I hired my doula this week. When we met for the first time, she said: “You’re so cute. You’re all belly!” And so I am…
(Pardon the crazy hair.)
It has struck me on several occasions in the past few months that I should be more excited-- or, more accurately, that I’m expected to be more excited. The nagging notion that I’m not quite as delighted by the prospect of impending motherhood as others think I should be has caused me a bit of concern-- and some guilt. Other people-- strangers, even-- seem more excited about me being pregnant than I am. If I hear the phrases precious gift or blessing from God one more time, I might vomit (except I refuse to vomit while I’m pregnant because it’s automatically attributed to “morning sickness"). If one more woman gets a little misty eyed over my big belly, I might hit her (unlike vomiting, I have no reluctance to use violence as a response). And if one more man beams at me and tells me how wonderful it is to be a dad, I might give him an earful-- starting with, of course being a dad is wonderful-- you not only get to keep your body, you get to keep your identity, too. Society is simply kinder to fathers, so what’s not to love about the experience? No pain, no guilt for having your own life, and women think you’re a freaking hero if you take care of your own kid for a few hours.
I know how shocking this will sound to some (many?) people, but it’s the truth: I don’t think motherhood is the end all, be all of my existence. I do not think of my child in strictly fuzzy wuzzy lovey terms. I don’t cry over diaper commercials. I loathe minivans. If I see a couple with a baby and a dog, I’m going to look at the puppy first. I might not even look at the baby. I do sometimes check out strollers and I always pay attention to the division of labor-- and it’s almost always the mother who is doing the feeding, the soothing, the carting the kid to the bathroom for a diaper change. All the while, dad is grinning broadly and telling anyone within earshot how wonderful it is to be a dad.
I realize, of course, that for many people-- more women than men-- parenthood really is their one and only calling in life. I know some of those people. I didn’t understand it before I was ready to have a child and I don’t understand it now, in the weeks before I have my baby. I certainly don’t anticipate understanding it once I have this baby. It’s just not the way I’m made.
It’s not that I’m dreading motherhood. Well, not entirely. I’m dreading these first few months and for one glaringly obvious reason-- I will be the sole care provider for an infant. Does that sound like fun to anyone? If it does, do you want to be my nanny? But even if Jay was going to be here, I would still be looking at the next few months as a very difficult, very trying time in my life. Probably the most difficult and the most trying (and that’s saying something). I have no rose colored glasses to put on, no illusions to shatter. I know that taking care of a child-- especially an infant-- is demanding, exhausting and almost without reward. (I know, I know, the baby is his own special reward, right? Please.) I know what I’m in for-- or I know as much as anyone who hasn’t had a child and has very little experience with babies can know. And it scares the hell out of me, even while I’m mentally preparing myself for the sleep deprivation, the sense of isolation, the pain (of childbirth, recovery and breastfeeding) and the loss of identity, at least temporarily.
Maybe it won’t be as bad as all that. Maybe it will. It’s funny, but the same women who tell me horror stories about their childbirth experiences are the ones whose babies are little golden angels who bring nothing but sunshine and rainbows and dirty diapers that smell like bouquets of roses. It makes me wonder what drugs they’re putting in those epidurals, to be honest. Some would call it unconditional love-- but I think it’s more the fear of admitting that it isn’t all sunshine and rainbows and rose smelling diapers. Or wanting others to suffer as much as they have suffered.
I do believe in unconditional love, but I don’t necessarily believe in love in first sight. It may take some time to grow to love a crying, smelly, demanding bundle of joy. By the way, where is the joy they’re talking about? But no amount of unconditional love is going to make me leap for joy when I have to clean up projectile vomit (or worse). No amount of unconditional love is going to make me think my baby is the most beautiful baby in the world if he looks like a troll. Some babies are ugly babies. It’s a fact of life. And, for the benefit of my own sanity and self-respect, I’m not going to try to polish a turd just to make myself feel better about the whole thing.
So, I’m dealing in reality here, trying to be as pragmatic as I possibly can about an experience that I’ve signed up for. It’s a bit like joining a gym (not that I’ve ever joined a gym)-- you know it’s going to hurt and you know you’re going to suffer, but somewhere down the road you’ll be glad you did it. I like babies at a comfortable distance and toddlers not at all, so the first few years of this kid’s life will certainly be an interesting experience for me. When I think of motherhood, I most often see myself with him when he’s older-- when he has his own mini-life of school and friends and interests outside of home. When I can talk to this human being I’ve created and admire him for the person he is becoming and not just for the cute little outfit I’ve dressed him in. That appeals to me, that makes me smile. But it’s going to be a long haul getting there.
With less than seven weeks to go, it feels like the clock is ticking even louder and faster these days. I have lists and more lists, trying to get as organized as possible. Is it possible? Who knows, but it makes the days fly by to live by a list.
I’m tired all the time now. I’m sure it’s a combination of factors that make me feel like I’m walking through molasses most of the time, but the afternoon naps of the first trimester are baaaack. I don’t mind too much-- except when it interferes with getting those lists crossed off.
Every piece of advice I’m given gets filed away for future reference. People I hardly know offer their help in the form of phone numbers on slips of paper and e-mails and Facebook messages. It’s hard to imagine me calling on anyone for help (and if you know me, you’re nodding in agreement), but I take all of the offers seriously. Again, who knows what the future will bring? I might very well find it necessary to call the wife (whom I’ve never met) of the guy who comes Starbucks to work on his classwork for his graduate program. God, I can’t even imagine how bad things would have to be for that scenario to come true. But I appreciate the offer of assistance.
Everyone asks if Jay will be here for the birth. Um… who knows? My life, at least this portion of my life, is a great big neon question mark right now. I smile and shrug and say we hope so. There’s not much I can do about that right now. Baby is on his own schedule and will be here when he gets here (unless my OB has his way and induces me-- which I’m fighting). Hopefully he’ll be kind enough to give me a warning-- or take his sweet time once he starts his journey (though I’m not sure how I feel about being in labor for a day or two)-- and Jay will be here. If not, Jay will be here shortly after. In either case, I will be here and baby will be here and really, no matter what I might want, that’s all that’s required for this particular equation.
So I work on my lists and nap as my body demands and rub my stomach and tell baby to hang out for awhile and not arrive early. All of the questions will be answered soon enough-- at least the ones about his birthday and the guests in attendance. For a little while, everything will seem clear and then all of those parenting questions will start and I’ll be back to saying “Who knows?” soon enough.
Just a little update on the rest of the pregnancy goings-on:
My OB appointments are every 2 weeks now. That will change to every week at 36 weeks. I meet with the diabetic counselor on the 23rd and I have a growth scan (ultrasound) on the 27th. Hopefully baby isn’t a 10-pounded already. (Scary thought.)
I am in the process of hiring a doula. I’ve spoken to a couple of midwives and childbirth instructors and I have a few referrals. I spoke with one of the doulas today and I really liked her, so we’re going to meet on the 28th. (I also like that she’s a former English teacher-- completely irrational, I know.)
My stack of reading material has grown. I bought Your Best Birth last week and got Hypnobirthing: The Mongan Method today (yay Amazon!). Suzanne is going to bring me a few more books when we meet on the 28th. I know I won’t remember everything I’m reading, but hopefully enough of it will stick so that when the time comes I won’t be completely unprepared.
My pregnancy and childbirth books will soon give way to the new parenting books and that stack is growing, too. So far, I have Secrets of the Baby Whisperer (my second copy-- I loaned my first copy out a few years ago and never got it back), On Becoming Babywise and What to Expect the First Year. Now I’m looking for a good resource on breastfeeding.
I have pre-registered at the hospital and I’m going to start packing my hospital bag this week. I still need a few things (baby’s coming home outfit, a diaper bag), but packing what I have will make me feel better. I can handle just about anything if I feel like I’m prepared-- or as prepared as I can be. Having a bag packed and waiting makes me feel prepared. At least for now.
I am working on a contact/information page for anyone who needs it. It includes Jay’s contact information in Dubai, the number for the Red Cross and the information they would need to get Jay home, Sheri’s phone number, as well the numbers of my obstetrician and a few friends. I’m still hopeful Jay will make it home before the birth (and if I end up needing to be induced because of the GD, he should be), which means I’ll have Jay, Sheri and my doula in the delivery room with me. That’s the best case scenario. Worst case is I go into labor early and I only have the doula. (Actually, worst case would be going into labor before I’ve actually hired the doula, but I won’t think about that.)
The baby announcements have been pre-ordered and the envelopes should be here in a couple of days so I can address them (and my holiday cards) over the next few weeks. The actual announcements will include a photo of the baby (which I’m going to put in Sheri’s capable hands) on a snowflake background. Of course, if baby comes in November I’ll have to change the design, I think. November isn’t really snowflakey, at least not in Virginia.
And even though it’s not pregnancy or baby related, I am almost finished with my holiday shopping. The goal is to be finished by the end of this month (readjusted from my goal of being finished by the end of September) and get everything wrapped and out-of-state presents packaged. The helpful postal worker at the post office informed me that I can order holiday stamps now online rather than waiting until they’re in the post office (not until after Thanksgiving). Good to know. It’s funny that I complain every year about how early the retail holiday season starts, but I’m frustrated this year because it seems to be taking them forever to put out the Christmas decorations. Baby needs a Christmas stocking! (As of tonight, baby does have a little red sleeper that says My First Christmas.)
So, that’s where I am at 32 weeks, with hopefully 8 weeks to go, but likely a little less. My doctor would prefer I not go past 39 weeks, but he’s agreed to wait and see what the growth scan reveals about baby’s size-- and conceded he’d let me go until my due date as long as we’re not having problems.
Just a few more weeks to go. I don’t know that I’ll ever be ready, but I can try.
I failed my one-hour glucose tolerance test the week before Jay deployed. I was hoping I’d pass, but I wasn’t that shocked about failing. I went through the arduous three-hour glucose test last Monday, after putting it off for almost a week so I wouldn’t have to prep for it while Jay was still home. The three hour test involves a three-day carb-heavy diet, 12 hours of fasting prior to the test, a blood draw followed by 100 grams of Glucola (super sugary beverage and twice the amount as the 1 hour test) and then three additional blood draws at 1 hour intervals. If you fail two of the blood draws, you fail the three hour test. I failed three of the four. I have gestational diabetes.
Rubbing salt in the wound was the fact that I didn’t find out I failed the three hour test for a week. The results of the one hour test came back in 24 hours and I had been told “No news is good news.” So when they didn’t call the day after my three hour test, I thought I passed. But no, it just took longer to get the test results.
I was pissed off when I found out. Through this whole pregnancy, I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop-- meaning, I was waiting for it to be over. The pregnancy itself has been going well, but it feels like a whole shoe store has been dropped on my head in the past couple of months (with Jay’s deployment being the equivalent of a steel-toed boot to the head) and this diagnosis of gestational diabetes was One More Thing to Deal With. Ugh.
Of course, part of me feels like a failure. I thought I knew my body and I really didn’t think I had gestational diabetes. I wasn’t surprised when I found out I was anemic (the day I took the one-hour glucose tolerance test), but I argued with my doctor over my blood pressure-- I knew it was spiking because of stress and I was right (though I still had to indulge him and go through the tests to prove it). But I was wrong about the GD and it’s a lousy feeling, all the more so because it doesn’t just affect me, it affects baby. And I feel rather protective of baby, you know?
Gestational diabetes supposedly goes away once the baby is born, which means I only have to deal with it for the next few weeks (although I am at greater risk of developing diabetes later in life). In the meantime, I have to do something I haven’t done since I was 19 years old-- follow a diet. Never mind that it seems absolutely cruel to put a pregnant woman on a diet, I have spent my entire adult life resisting restrictions and limits of any kind, and developing a fairly healthy body image in the process. And now, when I’ve happily embraced this beach ball belly I’m carrying around, I have to follow a diet. Ironic, huh?
It’s been a couple of days since I got the test results and I’m okay with it now. Only 3-5% of women develop GD, but it doesn’t have to be a serious issue as long as it’s controlled (the side effects of uncontrolled GD range from a big baby to stillbirth). Hopefully diet will be enough to control it and I can avoid insulin (oral wouldn’t be so bad, but I can’t even imagine giving myself injections). So I will embrace the diet! It’s not a weight loss diet (but I will probably lose a few pounds), but a diet for health. And even though I have to give up dessert and chocolate and-- gasp!-- Halloween candy, it’s really not so bad. I don’t meet with the diabetic counselor until next Friday (which seems ridiculous since there is such a big deal made about uncontrolled gestational diabetes), so I’m trying to preemptively adjust my diet now. Of course, it’s difficult to know if I’m on track since I’m not testing my blood sugar. But I’m doing what I can-- and avoiding the bowl of Halloween chocolate and the pint of Ben and Jerry’s in the freezer.
This may be the first time I’ve felt like a failure as a mother, but I suspect it won’t be the last. So, lesson learned: get up, dust myself off, and do the best I can to correct my shortcomings.
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