A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Birth Center

Yeah, so my son was born in the backseat of a vehicle. Before I go into the story I want to first clear something up. As romantic as it sounds, it was not a Yellow Taxi Cab. I know it would be so New York if it was, but this is not one of those “New York” stories. It actually is, if anything, a Brooklyn story. We were in what New Yorkers call a “Gypsy Cab.” Graham said that the more APPROPRIATE term is a Livery Cab. Gypsy Cabs are usually a town car of sorts or some other pedestrian vehicle contracted by a car service company. The one we were in was a minivan and driven by a Hispanic driver named Gladys.

So, as you know, I was a little ATTACHED to the desire to give birth in a non-hospital setting. We did our research and happily signed on with the only remaining freestanding birth center in the New York area, The Brooklyn Birthing Center. Now here is the thing about Brooklyn: It is HUGE. Just because you live in one area doesn’t mean you are ANYWHERE NEAR another area. BBC was on the way other side of Brooklyn from us. On the subway it takes an hour and fifteen minutes to get there. Our visits would last 15 to 20 minutes tops, but our commute was two and a half hours roundtrip. Not exactly convenient and it was something we wondered about when discussing what would happen on THE BIG DAY. So we took a car service to one of our appointments, just to time it, to see what we were really dealing with. It took 45 minutes. Not ideal, but doable. We discussed this with the midwives who said that this was a common thing and they would factor the time in for gauging when it was time to come in.

The car service driver we had for that trial run was named Gladys. Thirtysomething, mellow, agreeable Gladys. I liked her because she was a woman and didn’t drive like a maniac. The problem I have with Livery Cab drivers (actually make that all taxi drivers) is that they drive like maniacs, talking on their cell phones, listening to their radios full blast, and not giving a shit for much. I am almost always white knuckled in the back of the car, sure I am going to die (and still have to tip). When we had friends visiting from California this summer, Gladys had been the driver to help us transport five of them and their luggage to Manhattan. She drove a minivan and seemed calm and pretty friendly. We talked to her on the way to the BBC on our trial run, told her what was happening, and asked her what her hours were. Her English came and went at odd times, but she was very friendly about being our driver and gave us her card so we didn’t have to call through the car service, we could reach her directly. Great. Our transport was secured and now Gladys was part of the plan.

That was two months ago. Two months before I started daily complaints about my due date coming and going like some floating cloud that meant nothing to my body, but everything to my emotional state. I don’t know if you caught on, I mean, I think the majority of you are pretty DARN SHARP (no dull tools in THIS shed), but I was SICK OF BEING PREGNANT. I wanted OUT. I watched with desperate yearning as one by one all the babies that I knew were due a week before mine, came one to two weeks early. Then the ones that were due after mine came early. I was starting to think that birth was an elaborate hoax that I would never get to experience. We tried everything: sex, spleen six pressure points, walking, and eating spicy food. Nothing happened. I went to see the midwives two days after my due date and I was already at 2 cm, but I couldn’t be naturally induced by stripping my membranes because the baby was not effaced enough. So I went back to the waiting, thinking there was NO WAY I would go to the next appointment scheduled, a full TEN DAYS after my due date.

Yeah, I was a little depressed when I showed up the next week. Another way to describe it might be SLIGHTLY INSULTED by the fact that I still hadn’t given birth. I went in BALLOONING with fluid and HIGH HOPES that I was ready for membrane stripping or at least a bit of castor oil. So I got checked and I was at 3cm, but my other physical scores still were a point away from being stripped. I started to cry. The midwife said that she would just jiggle the handle of my cervix (my words, not hers) to see if it couldn’t be cajoled into another point towards inducement. As it happens, my cervix PUTS OUT. I went from 3 to 6 cm immediately. So I got stripped. Wow, did that not feel comfortable. It was like being the midwife’s big giant purse, while she rooted around trying to locate her keys. Graham held my hand while I gritted my teeth and did my best to BREATHE big breaths. I should have realized that this was foreshadowing of what was soon to come: the writhing discomfort, the need to practice big breaths, and that for the next little while my insides would be SEVERAL people’s big purse containing anything from a lost pair of keys, a ringing cell phone, or a cigarette lighter. I will tell every pregnant woman in the world, that when you get to that point, feeling like your health provider might be ELBOW DEEP in your insides, it is time to GET USED TO IT for the time being. There is only MORE WHERE THAT CAME FROM.

I left feeling hopeful, cramping, and tired with a plan of action. I had an appointment with an acupuncturist to help get labor started, and if neither the stripping or the acupuncture worked by the next morning, I could use castor oil and see what happened from there. If the castor oil didn’t click, I had agreed to be induced on Saturday morning, but my midwife thought this probably would not be an issue.

At about two in the morning those tell tale waves of menstrual cramps woke me up. Since I’d had some labor before, I was determined not to take these too seriously, but Graham started timing them and sure enough, they were like clockwork: Every 25 minutes, lasting 30 seconds. By the time we woke up they were every 20 minutes. I had a doubtful feeling, though. They just weren’t that strong and by a couple of hours after we woke up, smaller erratic contractions had started to punctuate the rhythm and finally, they seemed to slow entirely. So we went for a walk and found the only hill in our neighborhood and walked up and down it until we were so cold and the need to pee was too painful to ignore. The contractions had slowed to every half hour and were pretty weak.

Castor oil it was. And hours later, nothing happened. NOTHING. No runs, no change in contractions, nothing. I was beginning to think this kid had enjoyed his breakfast of pancakes and bacon so much that he was thinking of calling in supplies and staying the rest of the winter. So we called the midwife and she said it was time to help that castor oil out. I am not about to admit on the Internet what she suggested, but let’s just say it sort of rhymed with your aunt EDNA. So me and Aunt EDNA had some quality time. I came out of my quality time with EDNA and within a half hour the contractions rolled in at ten minutes apart and they were getting STRONGER.

Then my water broke and we checked the quality and thought, IS THAT MECONIUM? In case people don’t know, meconium is the baby’s first poop. I know, it sounds like a rare and precious metal or a planet Superman’s family might have summered on, but it’s really just poop. It’s supposed to be THE THING you check for when your water breaks. If it is slightly discolored with it, fine, but if it has dark matter or a pea soup quality, we needed to call the birthing center immediately. So we stood over a maxipad and kept asking ourselves is that it? Is that green or is it brown or is it anything? So we called the midwife and she said, “Well, it’s probably nothing, but just in case, why don’t you head in. I might send you back home if it’s nothing, or if it’s something I’ll send you to the hospital.”

The phrase I keep coming back to is I MIGHT SEND YOU BACK HOME. Remember, we were 45 minutes away. The midwife did not seem very concerned with time. I later found out they thought I had loads of time because I was a first time mom and first time moms don’t usually go very quickly. Well, ladies, welcome to Quickie McGee Pierre.

We called Gladys and this is where I think something in me knew that this was not going to go as hoped or planned. She had no memory of us whatsoever and was unclear as to when she would pick us up. Graham explained I was in labor and she said she guessed she could be there 10-15 minutes. Usually cars come in five. I still clung to the familiarity of her so we said we would wait. 20 minutes, another call to a different car service, and two contractions later, Gladys finally showed up. We hopped in, with me moaning. She asked, “What is going on?” As if it hadn’t already been explained to her. Graham reiterated that I was in labor and she nervously laughed, “Why aren’t you going to the hospital?” She meant the hospital that we were across the street from. “We’re going to the birth center,” Graham explained and then said, “You’ve driven us there before, remember?” Nope. No registry and it became very clear that she didn’t like having us in her van. The entire time she kept trying to dump us. “You should be in an ambulance!” She said, “call an ambulance they can give you a ride to the hospital.” But we weren’t going to the hospital, we kept explaining, and this isn’t an emergency.

Well, that is until we hit the Brooklyn Queens Expressway and it was slammed with traffic.

It is hard for me to even write these words. Even now, my body rings with memory of what it was like to have escalating pain in a small space. I was breathing through very intense contractions that were noticeably quicker. I climbed in the very back seat so I could somehow get more comfortable and to try to calm down. Meanwhile, Gladys was flipping out. She wanted us out of the van. During a stopped moment, she tried to get Graham to get out of the van to flag a private security van down to take us. I bellowed to just KEEP GOING FOR PETES SAKE. It was LABOR, not the end of the world. I hated her in that moment. I hated that I felt I had to fight her and the claustrophobia and the traffic and the contractions. I wanted her to just SUCK IT UP and GET US THERE.

Graham called the midwife to say we were still in traffic. She suggested an alternative route, but Gladys had no idea what she was talking about, so we stayed in the clogged river of vehicles. Graham started counting miles to the exit for me, while that horrible trapped feeling started to increase with the contractions. Have you ever seen a tiger or large animal pace a cage anxiously? That is the only way I can describe the feeling. I was an animal being held in a confined space and I had no choice but to start saying over and over, “I want out of this fucking car, I want out of this fucking car, get me out of here, get me out of here, I don’t want to be here anymore.”

The contractions were really rolling in at this point and I kept thinking as a way to get me through them, “After this one is done, I’ll have a break. Just get me to that break.” They were about 3 or 4 minutes apart at this point, but then something happened I’ll never forget. One rolled in, started to subside, and then another slammed me. I started sweating horribly. This was not good.

Finally, we exited and the relief in the van was palpable. “After this, just another ten minutes or so, okay?” Graham said to me. I could taste the relief of being safe for just a moment.

Then we hit another wall of traffic.

It was the most horrible thing I’d ever seen in my life. As far as I could see, a strip of red taillights stopping and going. Somewhere in my mind that small argument began to take place between denial and reality: “Don’t be dramatic and say what you’re about to say,” said one voice. Another voice said, “But I don’t think we are going to make it.” And that’s when another contraction slammed me so hard and a distinct burning sensation ripped through my groin. I have to say that at this moment I was grateful for any and all birthing classes I ever took, because this one sensation, the burning sensation, put to rest any and all arguments of what I was battling out in my head. I knew from every video that we watched that when a burning sensation comes on, the baby is coming. That and an utterly guttural desire to push. That’s when what I hoped I would never have to say, came screaming out of my mouth, which was, “He’s coming! The baby is coming!” I started frantically trying to rip my jeans off. Graham called the midwives, who said to pull over immediately and call 911. So that’s what we did. Gladys got out of the van and Graham was on the phone to 911 explaining what was happening while he ripped off my shoes and tried to help me pull off my jeans.

You might be able to picture the terror and helplessness that Graham experienced in the van, pulling off his wife’s jeans, and trying his best to get help on the phone. I have no memory of this, but at one point he dropped the phone in the darkness of the van and while he frantically looked for it, I calmly handed it back to him. He found the light in the van and switched it on. He examined me to see if the baby was crowning and informed 911 that I wasn’t, but that he could see it coming. I will never forget the look on his face when he said to me, “Baby, listen to me, they don’t want you to push.” That was like telling me not to have skin or to breathe or to yell. I don’t know if I can adequately express to you what the urge to push was like. It wasn’t an URGE at all. It was my body taking over completely and saying, STEP ASIDE, SISTER I GOT IT FROM HERE. I started to panic.

Then the cops came. The BLESSED COPS! All rosy sirens and flashing lights and TRAINED IN AN EMERGENCY COPS. But it was just one cop and he was TWELVE YEARS OLD. He took one look in the van, uttered the word, “Okay,” and then CLOSED THE VAN DOORS and STOOD THERE. Graham, still on the phone with 911, told them what the cop was up to. 911 was not pleased. They wanted to talk to him. So Graham opened the door and handed the phone to him. The boy cop looked at Graham and said, “Who is it?” Um, HELLO IT’S 911! Remember? THIS IS AN EMERGENCY! Thank you, Brooklyn’s FINEST. What was surmised from this exchange was that he wasn’t trained to help in any way at all. If I hadn’t been focusing so deeply on somehow dodging the next contraction my morale wouldn’t have been so hot. I would not have been immediately relieved when the fire department came. I was too busy living every second of that moment in the van, with my dress about my hips, dreading the next contraction because it wouldn’t be just a painful bystander. It would PUSH for me and since I was told directly NOT to push, I sat there feeling like a bomb about to go off. About four firemen peeked inside, asked about my contractions, to which Graham said I was about 3 minutes apart. One of the fireman said, “Oh good, she still has time.”

(Oh, ha ha. Maybe my midwife will check me and SEND ME HOME AGAIN TOO!)

A paramedic showed up—a nice bald paramedic, who laid out pads and paper on the seat and checked me. He had this great idea he was going to move me onto the stretcher and into the ambulance. That’s when a lady paramedic showed up, climbed in the back, took one look at me and said, “We are not moving her. This baby is going to be born now.”

That’s when the last two contractions hit and I screamed so hard it rang in my ears. What they say is true about the pain. A week ago, I could remember the pain and the screaming it created. Now, I only remember the screaming and that’s how I associate the pain. I’ve never screamed like that in my life. I felt that if I screamed loud enough my skin would rip off my entire body, like some popped balloon and that would be a pleasure. My eyes were closed deep into the screaming, but I remember distinctly the pop of his head coming and then another pop which told me he was out. I opened my eyes and there he was on the seat, pink faced, gurgling, looking wet and amphibious. I kept waiting fro the big cry, but he wasn’t crying, just gurgling. So I said, “Is he okay?” And that’s when the lady paramedic said something I will never forget as long as I live. She said, “Mama, he is BEAUTIFUL.”

I didn’t cry then because I was in shock, but since then I have thought of this moment over and over again and wept and wept out of relief and gratitude not only for the health of my son, but for the most perfect four words that could have been spoken to me in that moment of shock and confusion. He was more than alive. He was beautiful.

I remember looking up through the back window at Graham who was pressed up against it looking in on me just saying over and over again that he loved me and then back at my pink faced son, who looked a little stunned to be flat on his back on a car seat.

They clamped and cut Gus’ umbilical cord and then put him in my arms with one of those metallic “blankets” you see athletes donning after a marathon. I was still wearing my jacket and down vest, so I covered him up as best I could. He was warm and whimpered up against me. I couldn’t do anything but say, “Hi there, hi there, baby.”

Now is as good as any to tell all you people that I had one small fear about giving birth and that was pooping in front of my husband. I know it was a little neurotic shred of vanity that I held on to. What would he think? OH MY GOLLY, MY WIFE HAD A BABY OUT OF HER LADY PARTS AND DID A POOP! I remember Maggie Mason saying to trust her, you won’t care when it happens. Man, was she right. I did not care so much so that it also didn’t matter that there were about ten firemen, a policeman, Gladys, and about 20 onlookers seeing me SPREAD EAGLE in the back of an illuminated minivan doing MANY bodily things, including I am sure (but not positive) a little pooping. And maybe that’s why I can admit this to you, ye PUBLIC INTERNET, I just didn’t/don’t care. A friend asked me now that I’ve given birth in a car, do I feel like I can do anything? No. If anything, I feel even more vulnerable in some ways. In this other way, the shame, bodily way I feel FREE AS A BIRD.

They put Gus and me on a stretcher and carted us into the ambulance. When Graham was following us into the vehicle, Gladys apparently stopped him and asked if he could find out how her phone could take pictures. She wanted a picture. She apparently got WAY INTO being part of such an event once we stopped. He said no and got in the vehicle with us and we sped off to the hospital.

So I got my unmedicated birth free of interventions, I just did not get the sense of safety or the Jacuzzi tub I had planned on. And what have we learned through all this? Plans really ARE for suckers. Someday this will be a great story we tell over dinner to Gus’ true love. As it is now the trauma of it still has some lingering affect. For days afterwords Graham and I cried off and on having memories of it. Not the blissed out kind of memories, but the broken flashbacks of something very terrifying, chaotic, and miraculously okay. For me, I was in deep shock at the time of his birth, and it's been an emotional process as my body tries to knit the memories to feelings. I remember what Shara, our birthing class teacher, told us about quick births. Sure, you have LESS time in labor (aka less pain), but some part of the process goes missing. I am still feeling as if I am looking for those pieces that got lost in the cracks of that backseat.

Then again, I am also reminded of something else Shara said: Women have babies. Not doctors or midwives or anybody else. THIS woman had her baby, dammit. I had my baby in the back of a mother loving vehicle while a ton of people stood by. Am I proud of myself? Yes, I am. But next time I am staying home.

It's coming!

Greetings all! I am peeking out of the curtains of Camp Gus to say a little hello and to tell you I will be posting THE BIRTH STORY tomorrow. A little warning: It's LONG. Also, I mention things like maxipads and poop, so if you get squeamish at such public discussions of well, poop, you can go ahead and skip it. I won't be offended. There is little I am offended by these days.

I wasn’t sure before I gave birth if I would share my birth story on the Internet. As much as I’ve enjoyed other blogger’s birth stories and been fascinated by their experience, I’ve also felt that it was a VERY PRIVATE affair and how can you adequately get it across anyway? I never felt more of a VOYEUR than when I was reading these often beautiful and funny accounts of something so intense and surreal. I wasn’t sure I wanted to share this part of my story so publicly. Also, I am haunted by a cartoon I saw in the 8th grade by the popular 80’s illustrator Sandra Boynton, in her series about turkeys (the societal turkey), and how they will tell you their birth story at the drop of a hat:
Well, somewhere in the world someone just dropped their hat, because this turkey is going to tell the story. I kind of have to, right? It’s one of THOSE stories and I know if I was someone else, I’d be curious too. So I will say to you, reader, what someone should have said to me the moment I discovered I was pregnant: GET COMFORTABLE and here goes nothing.

As a side note Gus is officially two weeks old. God, is he gorgeous. I know, I'm his mother so I am legally bound to think so (or at least hormonally), but he really is. It tears us to pieces. I want to write about what these first wo weeks have been like, which I will say have been something akin to Dickens: It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. There's a lot I feel compelled to discuss (and will), but for now here is a picture of our beautiful boy, who distracts us from the agony with the ecstasy of his cheeks and eyes:
Again, thank you all for the flood of good wishes. I will respond, I promise. Your e-mails and notes have been gratefully appreciated.

41 weeks

Not that I am counting. Nope. Not at all. Or kind of weathering some arcs of "it's all good" to "this is DEPRESSING AS HELL."

Graham said the other night in a moment when I was having (ahem) a DOWNTURN of mood, "You're going to have to not take this personally. Even if you have to get induced, it's not any failing of yours."

What ME? Take something PERSONALLY? You must be confusing me with some OTHER hormonal Zeppelin blimp in an empire waist dress.

I'm at the end and yet it's ENDLESS. We went to the midwives last week and I felt happy that I was already at 2cm. It kind of made me feel okay, like progress was being made, whether I felt it or not. Also, the boy had dropped so I no longer have what I used to call THE RING OF PAIN under my chest line. I can SNEEZE and not feel like I had to BRACE myself for excruciating pain. I can breathe again. I felt so OPTIMISTIC when I left.

Then the days went by and not a single change or inkling.

When you are waiting for a baby, the world is waiting with you. The daily calls from family, while so wonderfully well-meaning are also starting to get depressing. My mother-in-law at least has started calling Graham, who is really taking on the title of MY BETTER HALF these says. His spirits are UP. Thank god for TEAMS.

Today the grocery store ladies saw me and said, "You STILL haven't had the baby?" The lady at the post office asked me, "Are you walking?" 25 years ago she decided to get her daughter out, so armed with a craving for White Castle food, she went on an epic walk and by the time she got there, she was ready to go to the hospital. I saw her yesterday, 4 days later, and she said, "You still haven't had the baby? Are you WALKING?"

We are going on walks. Actually, last night I had some contractions, but they went away. We went walking around the block trying to bring them on again, because I found the more active I was, the more contraction-y I felt, but nope. Ol' Braxton Hicks took over from there.

Stories of people being two weeks, three weeks, and EVEN A MONTH late have trickled in. These are also well-meaning, but it makes me want to HIDE.

People said, "You should go out while you have the chance!" So we went out to dinner to have a last pre-baby hurrah. We got a call from a friend that told us acupuncture would work, but the idea (and focus that is required) of trying to locate an acupuncturist in the New York City metropolitan area right now makes me want to weep.

Graham has been doing a pressure point on my ankles that is supposed to bring on labor called "Spleen Six." I am thinking of starting a band with the same name.

My midwives said that I am not ready for Castor oil or the stripping of membranes. I guess we'll see in a few days when I go back. As it is now, I am scheduled on Monday to start getting bi-weekly sonograms and stress tests to make sure my amniotic fluid is up and that the baby is okay. After initially being told that they wouldn't induce, one of the midwives said that at 42 weeks they would. Again, not the end of the world, but it lands me in the hospital along with so many other potential interventions (which you know I LOVE). At least it means there is SOME deadline.

I keep thinking about what my friend Diane told me, "Nobody was ever pregnant forever," and the chant my birthing class teacher said, "babies come out babies come out babies come out." Then I think about how of the EIGHT women that I knew who were all due within a week or so, I am the very LAST. Yeah, maybe for THEM babies come out. Maybe I'll just be a fat grumpy ol' lady FOREVER.

Plans Are for Suckers

I know I said in the previous post that I wasn't going to complain anymore, but I am feeling pretty sad today. We had a shitty visit with the midwives last night. There's no other way to put it. We came into the usual cozy atmosphere for our weekly appointment and were promptly informed that we can no longer give birth there. For the first time in their ten year history they lost a baby this week and as a result are having all patients give birth at the hospital until they figure out what went wrong. So ten days away from my due date I have to get my mind around a plan that not only did I not prepare for, but I have some STRONG reservations about.

And that wasn't all.

Then came the exam. After months of our boy being snuggly head down and ready for action, he has decided to GO ROGUE (to use a popular term of the day) and angle SIDEWAYS. I am going in for a sonogram tomorrow to confirm this, so we can start the ball rolling on having him turned. If all the stuff I can do on my own to get him to nudge back into position, and the manual turning doesn't work, guess what I am headed for? A BIG FAT C-Section. I LOVE having this loom over my head so close to the due date. LOVE IT.

Yep, it was not the most confidence building visit. It was pretty darn upsetting. I didn't know which part to be more concerned with, so I have just let it all get tossed up like a salad of upset.

I keep thinking about my sister-in-law's one bit of advice to me: do not get upset if the "natural" birth plan doesn't happen. She had witnessed friend after friend go in for an unmedicated birth, only to have a different experience and being very upset by this. "The point is," Corie said, "to have a healthy baby." My response (and it's always been my response) was "Of course! Of course! Healthy baby is always number one priority!" Which is totally true. My choice about doing it at a free standing birth center is that I felt that I had put myself and our child in the best, most empowering situation as possible. If things didn't go as planned and I needed to be transferred to a hospital, FINE WITH ME. At least I had done my part in doing what I could to ensure that short of a home birth, I had provided us with a place I felt safe in, cared for, and that the baby was the priority, not the protocols of a hospital or the needs of a doctor. With this game change, I feel very rattled. While I will still work with the midwives I have come to know and trust at the hospital, the way we are approaching this birth has to change--and FAST. This is a very hard pill to swallow.

Then again, I also keep thinking about what my friend Ariel said in regards to her son's own impending birth: Plans are for suckers.

It might not matter anyway. The baby, the whole point of this planned party, is dictating the show. He may not budge back into place and if that is the case, all of this business about birth centers vs. hospitals will be a distant idea I once had. I am not against C-sections as a whole. C-sections have literally saved the lives of two of my friends. C-sections have their place. The idea of trying to give birth to a baby that is lying ACROSS the exit door does not appeal to me very much. If I have to get a C-section because the boy cannot come out safely, FINE WITH ME. It's just a lot to get my mind around so late in the game.

The upside? I don't feel that anxious for him to come IMMEDIATELY anymore. I want time to figure this all out. I am not cranky about still being pregnant 10 days away from said due date. No labor? No problem. Just give me something to work towards. If plans truly are for suckers, then at least give me a course of action. I'll take that over plans today. At least there is something I can do.

Just Call Me Cranky of the Morning Crankies

So I finally hit it. I hit the pregnancy wall. I officially don't want to be pregnant anymore. 38.5 weeks and here I am, officially WAITING FOR THE END.

Walking around New York City sends me into a BUMMER MOOD. I can't KEEP UP with the pace of this city at all, and crossing streets feels like a TEST OF FAITH every single time. I've been almost hit so many times by taxi cabs, impatient vans, in a hurry SUVS, and blindly turning cars. While walking down some stairs to the subway, I got knocked by a guy racing for the train and normally it would be annoying, but for someone's whose equalibrium is totally OFF on a set of stairs, it's annoying AND SCARY. I've fallen TWICE in the last two weeks. It doesn't help that I have double jointed ankles AND all my joints are LOOSENING in the GETTING READY for something large to MOVE THROUGH ME.

Also, I know I live in one of the most un-kid friendly areas ever, but an expectant gal can get kind of upset by the angry hater comments left on such interesting articles about the mommy haters of New York and beyond. Now when I stand on a subway train, having been pushed out of the way by a 21 year old hipster to get a seat, I keep thinking about the commenter who said "I am sick and tired of young mothers' sense of entitlement. It was your choice to get pregnant. Deal with it. You do not get a pat on the back or a seat from me because you decided to reproduce." Okay, but my feet are swollen and I am having serious spasms in my uh, UTERUS thanks to Braxton Hicks. Did you really NEED that SEAT THAT BADLY to push past a cumbersome pregnant lady of 8 months?

Also my two due date buddies have had their babies and I am looking at these little curled up dreamy beauties with such a sense of LONGING. Where is MINE already? I want to know what he looks like!

Then there's just the language people use around me. Now that I am in that OFFICIAL PERIOD OF ANY DAY NOW people around me are turning into what I call THE LAST TIMERS. "This is the LAST TIME it will be just you and me hanging out" or "this is the LAST TIME I'll see you like this" or "this is the LAST TIME I'll see you as I know you." The latter phrase kind of makes me mad. I get it, a BIG LIFE CHANGE is happening (man do I get it), but I am NOT DYING. I am not even going on one of those Extreme Makeover Reality Shows, where you won't be able to recognize me because I've had my teeth capped, a nose job, and a corporate sponsored shopping spree. I am just having a baby. I have enough worry about my identity being flushed down the toilet just by my own change in focus, but it doesn't help that my friends and family also think I am somehow going... going... GONE.

I have mentioned the mood swings right?

My step dad said on the phone this weekend, "All the women I've ever known at this stage are JUST CRANKY." Yes, and now you can officially add me to that list. I am already a pretty world class complainer. I won the gold medal in rings and vault jumping in the complaining olympics A LONG TIME AGO. It won't be the last time I am cranky or complain. I don't hear anyone saying, "Well, this is the LAST TIME I will see you cranky and complaining." You see? Pregnancy may come and go, but some things are FOREVER.

[UPDATE: So, since writing this very very CRANKY post I have learned that a friend's pregnant wife who is two weeks behind me is having so much BACK TROUBLE she can't even WALK. This has made me decide to SHUT IT. Because cumbersome and uncomfortable are not the same as not being able to walk. I am doing GREAT. Michelle, if you're reading this: MY Bellaband off to you! Hang in there, gal!]

8 Things I am Trying to Do In the Last Weeks of Pregnancy

1. Swear like a SAILOR. As much as possible. I grew up around adults that probably could take paint off with their colorful language and YET kids were not allowed to swear. Now I know why. It just isn't pretty. I went to a party once where a couple brought their beautiful, blue eyed 5 year old daughter. Their "party trick" of sorts was to ask their daughter what she thought of George W. Bush. While I agreed with her politics, seeing this little golden haired cherub drop the F bomb like a pro was...DISCONCERTING. Now I feel like a PRUDE when it comes to kids and swear words. I don't plan on swearing around my son, but in the privacy of my own adult world? FUCK YEAH.

2. Enjoy being physically close to my cats. THEY don't really enjoy being held, but BY GOD while I can I WILL HOLD THEM. Kingsley likes being ON me, but cuddled? Nope. Mama Kitty (a.k.a THE CLAW) thinks being held is some sort of sign that it's TIME TO RUMBLE. If she had any thumbs at all, I am sure she would love to be holding a switchblade so she could say, "Oh you wanna play that way, huh? LET ME SCRATCH THE HELL OUT OF YOU." I just know that having a little body glued to my body 24/7 will pretty much DRY UP any desire to be physically close with anyone, so I figure I have got to get it while I can. Even if it means bandages.

3. Write in my journal in the mornings about MY FEELINGS. I know the time will soon be coming that I won't have an hour to two hours to just write page after page of whining. Those days will soon be replaced by sometime HERE and sometime THERE. It's probably a good thing, but while I have the time I will be writing about all that I feel inside and OH, have I mentioned the pregnancy MOOD SWINGS? There is SO MUCH MATERIAL.

4. Going to the movies. Actually, this one has been harder than I thought. There isn't a lot I want to see these days--I've been kind of shocked at the lack of good movie options (even in New York). Also, I am kind of hating going into Manhattan these days. It makes me want to kill people (see mood swings above). We might be going to see the new Almadovar film--at least it's on the list.

5. Have one last hurrah of adult artyhood with my husband. I know, we aren't dying, but I have a hunch it will be awhile before we can freely go to things like the THEATUH after the boy is born. So next week we are off to see one of my absolute favorite heroines, Anna Deveare Smith in her new one woman show. In the front row. Oh YES. I am so. Very. Excited.

6. Get some sleep. A pregnant friend of mine on her blog said it best to all the well-meaning friends and family members with children who so kindly say over and over again "Better get some sleep now, because when the baby comes...": YOU CAN STOP REMINDING ME. I GET IT PEOPLE, I WILL NEVER SLEEP AGAIN. I say this with love to those people: I am trying. Really, I am doing my best. Insomnia can be a problem, but I am TRYING. Sometimes ALL NIGHT I try! And in the DAYTIME too. Wow, you have no IDEA how much I am TRYING TO GET SOME SLEEP.

7. Eat meat. I wish I didn't have to, but my iron levels are still in question, so I am eating meat 3-4 times a week. It's a lot. Thanksgiving will be a BLESSING because it will actually be POULTRY. Wow, imagine that! White meat! What a concept!

8. Finish my 2nd book. I am nearly there. Probably this week. I will be so happy to have that in the can.

Everything You Didn't Want To Know About Strollers*

*(and it didn't occur to you to ask)

Thanks to the unbelievable generosity of several family members, Graham just finished puting together our new stroller. It is easily the nicest thing in our home and I hope it won't give our newborn son any ideas, because after this it's pretty much DOWN HILL from here.

Even after I got pregnant strollers were not anything I uh, EVER thought about. Yeah, I figured we'd get one, but probably one of the CHEAPEST and DINKIEST one you could find. Think the canvas or nylon cloth sling on some sticks with wheels model. Then we went to my grandpa's 90th birthday and my cousin wheeled up with her 10 day old daughter in the CADILLAC of strollers. Again, didn't really notice the stroller. I was kind of preoccupied with the (ahem) BABY in the stroller. But somehow someone brought it up. I think it might of have been my cousin who showed us how HIGH TECH it was--the seat could SWIVEL in a CIRCLE so no matter where you were standing or sitting, YOU didn't have to move in order to tend to the baby. It had cup holders and bag holders and all kinds of CONTRAPTIONS. I thought it was funny and impressive in that vague way that new fancy things can be, but I have never been a GEAR HEAD. You want to see my eyes GLAZE over? Start talking about ANY gear stuff: computers, instruments, ANYTHING. Sure, I use these things, but I don't get into the THING of it. I think I have frustrated many gear minded musician boys, who upon hearing that I played a Martin guitar wanted to know immediately the model and make. I still couldn't tell you and it's only because I DON'T CARE. Does it sound good? Does it please me? That's enough info for me.

After seeing Jess' stroller, my aunts started asking me what kind of stroller WE thought we would get. I said probably the sling and stick model. It was practical for us not only because it was CHEAP, but it was small and compact and light--perfect for subway travel. Jess' stroller might have been nice, but it was a BEAST. Good for car living, absolutely a nightmare for hauling up and down stairs in the subway. My aunt Liz said, "You need one with good wheels," and my aunt Debbie said, "You need one that is going to last." In my mind I dismissed a lot of it because who could afford one of those mega strollers and who wanted to SPEND the money?

When I got home there was a message from my aunt Debbie that we should go pick out "the stroller of our dreams" because my aunts wanted to gift us with one. AWWWWW! *So kind* and wonderful of them, but what if I don't have a STROLLER OF MY DREAMS? I put it to the side of my mind and thought, that is so nice, and we'll deal with it later. Shopping for gear isn't at the top of my list either.

Strangely, the random phone calls started coming in from various family members. So what about the stroller they wanted to know. What are you going to do about it? While I couldn't have cared less, it turned out that strollers were ON A LOT OF PEOPLE'S MINDS. It was my sister-in-law Coreen that actually made me WANT to think about strollers. She informed me that she went through THREE of those cheapy cloth and stick models. The wheels don't last, I guess. AND then she also reminded me how STOOPED OVER Graham was when she and her daughter Lauren visited. Graham is 6 foot 4 and the height of the handles really mattered. So I started to make a mental list of criteria for our stroller: must be lightweight, compact, easy to store, have good wheels, and be tall enough for my husband. Okay, check. Armed with this info, I felt I could find something nice and useful to get thanks to my sweet aunties.

Then the plans for the baby shower kicked in and it was leaked by a well meaning family member that my mom was launching plans to buy us a stroller. I thought, WTF is up with the STROLLER? WHY is THIS the gift that everybody wants to give? We also needed a CRIB, but no one was volunteering for that! Why is the stroller a SEXY number? I got very nervous because my mom and I have a PRICKLY relationship and while I wanted to absolutely honor her incredibly generous efforts to do something nice for us, she often times has ideas that are GREAT in her mind, but not absolutely APPROPRIATE for our needs. Since we also had some SPECIFIC needs for a stroller and the aunts were already booked to get it for us, I had to make a phone call. The VERY DELICATE phone call to try to aikido my mom out of buying us an expensive, unusable gift.

She wasn't pleased. Some words were said about how shitty I am to get a present for and how unfun and that's why she hated doing things for me. My present to her was to not argue and realize that extravagant and generous gift ideas die hard. I genuinely hated taking the wind out of her sails, but I also needed to ORGANIZE and be PRACTICAL about what our needs were. When you live in a small apartment and travel solely on foot and public transportation, these things matter. We didn't want just STUFF to have STUFF. Everything needed to have a place.

There was more gifting drama/confusion and in the end my mom did end up getting us the stroller, along with the aunts, uncles, and in-laws. When we FINALLY went shopping for one, it was like entering some WEIRD status world. I saw a woman swaddling a newborn to her chest, and bolting for a row of strollers, with a wild excited look in her eyes, while her husband and a salesman trailed her. Her husband said to the salesman, "ANYTHING she wants, SHE GETS, okay?" I guess strollers are the SUV of the baby world. I stood in the store and said GET ME OUT OF HERE.

We finally picked one out and it really IS nice. It will also act as a bassinet on wheels, so there you have it for a multi-purpose gift! My favorite kind! The quality is so good that we plan on making it last as long as we can. I am thinking college. We will wheel him off like the best of them.

Our Big Technology Adventure

We had our first pregnancy scare a little while ago. All day I noticed that the baby wasn't moving as much as he usually does. Since I did feel a knock and a nudge here and there I ignored it for the most part, but by late afternoon I was getting worried. So I did the whole drinking juice and lying on my side and counting kicks. I even went into positions I know usually BUG him and make him kick, but not much was happening. Babies are supposed to do 10 kicks to an hour, but I was only getting around 5. So I got up, walked around for a half hour and tried again and it was still the same. I called the birth center and they said GET YE TO A HOSPITAL AND QUICK.

I probably haven't mentioned that we live directly across the street from a hospital before, but we actually do. So it was very convenient to get to a labor and delivery department. We literally just walked around the corner. And as soon as I was on the 12th floor at Labor and Deliver, HOW the fun started! They immediately separated me and Graham and had me remove everything from the waist down, hooked me up to a fetal monitor and asked me the same questions about five times. When the head nurse asked me to spell "birthing" as in "birthing center," I started to lose some confidence. We were in LABOR AND DELIVERY after all. Isn't that two parts BIRTHING?

What's so ironic about the timing of this little hospital visit was that the night before our birthing class had covered the "technology" aspect of birth, meaning what can and often does happen in hospitals when you are in labor or not in labor. So I was bulked up on information and here I was with a giant waistband and microphones JUST LIKE THE PICTURE I saw the night before. Only, our teacher said we could probably unplug ourselves and move around if need be. As it happens, I also had an oxygen level monitor hooked up to my finger, and was holding a clicker to mark every time the baby moved, so I couldn't see HOW I could move at all.

When the nurse left me, I sat there alone wondering what the heck was going to happen next. Behind the curtain I heard the heartbeats of other women's babies they were monitoring. I also heard in the distance the cries of a woman in labor and could see her contractions come and go on my own monitor. I also listened as the doctor on duty explained to a third woman that while today was indeed her due date, she was NOT IN LABOR and therefor did not need to be there. Apparently, she thought the due date meant the baby would just COME OUT.

Eventually, two people appeared to give me an IV. When I asked them what the IV was for they did the mistake of telling me that it would be easier to insert medications if I had an IV. I say "mistake" because they also could have told me it was to make sure I was hydrated, which also can stimulate the baby, and which the IV is also used, but that's not what they said. They said the big ALARM bell of "medications" meaning "interventions." Again, the technology lecture came roaring in my head and I knew, once they started that IV any NUMBER of things could happen. As far as I was concerned, I didn't see WHY I would need medications. I wasn't showing any signs of labor, my "gate" was closed (as the nurse put it), and while the baby wasn't moving as much as he could and should be, his heartbeat was strong. So, I kind of put up a stink. I say stink, but what I really mean to say is that I said NO THANK YOU.

Man, they got pissed.

So they told on me.

Dad, I mean, the DOCTOR finally came in, told everybody to calm down and proceeded to ask me what the trouble was. I told him I didn't think I needed an IV and even if I did, I'd like my HUSBAND to be with me to make these CHOICES. Well, he wasn't happy about that. "What if the lady next door's husband came in here? Would you feel comfortable with that?"

"I wouldn't CARE, because I wouldn't SEE him."

"Well, she might not like to see YOUR husband."

"She won't, because there are CURTAINS surrounding us." He looked really rankled, and explained to me that I had come in here because there was a potential problem with the baby, so everything they were doing was for the resolution of that. I decided to plea to HIS common sense. I explained how it was very scary to not only have this issue, but to separated from your partner, stripped down, unable to move, being forced to make decisions you are not comfortable with. That's when I did, what I've done BEST in this pregnancy. Yep, you guessed it, I started to cry. The vulnerability was just too much. Unbelievably, the doctor GOT IT. And the IV twins stood on either side of me and started to tell me what a great job I was doing, and how educated I was, much more than other women who commonly come in there, and to not worry, everything would be fine. They even gave me a wad of gauze to dry my tears. Then the doctor snuck Graham in, told him to NOT UTTER A SOUND, and didn't give me the IV. Then he left us for over an hour.

And of course the kid started moving. By the time we checked out, I sat there clicking away on my clicker, as if I was a contestant on Jeopardy and I knew ALL THE ANSWERS. It turns out, the stinker was just SLEEPING. What the heck? ALL DAY? As it happens, it was for good reason. The next day I awoke, stood up, and Graham took one look at me and went: WOOAH! Apparently, he had GROWN VISIBLY LARGER through the night. My GUT runneth OVER. He's already a teenager, apparently. He had been sleeping all day in order to show up at the breakfast table at SIX FEET TALL. And he's been moving fine ever since. I had a little talk with him that morning, while he kicked and squirmed like an over sized champ. The talk went like this: Dude, YOU SCARED ME! Don't do it AGAIN!

Graham was so excited to tell our birthing class all about our big technology adventure. We had seen TRIAGE and been hooked up to the FETAL MONITOR, people! And we lived to tell the tale! Luckily, so did our kid who kicked and squirmed all through the class like a pro.

The Fat, Anemic Bummer

I had an appointment with the midwives about 6 weeks ago that was a shocker. It all started when I weighed myself and discovered that I had GAINED FIFTEEN POUNDS IN ONE MONTH. No wonder I felt like the skin on my belly was pulled SO TIGHT I felt ready to break open like a Cadbury Cream Egg. Up until then I'd been doing alright on the weight gain. Slow and steady might have been a good description, but this was a whole new ballgame. All my old fat body fears and perfectionist tendencies whipped out their blackberries and started to TWEET signs of DOOM.

Then I went into the exam room. There, my midwife informed me that my blood sugar was high (go FIGURE!). Not diabetic high, but enough to tell me that I shouldn't have any more sweets or carbs. You mean my reasons for living? Oh THOSE. Also, just in case my blood didn't know which way to come or go, it was ANEMIC as hell. Of course, anemia in pregnancy is totally common. After this appointment, I discovered that MANY former and current pregnant women I know got anemic. No big whoop, but if I wanted to give birth at the birthing center I had to be anemia free. So along with the no sugar, low to no carb diet, I needed to eat iron filled foods, as well as an iron supplement, and to be sure to not have any calcium when I ingested said iron for at least 2 hours before or after because calcium blocks iron. So I could have plenty of FAT, lots of GREENS, but hardly any dairy, or at least I could have specifically PLACED dairy. I could have whole grains, but no white flours or starches. As it turns out bread and starch slows down the digestion of iron, so I also couldn't have any whole grains WITH my iron food. It had to go the way of dairy and calcium. My one compensation? I could occasionally have 70% coco chocolate if I REALLY needed something sweet. Are you doing the calculations? There's a lot to calculate, so I'll do the math FOR YOU: It's called A DIET, people. I thought pregnancy would be a DIET FREE zone, but no.

I left the Birth Center feeling like a fat, anemic bummer. I think you probably already guessed, but I cried a little (just a little). Graham told me to buck up little camper, and that minus the iron supplement, he would be joining me on said diet in solidarity, so not to worry. Then we went to Whole Foods and bought steak, spinach, nuts, beans, and a liquid iron supplement that tastes like fruity pebbles, but finishes like liver. YUM.

Now, let me tell you that I like red meat. Or at least I thought I did. Honestly, having it almost four times a week has made me realize that I am not as big of a fan as I thought I was. I'd get depressed every time I started to even SMELL it. Over the coming weeks, Graham gave me a mantra every time I got depressed because I felt like I was eating just to meet hunger and an iron lacking blood stream, but not out of pleasure: I'm taking care of business. When my teeth turned gray from the supplement? I was taking care of business. When I wanted a cookie so bad it HURT? Taking care of business.

Then when I came back to the Birthing Center a couple weeks later to get my blood retested for iron levels, I discovered I had LOST TWO POUNDS. That's when I REALLY felt like I was taking care of business. Graham had promised me a celebratory ice cream afterwords. One ice cream in two weeks wasn't going to hurt me. Turns out that when you cut out sugar, you become a TOTAL LIGHT WEIGHT. I got HIGH AS A KITE. I giggled myself SILLY. I am sure I also immediately gained back those 2 pounds, but it was worth it.

Unbuckling or What Pregnancy Has Been For Me

Last month we started a birth class and I LOVE IT. It's so wild to be in a room with four other couples who are due around the same time as you. It's also wild to be in a room full of New Yorkers who have to share THEIR FEELINGS to a bunch of relative strangers. So far our topics of discussion have included "What pregnancy has been to me?" and "How do I handle stress and pain?" What I like most about these classes is that the men do most of the asking of questions. As our teacher said in the first class, the women spend the first 6 months of the pregnancy reading and getting educated, and then the birthing classes are for the men to catch up. There is a sweetness to my ears when men ask questions like, "What does EFFACEMENT mean?" And "Is it true that you can't have a vaginal birth after a C-section?" Also, I have loved to listen to what their answers have been to the above questions about the pregnancy and stress and pain.

When I had to answer what pregnancy has been to me I realized that although I've known HUNDREDS of women who have been pregnant and had babies throughout my life, I feel like my own pregnancy is the VERY FIRST ONE TO EVER OCCUR. I don't mean that in the narcissistic way it sounds. I mean it as an experience I took for granted outwardly, but as I've experienced it personally, I find it a TOTALLY alien and astonishing. Why didn't anyone ever tell me about it, I want to say, but of course, they have. I just didn't know or GET IT. I need to admit that it hasn't been at all what I expected or even hoped. It hasn't been HORRIBLE either. It's been a RIDE and continues to be. It's been a challenge emotionally--some of it due to my circumstance, some of it due to hormones, some of it due to just who I am. I don't LOVE getting a muscle pulled just ROLLING OVER in bed. I also don't love the difficulty of getting out of chairs or the pain of my skin stretching. What I do love? Feeling the baby move. I will miss that, I think. I love that private relationship we have and the mystery that surrounds it. Every time I watch one of those birth videos in the class I can HARDLY BELIEVE that one day I will feel him move and the next I'll be STARING AT HIS FACE. And the REAL crazy part? This is how we all get here! How how how IS THAT POSSIBLE?

Right now I am getting very curious and excited to experience birth. Taking these classes has made me change some thoughts I didn't know I had. One of the things I didn't realize is how much I was building a fort of thought and expectation (and worry) around both the birth date and the possibility of a long labor. What if the baby is LATE? What if I go to the birthing center after hours and hours of laboring only to find out I've only DILATED to THREE CENTIMETERS? I am not a patient person. I also can get (ahem) discouraged easily. The first things that blew my mind was when Shara, our teacher, explained that only 2% of babies come on the due date and that in actuality we have a five week range of normal birth time. So while my due date was originally December 7 (and then 10th and now the 12th), I could actually have this kid anytime between Thanksgiving and Christmas. I have asked Graham that we stop using the due date all together and when people ask any one of us when we are due just to say, "December." This has helped me UNBUCKLE some of my need for control over when he comes.

The same goes for labor and the information around dilation and effacement. I don't think I want to know that information as I labor because of the meaning I attach so strongly to it. I'd rather just experience THE LABOR and not the numbers, otherwise I could see myself getting frustrated or worried and not be focused on what my body and my baby are telling me to do.

THIS IS RADICAL thinking on my end. I am a list maker, a person who counts down minutes when she is bored or waiting for something impatiently. I cling to MARKERS to tell me where and how I am, but there is something really powerful for me to just let that stuff go and to experience the moment to moment of it. It will be what it will be, and it feels good to just MAKE ROOM for what ever experience it becomes.