swimming. And still hot.

5. Nest.

In my household, this involves rearranging all two pieces of furniture in the guest room closet-turned-nursery. (It’s a strange room. If you could see it, you’d understand why the furniture is in the closet.)

Nobody puts baby in the closet! Except me. I put baby in the closet.

And painting a wooden letter.

For the door of the nursery. In retrospect, I don’t know why.

And tossing a bunch of crap that should have been thrown away years ago.

HUSBAND: Why do we have three bottles of anti-malaria pills?

ME: Well, you never know. We could go somewhere with malaria.

HUSBAND: They expired in 2011.

ME: Your point?

HUSBAND: Wouldn’t you want new malaria pills?

6. Get really good at stressing out.

Current worries include but are not limited to:

* I’ll never have time to write again.

* I am too young to have a baby.

* I am too old to have for a baby.

* I won’t have any snacks at the hospital.

* I will miss the coziness of just The Husband and me and regret expanding our family.

* Baby won’t love me.

* Baby will be born without a butthole. (This happens to 1 in 5,000 babies, by the way.)

* I will give birth to a dolphin.

7. Nap.

People keep telling me to sleep now and enjoy this time before the baby comes, as if sleep is something I can stockpile.

I only sleep for a little while before I get too uncomfortable, and then it takes a lot of momentum to get out of bed. I have to rock back and forth, flapping my limbs around like an awkward turtle that ended up on its back.

And as soon as I get up, I just want to take another nap.

Pregnancy week 37: Don’t call me mistress

June 23, 2014

Who has a brand spanking new MFA in nonfiction? Why, that must be me!

The fauxploma before the real diploma arrives.

You can just call me Master Maggie from now on. It’s cool. I don’t mind.

I’ve told people that this is my big accomplishment of the year, that this degree makes me prouder than most anything else I’ve ever done. And in response, those people have gasped and said, “But you’re having a BABY. Babies are a blessing. Babies are life’s biggest accomplishment.” They act like I’m skinning kittens and punching orphans.

I’m not a terrible person. I’m excited about the baby too, and I’m grateful to have had a healthy pregnancy thus far. I hoped and cried and planned for this baby. And I know that motherhood will be something to be cherished, something wonderful and strange that I don’t even understand yet.

But having a baby doesn’t make me value this educational achievement any less. I truly worked for this degree, and I put years into it. This degree is my trip around the world, my mom’s life and death, my imaginary characters, my poetry, my grief, my layers of scar tissue. I have given so much to it.

Now I’m finally finished, which is scary and exhilarating. Mostly scary. (I’m actually going to have an emotional breakdown about that very soon. Stay tuned.)

And I graduated in a banging maternity dress. BOOM.

WERK. Rihanna, take note.

The days leading up to graduation were fairly stressful. I met with a couple of agents and editors about my book — meetings that later reduced me to hot, ugly tears, even though they all gave me valuable, thoughtful advice. It was good stuff, really. It just feels like your soul is getting crushed when people don’t say the things you desperately want them to say. Or when they don’t hand you a Publisher’s Clearinghouse-sized check in exchange for your work.

Then I gave my graduate lecture, which probably could have gone better, but it also could have gone worse. I didn’t cry, vomit or lose my mucous plug, so I considered it a success.

Finally I had to say goodbye to the people who have formed my literary community over the past couple years — my protective snowglobe filled with mentors, professors, friends and cheerleaders. And that was sad.

I miss these homies already. And all the rest of my nerds too.

My lovelies.

BFFL.

Speaking of my friends, they are fantastic. My friend Ashley flew in from Dallas and wrangled one hell of a baby shower for me. She enlisted help from a bunch of my friends, and they generously created a memorable night of laughter, lemon cake, lovely gifts and a pin the sperm on the egg game.

No funny caption here, because this cake was serious business. Seriously good.

If I give this baby even half the love, care and kindness that my friends have shown me, he’ll grow up just fine. I am deeply thankful to have such good people in my life.

Duffle coat for my little Paddington Bear.

One perk that I’ll miss about my grad school is that we stay at the Omni Rancho Las Palmas Resort for a 10-day residency period twice a year. I’ve always loved the resort, but I don’t think I fully appreciated it until I got pregnant.

I have never been so comfortable in my life. The bed was cozy and delicious, and it came stacked with a zillion tiny pillows that I tucked around my sore body. I had two buffet meals a day, and my room was clean whenever I returned. The shower had the perfect level shelf for me to shave my legs. I worked out, walked the gorgeous property, and every morning I went swimming and soaked in tepid water and purple desert skies.

Good morning to me.

I only wish I could have spent all 9 months there.

Pregnancy week 36: Circle, line, twist

June 20, 2014

I knew that many pregnant women carry the strep virus, which can cause issues for newborns. I knew this, and I knew I would be screened for it toward the end of my pregnancy.

The cause of all this.

What I didn’t know is that we weren’t talking about strep throat. And that made for one very awkward OB visit.

I was perched on the edge of the exam table when the nurse handed me a long swab. She looked bored as she rattled off the instructions: “OK, just take this, make three circles around your vagina, draw a straight line with it, insert it into your rectum and twist.”

“Um, I’m sorry,” I said, and I involuntarily crossed my legs. “I’m going to need you to say that again.”

“Take the swab. Three quick circles around your vagina. Draw a line. Put it in your rectum and twist.”

I’m no prude, and I certainly don’t mind touching my own body. I was just surprised. For one thing, I was really expecting a throat culture here, and there’s a big difference between the two. Except in Bangkok, where I’ve seen performers use the orifices interchangeably.

Also how could I possibly be trusted with this very important task, involving parts of my body I hadn’t seen in months?

Hi feet, Remember me?

“Maybe you could show me on a chart,” I said.

The nurse pointed to a laminated pink diagram of ladybits.

“Circle, circle, circle. Line. Twist,” she said. “It’s not science.”

I wanted to point out that this was, in fact, science. That everything about a visit to the doctor is science. That the only reason I would ever culture my own rectum would be for the purpose of science. But I didn’t want to get into it just then. I had more important things to think about.

Five minutes later I was in the OB office bathroom, one foot propped on the toilet seat, leaning to the side to see past my massive, round belly. But it turns out that dry cotton doesn’t glide nearly as well as the nurse’s finger on a smooth, glossy chart. Somewhere in between circling and twisting, I toppled over into the sliding wooden door, a swab shoved firmly into a very unfortunate place.

At least the test turned out to be negative. So there’s that.

Unless I did it wrong.

Pregnancy week 35: The closer I get to my due date, the more I love my dog

June 2, 2014

My due date is about 30 days away. But instead of organizing the nursery or preparing other things for baby, I can’t stop lavishing attention on my dog.

I’ve always loved my dog, of course. Lemon is a six-year-old, double-dapple dachshund, born blind, deaf and full of sass. People say she’s lucky I adopted her; I think the opposite is true. I’m grateful that of all the dogs in all the world, this wriggly, cuddly, brave pup found her way into my home. She teaches me what it means to be confident and true.

MUCH HIKE. SUCH DOG.

Lately, though, my dog love has been particularly strong. After my husband leaves for work, I grab the dog from her bed and pull her into mine. There I prop myself up on pillows, writing and working on my computer, while she burrows against my legs in the place where the backs of my knees form a right angle. (Or on top of my legs. Or sprawled across my lap.)

I find it difficult to pull myself away from her, and I only do it if I must — like if I need groceries or have a doctor’s appointment. Our regular walks have gotten longer, and they feel more leisurely and special.

SNUGGLING SO HARD.

My phone has 1,196 photos on it right now, and I’d say the bulk of them are of her silly, furry face. Sometimes I also shoot video — Lemon walking down the stairs, tearing the fluff from a stuffed gorilla, kicking and snoring in her sleep. Really compelling stuff.

LOOK AT HER LITTLE FURRY FACE!

My husband has this theory that I’m chock full of mommy hormones right now. He thinks with no baby here yet, all of my maternal instincts have been concentrated into a big laser beam of love, directed right at this fur-child.

My doula believes there’s a part of me that must know my relationship with Lemon is about to change, so I’m trying to get all my snuggling in now while I still have time and attention to spare.

I think it’s something else entirely — I’m scared.

I’m scared I’ll be a bad mother. This is my first child, and I haven’t spent much time around babies, so I’m not sure I know how to be a parent. This is something that goes way beyond creating a nap schedule or knowing how to change a diaper.

It’s an enormous responsibility to shelter and nourish a child; to love him and keep him safe; to educate him and teach him to be compassionate, ethical and respectful. How do I know if I have the capacity for that? How can anyone be certain?

In college I had this Giga Pet, which required regular (electronic) feeding, activity and loving. One night I got particularly smashed and awoke from my drunken stupor with the Giga Pet wedged underneath my body, the angel of death on the screen. It was horrifying. And it only takes one traumatic robot death to make you wonder how you’ll fare as a real-life parent.

I’m scared I won’t bond with him. I worry that I’ll give birth, and I won’t feel the things that mothers are supposed to feel.

Yes, this baby was desired. My husband and I wanted him, we planned for him, and we spent a long time trying to conceive him. But simply wanting something doesn’t eliminate the fear that comes along with it.

What happens if I bring this child home, and I don’t like him? What if that part of me is missing? It must happen.

I’m scared my baby won’t love me. That must happen sometimes too.

Maybe I should have gotten a Corgi. I know Corgis like me.

I’m not certain birth will alleviate any of my worries — all of these emotions will probably exist in the shadows, live and loaded, for many years to come.

I expected that pregnancy would come with a lot of physical changes, the rise of a belly, the heaviness of my breasts, the cravings, the fluctuation in energy. What I didn’t expect was how much emotion and anxiety would also swell inside my body. The self-doubt, the compound of past damage, the feeling that I’m walking on the edge of a slippery cliff.

So now I wait for my human child to arrive. I continue to wonder how we’ll feel about each other. And I focus my affection on a creature that never fails to return my love — my dog, mom’s best friend.

Here’s how everything else is going this week:

Baby: Is enormous. I’m afraid the next ultrasound will show the Michelin man.

Has anyone seen my beach ball?

My body: Is a wonderland.

Or a constellation.

My milky way brings all the boys to the yard.

How do you prepare for a baby? You planet.

Eating: I think I’ve hit the wacky stage of pregnancy eating. Today The Husband asked what I wanted for lunch, and I said, “Pizza. Or sushi. Or falafel. … Or pizza WITH sushi AND falafel.” And The Husband looked scared. Very, very scared.

(We ended up eating quinoa salad and sweet potato fries, in case you’re wondering. No sushi/falafel pizza. Not yet, anyway.)

I’m still craving lots of fruit too. Watermelon, cantaloupe, grapes, watermelon, strawberries, banana smoothies, watermelon.

Exercise: It’s difficult to find motivation to work out when I wake up feeling heavy and lethargic, and it’s already 90 degrees outside at dawn. I’ve been swimming a lot and trying to do as much yoga as possible, but I feel increasingly lumpy. I’m pretty sure my blood type has changed from A-positive to gravy.

The Husband: I found this old photo of The Husband with our niece, and it cracks me up. You can just tell by the look on his face that he believes he broke the baby.