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Pregnancy Week 34: Getting prepared — and pampered

May 26, 2014

The Husband and I started going to birth preparation classes this week. We opted to do the classes at a local non-profit for families, because they focus on empowering parents through education in order to make the birth a positive and comfortable experience. The last thing I wanted was to get trapped in a class that scared me — like a teacher running through every possible scenario of what could go wrong or screening a bunch of outdated videos in which bloody babies are yanked from snarled, 1970s porn crotches.

But this class is good. It’s led by my doula, and there are two other couples who are expecting baby boys around the same time. During the first class, we discussed the stages of labor, comfort techniques, and how to make a hospital room feel less hospital-ly. We also watched a birth video that was so real and beautiful and emotionally raw, I got a little teary.

OK, a lot teary.

In that environment, I didn’t feel dumb asking my dumb questions. For instance, I wasn’t clear on what the placenta actually is, where it came from and what happens to it. (If you’re wondering too: It’s an organ that attaches the baby to my uterus, I recently grew it just for this very purpose, and I’ll have to “birth” it after the baby is born. Freaky, man.)

Big lady in front of a big lady.

I also wondered what will happen when I poop during labor — because let’s be honest, I will. (Supposedly there’s a sack attached near the end of the table under the stirrups, kinda like the butt bags that horses wear during a parade. This is where the poop goes.) I’ll be honest — just knowing there’s a system in place makes me feel much more comfortable about defecating on a table.

Before the next class, The Husband and I need to come up with a birth plan. A lot of people tend to say those words with capital letters, as though it is the most important document I will ever write. BIRTH PLAN. It is supposed to go into my HOSPITAL BAG, two more words often said with deep reverence, apparently the most important purse I will ever carry.

The birth plan is designed to help choreograph the labor and delivery process. I get why this is important — it’s supposed to make my wishes very clear. But I also know that life doesn’t adhere to plans, and I want to remain flexible about delivery.

I really feel like this birth plan is something I should leave up to the baby. You want to come out, baby? Terrific! Have I got a canal for you! You need a C-section? Fine. I’m not crazy about that, but we’ll work it out. Whatever makes you healthy and happy.

During my ideal labor, I’d like to have my Spotify “Push It” playlist thumping. I’d like to have some snacks. And I’d like a framed photo of Beyonce on the table next to me — because nothing inspires confidence and strength like Queen Bey. But really, I’ll just be happy if I don’t have the baby in the elevator.

Here’s how things are going this week:

Baby: As big as a pineapple or a cantaloupe or something else fat and juicy.

Shower: My friends Xochitl and Nelsy had a fancy lady pampering day for me, and it was exactly what I needed. I’m grateful to have such beautiful friends in my life.

Sassy lady baby shower.

There were cupcakes …

OMFG.

… and a visit to a spa, where I had the loveliest prenatal massage. Then we spent all afternoon soaking in the saltwater pools.

Spa … ahhhh.

Cravings: Strawberries, which is strange because I have a minor allergy to them. This allergy is so minor, I only discovered it about a year ago when I had the following conversation with The Husband:

ME: The only thing I don’t like about strawberries is how they make your face numb after eating them.

HUSBAND: Strawberries don’t make your face numb.

ME: Uh, yes. They do.

HUSBAND: That’s not supposed to happen. You’re allergic to them.

Oh. So I have this allergy, but it has completely disappeared since I’ve been pregnant. And I have been eating a LOT of strawberries.

Perhaps I’m birthing a magic baby with the ability to remove allergies. In which case all you celiacs should get your money ready now, because I’m totally going to charge for that service. Cash only.

Also craving watermelon, mango and all the world’s avocados.

Body: I think maybe baby is going through a growth spurt. I’m hungry all the time, and my body is now all belly. I also had a body/self-image crisis this week, but I don’t feel like writing about it yet.

Reading: This review of “Labor Day: True Birth Stories By Today’s Best Women Writers.”

I love this part: “Yes, healthy living babies matter, yes, healthy living babies are the inarguable goal, but women’s bodies and minds — and the all-important connection between the two — matter also.”

Pregnancy Week 32: Mother’s Day

May 11, 2014

My favorite memory of my mom is also one of the most mysterious.

It happened when I was in first grade, and the teacher abruptly sent me to the principal’s office. My mom was there, waiting, and she gave me the kind of look that meant I should keep my mouth shut.

This was clearly unusual. I had never been to the principal’s office before, let alone in the middle of the school day. My mom signed a form or something, and then she held my hand as she guided me out of the school, into the parking lot and into our family station wagon.

When I was buckled into the car, she handed me a paper bag from some toy store that probably doesn’t exist anymore.

“Go on. Open it,” she said.

Inside was a Glamour Gal, a 4-inch tall doll of molded plastic and tiny features. She had luscious blonde hair, just like the lady on WKRP in Cincinnati, and was wearing a blue tube dress. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

The present was strange, because it wasn’t my birthday or Christmas or any special occasion at all.

I had the one on the right. Eventually I also got the one wearing the pink dress — a dress that easily slipped off her shoulders so she could have filthy sex with my gigantic Ken dolls. The ’80s were crazy for everyone.

After that, we went to McDonalds, and my mom bought me a Happy Meal. This was also strange, because it was something that just didn’t happen. We rarely went out to eat, fast food or otherwise, but when we did it was with the whole family.

I remember stirring my soggy fries into puddles of ketchup, just like mom did, and it felt very grown-up, like two sassy ladies out on the town. When my mom finally brought me home, she said I must never tell anyone about our secret afternoon outing. I waited for something like that to happen again, but it never did.

My mom did a lot of terrific things for me, so I’m not sure why that incident sticks in my head. I suppose it’s the oddity and rarity of it.

I don’t remember the context of that day — what was happening at home or at school. Maybe my mom was sad and lonely, and she wanted to do something to strengthen our relationship. Maybe she was just bored and wanted to see me. Maybe that’s the day my first-grade teacher was baptizing everyone into the Church of Satan, and she was protecting me. Who knows?

I wish I could ask her.

This is the fourth Mother’s Day since my mom passed away. But since she spent 10 years dying of Alzheimer’s Disease, it feels like I’ve been without her much longer.

I think we're both wearing cool Member's Only jackets because it was the '80s and we were totally rad.

I think we’re both wearing Members Only jackets because we were totally rad. Also what is this place? Anyone know?

It’s difficult to explain Alzheimer’s to those who haven’t tried to love someone through it. It’s a thief of a disease. It doesn’t only steal memories, it steals the victim’s everything.

Alzheimer’s took the light that illuminated my mother’s eyes, and it left behind someone I no longer recognized.

It’s only fair, I guess, that she no longer recognized me either.

At the nursing home.

I spent many years resentful of this — it’s how I mourned. I was angry that my mom abandoned me. I didn’t have a mom to call when I got engaged. I didn’t have a mom to watch me walk down the aisle. I didn’t have a mom around when adult life felt fierce and overwhelming. I didn’t have a mom when I needed one.

For a long time, I pushed away memories of her. I could only recall the most mundane things — our drive to church, her vacuuming the house, the way she studied her the arch of her eyebrows as she filled them in with a makeup pencil.

But now that I’m writing a memoir in which she figures prominently, I’m starting to excavate my memories again, and she materializes in the most surprising places. I hear a George Michael song, and it reminds me of mom dancing in the kitchen, committing crimes against chicken. (Seriously, she was a terrible cook.) Spring flowers remind me of how my mom found wild honeysuckle in our backyard, plucked the stamen and placed the sweet drop of nectar on my tongue. Certain smells remind me of her perfume, her sweat, her skin.

I think of her even more now as my pregnancy progresses. I wish she were here to offer me advice and guide me down this brand-new path. Maybe I wouldn’t even want her opinions if she were here to give them; maybe I would hate her advice. It would just be nice to have the option.

This is one of my favorite photos of my mom. I love it because she looks completely fallible, like she’s about to drop my screaming sister right there on that lawn full of weeds. She has absolutely no idea what to do with this child.

The funny thing is that the longer she’s away from me, the closer I feel to her.

Mommy and me. She was clearly an investor in Aquanet at this point.

Mommy and me. At this point, she was clearly an investor in Aquanet.

I’m not a person who believes in heaven as a literal place. I think it’s a beautiful myth, and I have no problem with people who do believe in the concept. But for me personally, I don’t think my mom is watching me from above or looking down over me. I don’t think I will somehow be reunited with her when I die.

What I am attached to is the concept of energy, which doesn’t dissipate simply because a physical body dies — I believe souls never disappear, they just change form.

I’m sad my mom will never meet my son. Even so, I feel her energy now, every day. It’s here as I rub my growing belly. It’s here as I feel a small little thing kicking inside me. And it’ll still be here someday when I spontaneously pick my child up from school, give him a surprise present and take him to lunch for no reason whatsoever.

Pregnancy week 28: If these uterus walls could talk

April 16, 2014

This past week was the LA Times Festival of Books, which has become an annual tradition for my writer girlfriends and me.

It was my second time attending the festival — and it’s the second time I’ve been pregnant at the festival. However, the baby I carried last year died in the first trimester.

I thought I would be over it by now, because that’s what you’re supposed to think. That’s what people tell you: Time heals all wounds and all that. Besides, I have a new baby to look forward to, a new life to fill the space inside me.

So I was surprised by how the grief came back so forcefully this weekend, how fully formed it still is. It hasn’t dissipated. It hasn’t shifted into something else. It’s still this annoying, recognizable presence — a purple gorilla, as poet Matthew Dickman put it.

I did my best to lose myself in other people’s stories so that I wouldn’t be consumed by my own. I went to panels and had books signed by some of my new favorite authors. I swooned over the delightful Pico Iyer and went all fangirl on Laini Taylor in the bathroom. I met LeVar Burton.

READING EFFING RAINBOW.

But still the grief remained.

It’s something I’ll have to live with, I suppose. In a way it’s a relief to know that my other baby didn’t disappear completely. She’s still there somewhere, in that part of me that feels like a wooden splinter. But it doesn’t do much to lessen the loss.

This week I also had one of those 4D ultrasounds, the kind that makes the baby look like a lump of clay or some kind of sculpture-in-progress. I’ve always hated those things. They’re creepy. The photos always make the baby look like a criminal with pantyhose pulled over its head, someone about to knock over a convenience store.

But when it came time, I couldn’t resist. My pregnancy is still at the point where my child exists in an ultrasound monitor, not yet in real life, and I just wanted to look at him. I’m still scared he won’t be real.

It is remarkable what you can see on those ultrasounds. Not just the baby’s face, which was thrilling, even though he looks like a sack of mushy oranges.

My boy has a face!

For some reason, I also have a head of cabbage in there.

But it was amazing to see the heart too. Four chambers with valves that know exactly how to open and close.

I actually have a video of the heart pumping, but I couldn’t figure out how to upload it. So just imagine it.

And bones. I was mesmerized by the spine — the perfect, intricate pieces of a puzzle that somehow solved itself — and I couldn’t get over the fact that my body formed those bones. My god. No wonder I’ve been so tired. I made bones!

In my free time, I make spines.

Pregnancy is such a strange dichotomy. I’ve never felt so powerful, and I’ve never felt so weak.

On the one hand, I am making life. It’s a rush to acknowledge that. I’ve created this thing that will someday be a person with his own abilities, goals, and unique personality. That’s insane.

But it’s also unnerving to realize how random it is — how many forks exist in this road. There’s no reason why this baby might live and why the other did not. I didn’t do anything to make this pregnancy more viable than the last. I didn’t love the babies any differently. In fact, other than subletting my uterus, I really had no part in this at all.

That’s just how it is. One baby is almost here, one is not, and I’m still learning how to accept that some wounds never heal.

Pregnancy Week 27: Just the tip of the third trimester

April 6, 2014

ME: My pregnancy app says we need to talk about circumcision tonight. Presumably for the baby, but they didn’t really specify.

HUSBAND: OK. What do you want to say about it?

ME: (Googling) It appears to be a controversial topic with many pros and cons.

HUSBAND: How do you feel?

ME: I actually have no strong feelings about it one way or another. None. Zero.

HUSBAND: Neither do I.

ME: This is really your territory. All I can contribute is the story of the first time I saw an uncircumcised penis.

HUSBAND: Nope. Don’t want to hear it.

ME: Wait, I’ve got something. What do you call a cheap circumcision?

HUSBAND: What?

ME: A rip off.

HUSBAND: Alright, we’re done talking about this now.

A baby mushroom.

Times like these I feel like I’m still pretending to be an adult. There are very important decisions to be made here — such as, do I want to cut off the tip of my son’s penis? — and I have never even considered these things before. Not once. How am I qualified for this? My business card doesn’t say “foreskin expert.” (Maybe someday. Fingers crossed!)

More importantly, how do other people do it? Did everyone go to a special parenting school when I was out at a bar? If so, you guys are bastards for not inviting me. Is there some way I can obtain a spare baby, so I can try again after I irrevocably screw up this one?

All I know is that I have a lot more research to do before I make any organ-altering decisions. Back to the Google I go.

Here’s what else has been going on this week — the very tip of the third trimester!

Week 27: This is supposedly the beginning of the end, according to people who give me unsolicited advice: “Oh sure, you feel great now. But just wait. That third trimester is terrible.” So … yay?

Baby: As big as a head of cauliflower.

Me: Looks like I’m shoplifting a head of cauliflower.

Seriously, every week I look more and more like the pregnant dude in the “Been Caught Stealing” video, and it cracks me up. If only Halloween were closer, I could totally rock that look, no foam padding necessary.

Exercise: Not so great — only a couple long walks and one yoga class — and I’ve definitely noticed a difference. I feel far chunkier and more lethargic this week. Next week will be better.

On a good note, I did some cool stuff instead of working out.

For instance, I had a couple hours before work on Tuesday. Instead of going for a bike ride like usual, I watched a bunch of guys disassemble the Forever Marilyn statue in downtown Palm Springs.

All hung up.

When Marilyn really went to pieces.

And on Saturday, which is typically my hiking day, The Husband and I drove to San Diego and took a falconry class. The Husband was initially wary about us doing the class during pregnancy, because he was afraid a bird might peck the baby out of my womb.

I’m pleased to report we both enjoyed the class and had zero Hitchcockian incidents.

I should tweet this.

I made a new friend. It was hawkward.

Not ruffling any feathers.

The Husband is very talon-ted.

I still think most birds are weird and could really use some arms, but I’m starting to warm up to raptors.

Health: I had my glucose tolerance test this week, and I should get the results early next week. I’ve done a fair amount of research on the test, and I feel like it’s flawed — and because of that, too many pregnant women are incorrectly diagnosed with gestational diabetes. But I’m going to save that rant for another day. Also I’m not a doctor, just a lady with a lot of opinions.

Books: Baby received his first set of books this week, a gift from my dear friend Tracy. They’re some of my favorite children’s books too: “Where the Wild Things Are,” “Pat the Bunny” and “Goodnight Moon.”

I’ve already started reading to the baby, which seems to inspire a whole taekwondo performance in my belly. So the baby either looooves books, or he hates them and wants me to shut up about rabbits and mittens already.

Cravings: Peanut butter on all the things. Peanut butter on apples. Peanut butter with celery. Peanut butter crackers. Peanut butter and rice cakes. Peanut butter on a moldy rooftop shingle. I don’t care! Slather me in peanut butter and let me nom myself to death.

Pregnancy Week 18: It’s a …!

February 3, 2014

There’s a moment during every ultrasound when I’m pretty sure my heart stops.

The technician squirts cold gel on my belly, then firmly presses the transducer to my abdomen. She moves it back and forth, as if channeling something on a ouija board. I turn my face toward the monitor, frantically searching the blackness on the screen. I don’t see a baby anywhere, and I die about 15 times in just a few seconds.

Abruptly, a tiny, squirming baby pops into focus. A baby! My baby! And all is right with the world.

Wee one.

So that happened again this week. Minor panic attack. Recovery. Good times.

I usually hate it when people post their ultrasound images, because they never actually look like babies. They’re more like fuzzy photo negatives from a century-old arctic expedition. Yet here I am now, so enamored with these speckled pictures of a big, gorgeous baby only I can see.

Though I will admit Baby looks like a resident of Whoville right now. Let’s hope that’s not permanent.

And then my heart grew three sizes.

Since I am of “advanced maternal age,” my most recent ultrasound was done with a genetic specialist, and the whole process lasted more than an hour. The Husband stood by my side, and we high-fived every time we saw a new body part.

TECHNICIAN: Here is the spine …

ME: Spine! Ohmigod. I love spines!

TECHNICIAN: There are the baby’s feet …

HUSBAND: Hell yeah. Feet!

TECHNICIAN: These splotches here are the kidneys …

US: Woo! Kidneys!

The technician pushed a button that made the screen move with splotchy clouds of blue and red, which supposedly displayed the four chambers of the heart pumping blood.

TECHNICIAN: See the blood flowing here and here …

ME: It actually looks like there’s a storm front moving in.

TECHNICIAN: Huh. Yeah, it does. Well, here’s the polar vortex, and that right there is Atlanta.

Finally, the technician confirmed what I suspected all along. It’s a boy!

Here you go. This is the first and last time my child’s penis will ever be on the internet. I hope.

The technician added some helpful notations.

I’m still in a little bit of shock. It’s a boy!

A boy who will pee in my face when I change his diapers. A boy who will get poop on his testicles. A boy who will turn paper towel tubes into weapons. A boy who will stand up to use the potty. A boy who will grow up and fall in love with a girl or boy and sneak out of the house and bong a few Miller Lites and smash the Camaro … and I’m terrified. I’m absolutely terrified. I don’t know how to be a mother to a boy.

For the record, I don’t know how to be a mother to a girl either. And we don’t have a Camaro. I’m just scared overall, regardless of the baby’s sex.

Here’s how everything else is going this week:

Baby: The size of a bell pepper. He also has little ears and his own unique set of fingerprints.

Baby also enjoys being stuffed and baked for one hour at 350 degrees.

Me: Not the size of a bell pepper. But I’ve reached the point of pregnancy where strangers will approach me and rub my belly, as if I can grant them three wishes. (I can’t, unfortunately.)

Also my belly is lopsided. I think this is normal? Or maybe all those strangers have just been pushing too hard on one side.

The belly of the beast.

Weight: I’ve gained six pounds so far. I didn’t necessarily want this information — I’ve been trying to keep my focus away from numbers on the scale — but my doctor told me anyway.

Food: Cravings have mostly been of the difficult-to-obtain variety: Masala dosa. Kanom krok, tiny coconut pancakes from Thailand that are crispy and creamy, sweet and savory. And these spicy kimchi dumplings from a street vendor in Seoul.

Not just any dumplings, mind you. THESE.