35 +4

Neglected as my poor blog is, it seems a shame not to mention on it, for posterity, that we're expecting a baby in about 4 weeks.  Four weeks and not 5, because I am of 'advanced maternal age,' so my doctors won't allow me to go past my due date, which is just fine, because it means I should have plenty of time to have a baby, spend a couple of quiet nights in the hospital eating their very fine vegetable lasagna, and still get home in time for my parents to arrive Christmas night before celebrating Christmas on Boxing Day.  Fortunately, my kids are bad at calendar use, so waiting an extra day for the holidays will not make their heads explode.

37 + 4

I started packing my hospital bag this week.  The teeny tiny newborn diapers (as usual) look impossibly small - like I'm expecting a squirrel to come live with us rather than a tiny human.  I glanced at an online packing list to see if there was anything important I was forgetting to include for my trip to the hospital, but then I remembered that those lists are created by people who do not appear to have actually given birth in a hospital before.  Has anyone ever actually needed a stopwatch or their own washcloths at a hospital birth?

The really important list, that I'm writing myself, is the Steve Instruction List for Labor and Delivery. It includes all of Steve's most important jobs during my labor, such as refraining from talking about ham radio and remembering not to say one single word about how tiring/difficult it is to watch someone give birth to a person who is actually delivering a human being into the world.

Yesterday The Bairn told me that he would like me to get "unfat" and let him see this baby.  We'd all like that, kid.

Baby Bump

The other day I was telling my mom about how Ellen and The Bairn like to talk to my stomach every morning and ask the baby how he's doing in there, and my mom replied, "Oh, you must be showing," which is hilarious because I've been showing since about 20 minutes after I took the pregnancy test back in AUGUST.

I asked Steve to take a baby bump photo that didn't include my face, but I didn't really intend for it to be quite like this.

I also called my sister last week.  I needed to tell her that I was wearing leggings, which is hilarious because leggings.  I know it's apparently okay to wear leggings again, but even if I hadn't been sporting a baby belly since August, I wouldn't be able to pull them off.  They're so soft, though, that I'm still plotting a way I can wear them outside the house while keeping my dignity intact.

Pregnant

I'm 28 weeks (plus 4!) pregnant today.  I was trying to explain to Steve what it feels like to be in one's third trimester with a baby that likes to sit low.  Imagine you drank a bowling ball, I began.  But he couldn't get past the fact that you can't DRINK a solid.

I spent a lot of time looking through our parent resource center's giveaway area for long-sleeved pregnancy tops several months ago.  I've never been pregnant deep into winter before, and I imagined my poor, round self in a freezing Canadian snowbank and rejoiced when I found a few winter tops.  I forgot.  I forgot that third trimester feels like living inside the sun.  I'm wearing a short-sleeved shirt and capri pants today.  I looked for my flip flops this morning, but they must be packed away with the summer clothes. I feel like I'm even warmer than normal, because Steve takes his responsibility to keep the house warm very, very seriously and is always offering to throw another log in the furnace until I'm begging him to, please, PLEASE stop heating the house.  Also, both kids are sick and when The Bairn runs a fever, as he is today, he must wrap himself around my arm and plant his hot face into me and Ellen must drape herself across me (while yelling at The Bairn to stop hogging me) like the tiny electric blanket that she is.

For My Own Future Reference: Pregnancy Videos

The hallmarks of this third pregnancy have been as follows

1.  Worse morning sickness than usual that lasted longer than usual.

2.  Pregnancy rage - like crazy, irrational, adrenaline-blast rage.  It seems to have gone away this week, and I feel like I've recovered from a mental illness.  Now I'm just back to the regular Why-Are-All-the-Bread-Pans-Floating-in-the-Toilet induced anger that comes with small children.

3.  A really intense sweet tooth.  I like sweet things anyway, but this pregnancy I want to eat ALL the sweet things and I'm nice and fat to prove it.  For my own future reference, I've listed some of my favorite online pregnancy exercise videos that I use to combat my current habits (and the rage) a little bit.  In case we have another baby.  I warned Steve that this was the very last baby during my terrible first trimester, but he says I say that every pregnancy.

Mumberry
https://youtu.be/IhZdrnwJvhY

What to Expect Yoga
https://youtu.be/gn3UU622mlw

Katy Appleton
https://youtu.be/B87FpWtkIKA

Best 10 Minute Workout
https://youtu.be/8qvopY5HddU

Prenatal Yoga
https://youtu.be/GRNQZHUcQaY

39 Weeks

Occasionally Steve is sneaky.  One year for Christmas he kept hounding me to guess what my Christmas present was and after I felt the package and guessed, he said, "How did you know?!" and I responded that I'm very good at these things.  Then on Christmas morning, the gift turned out to be something different than I had guessed and Steve had managed to really surprise me by letting me think I knew what it was.

Other times he is less sneaky.

Thursday he got a phone call from my friend's husband, after which he informed me that my girls' night group was having an impromptu get together at 7:15 and that I should go.

MBC: That would be great except that you have to go on that visit at 8:00.
Steve: No, I don't need to go.
MBC: You TOLD me that it was a sure thing and that you needed to go when we did our weekly plan. They can't go without you.
Steve: No, no.  I'll just call and change it.  You HAVE to go.

Naturally that's when I realized that I was going to my own surprise baby shower that night.

The Bairn, on the other hand, is far less sneaky, much as he likes to call himself the 'sneaky neeky.'  The other morning he was suspiciously quiet, so I called out and asked him what he was doing.  He immediately responded, "Messes!"  And sure enough, when I found him in the bathroom, he had unrolled all of the toilet paper and was shredding it on the floor.

I forgave him because he's so cute when he sleeps and because we're pretty much best friends, but first my head exploded and I kicked him out of the bathroom and let him cry outside the door while I took deep breaths because my patience level is at about -33 this close to the end of a pregnancy.

Ways to Terrify the Pregnant

So I was at the library today with The Bairn and ran into a friend who had a baby here last summer.  I was telling her that I'm a bit nervous about giving birth in Canada because the whole system is just much different than what I experienced the first time.  And then she said, "Not to freak you out, but . . . "  And then she freaked me out.

Because she hates my doctor and when she compared notes with some other newish mothers, they all had similar experiences, which is that my doctor is a super interventionist and loves the episiotomies and C-sections and so on.  I do not love any of those things.

Her only suggestion was that one of her friends who would like to be a midwife (but isn't) had offered to deliver her baby for free and would likely be willing to offer free services to me as well. 

Maybe I'll just deliver this baby myself.

Actually 34 Weeks

Man, it's so hard to be vain, pregnant, and love cookies. That little trifecta makes it almost impossible to post baby bump pictures on the web, but for Eliana, I give you Smallsy Albino Boy Eating a Crab Apple, Giant Mama, and Overgrown Shrubbery Type Things at the Front of the House.

I was in the bulk food store the other week and I noticed bins of candy corn at regular price and thought, "Why aren't those reduced?  It's waaay past Halloween."  And then I noticed the skeleton decorations and I realized that they already had this year's Halloween merchandise on display.  Then I had to lie down and sniff my smelling salts, because I am acquiring a new baby BEFORE a holiday that is already advertised.  Oy.

Where's My Ice Cream?

1. It's hot and sticky.
2. And I'm pregnant.
3. And I have a cold.
4. And there's nothing much to do about the cold except be snippy with people, unless I want to subject myself to Dr. Steve treatments. 
5. And someone just made me sing, "How much is that digger in the window*," 42 million times before he would go to sleep.  If I tried to switch songs, he popped up his little and head and demanded, "Digger."

*In case you ever have an 18-month-old tyrant who would like you to sing this song, it goes likes this

How much is that digger in the window?

The one that is digging up dirt.

How much is that digger in the window?

I think that it's driven by Bert.   (OR Be careful so you don't get hurt.)

verses added as needed

Having Canadian Babies

Last week I toured the maternity unit of our new hospital.  It seems very nice.  There's an early labor waiting room with heated, vibrating chairs, which I quite like (if they give me a satisfaction survey to fill out, I will suggest that they add a masseuse to that room).  There are popsicles in the freezer.  Thank you.  The room in which someone delivers is the same private room where she recuperates, which is new to our town.  So, that's all good.  Except, I really, really loved our set up in Scotland.  When the nurse giving me the tour kept talking about a doctor, I kept thinking that really I just wanted to be surrounded by the nice, calm, female midwives who delivered The Bairn.  And when she showed me how the bottom of the bed comes off for delivery and told me that some doctors prefer to use stirrups, I was actually distressed.  There was no bed in The Bairn's birthing suite and the idea of stirrups during delivery would have made our prenatal midwife cry tears.  And me too.

Everything about giving birth in Canada, so far, is just a bit worse than giving birth in Scotland.

Even our prenatal companion book in Scotland was rock star awesome--short and professionally graphic designed and modern.  The book I was given at the hospital here is full of creepy cherubim and other unfortunate clipart AND it advises me to pack my camera and film and music cassettes and tape player for labor.  Hmph.

So, people who have done hypnobirthing.  Did you take a class?  Do you think the class was essential or would the book/CD combo have been sufficient to train you?

The Goings On

Yesterday was Canada Day.  We loaded up The Bairn and took him to the parade in Pugwash.  I took out the camera to take a darling picture of him waving his Canadian flags and wearing his Canadian romper only to find that the camera was dead.  So I also did not take a picture of him screaming his face off when the emergency vehicles at the beginning of the parade turned on their sirens.  I should have anticipated that reaction, since I have to take him upstairs when Steve makes smoothies in the blender.  He does not like the loud noises.  He was way into the tractors and the horses, though, so he decided to retain his Canadian citizenship.

We bought sausages and fudge at the farmers' market for lunch and then felt that Canada was sufficiently fêted, since it looked like rain.

This morning I called the doctor's office and the receptionist very gladly read my ultrasound report to me.  The ultrasound says that New Baby is a girl, just like I ordered.

This is pretty much the only baby bump picture I have of myself (24 weeks).

Steve's dad took the picture when we went up to the falls in Economy after church on Sunday.  He also took some photos that indicate that no one should be taking pictures of me while pregnant.

These are the falls.

Pretty, no?

The Big Announcement: Boy or Girl?

I went to the obstetricians' office for the first time today.  It's a practice of four doctors, one of whom will be delivering our baby, all of whom are allowed to tell parents the sex of their baby.

I waited for 2 1/2 hours to see the doctor, but I really liked him (even though he's MALE, which I'm not into for doctors), so I immediately forgave the whole practice.  He won me over by being English and having formerly worked in a London maternity ward, consequently being able to give me the whole scoop on the differences between birth practices in the UK and Canada; by chatting with me about Greece; and by being interested in things my general practice doctor doesn't care about, such as the names of my child and husband.

Then he asked if I was having a boy or a girl and I told him that he would have to tell me.  He assured me that he would be happy to

EXCEPT

the hospital didn't send the ultrasound information to his office.

He asked the receptionist to track it down, but no one could reach the ultrasound department today, so I have to call back.  And Monday is a holiday.  Sooooo, Tuesday.  Tuesday SHOULD be the real day we learn the sex of the baby.  Last chance to make a guess.  Steve says 'boy.'

Seeing New Baby

Today was my second ultrasound.  I really liked my ultrasound technician, although I think our hospital's rules about ultrasounds are stupid.  Steve wasn't allowed in the room for the first portion of the exam (why?!) when all of the baby's measurements were taken, but the technician let me watch and explained what we were seeing.  Because she couldn't tell me the baby's sex, I was intently scanning the screen for any sign of gender, but I'm an awful ultrasound reader.  I would think we were in the right general area to be checking for such things, when the technician would say, "Here's Baby's diaphragm."

And then she turned the screen away and noted if our baby's a boy or a girl.

The good news is that, apparently, my doctor CAN tell us the baby's sex because it's in the report and he's not sworn to secrecy like the ultrasound technicians (why?!).

The bad news is that I just saw my doctor on Thursday, so we won't find out the big secret until the end of the month.

I liked having a baby in Scotland better.

It's kind of gross but it's kind of funny

Our house is still a total unpacked mess, mainly because of the toddler who lives here (Destroyer of Labors) but also because I am pregnant and tired and have a cold that cannot be treated because I am pregnant.

I had my first ultrasound at 9 weeks and I dutifully followed the instructions to drink three cups of water an hour and a half before my appointment.  I drove myself to the hospital, because Steve was coming to the appointment from work and would meet me there.  Three cups of water is a lot when you're pregnant.  I got out of the car and had to stand very still in the parking lot, giving myself a pep talk about how I would not wet my pants in the short distance to the building.  I would not.  I hobbled down to the digital imaging department and presented myself at the registration desk and told the woman there in desperate tones, "I have an ultrasound appointment and I drank all the water but I'm not going to make it!"  I said this with my legs crossed.  The woman at the desk was very, very nice and took me straight in to the waiting area where I  leaned against a chair in a manner that alarmed the two older women already seated there.  They were very concerned about me and then tutted in sympathy when I explained my situation.

The ultrasound tech sent me off to the restrooms when she saw me and told me to "go halfway" and then she started my appointment early because I am clearly not good at having even a half full bladder.

The baby looked like a little gummy bear.

Steve didn't get to see New Baby.  There was no way I was going to make it another 10 minutes until he arrived.

I just got the letter scheduling my second ultrasound on June 2.  It instructs me that I should drink 3 cups of water an hour and a half before the appointment.  Not likely.

The Buddha's Curl

Steve is friends with the director of a local Buddhist center, and today we attended a guided meditation session there.  Baby McBaby did not meditate at all.  He spent the entire time doing a little Highland jig (probably in honor of Burns Night tonight).  In the corner of the hall where we were relaxing, one of the center's members was carving a life-size Buddha.  He's been working on it for two years and it's quite impressive even in its incomplete state.  As we were leaving, the artist cut off one of the Buddha's curls and gave it to me as a gift for the baby, which I thought was so nice.  Baby McBaby, however, has not shown his appreciation by being born yet.  Maybe tonight.

There is no other topic until this baby is born.

I've been feeling a little bit irritable for the past week or so.  When I walk down the sidewalk and someone doesn't get out of my way, I think, Hey, can you not see that I'm extremely pregnant and about to give birth on the pavement here?!  The least you could do is make a little room.  And the other day, Steve started a sentence with, If you'd like something to do today . . .  He didn't get to finish that thought right then because it was met with a scowl and a protestation that the ONLY thing I want on my agenda this entire week is ice cream eating.  By necessity, there is also a lot of nose blowing on my agenda this week, but that's coming off ASAP. 

Anybody Feel Like Being Born Today?

My mom and two friends all have their birthdays today, so I thought it would be nice of Baby McBaby to join them and have his birthday today too, but he's not showing any inclination to acquiesce to my kind request to just come on and be born already.

Some people's children.

My TV Nervous Closet

The flat where we are staying has a TV and cable (or satellite or whatever it is that makes all the pretty, pretty channels available).  I am now wondering how I made it through pregnancy this long without the Food Network or reality shows that air water births. 

When E(9) (can you believe she's NINE?) was a little girl she was a wee bit on the neurotic side and a whole lot of seemingly harmless household items made her nervous, including a toy duck that quacked "Aflac" and the detachable hood of Marmot Dad's coat.  My sister stuffed everything E(9) declared nervous-making into the linen closet, which became known as the Nervous Closet.  Occasionally E(9) (who was probably 2 or 3-years-old at the time) would walk tenuously to the closet with me and command, "Open it."  Then she stood in front of the open closet with her fists clenched and shook until she was done scaring herself.

I feel the same way about birth TV shows and books.  I tried to read Birth: A History at the beginning of my pregnancy but I was so freaked out by the author's description of a c-section in which the doctor popped her baby out "like a champagne cork" that I decided that this year was not the correct year for that particular book.  I do like watching those televised water births, but in a kind of shaking-in-front-of-the-nervous-closet kind of way.  Which is fine.  When I'm done, I just pop over to see what's happening on Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives so that Steve and I can drool over a bit of American roadfood and repeat over and over to one another, "Hey, we could eat one of those this spring!" (with our BABY).

All I Do is Think about Babies

Someone asked me several months ago how I feel about the differences between maternity care in the UK versus the US.  I don't know.  I've never received maternity care in the US.  I'm sometimes surprised about the maternity/birth proceses here, but I don't know if my expectations come from books and movies or actual practices in the US.

My only first-hand experience with birth in America is as a visitor who pops along to see her sister and new niece/nephew in the hospital several hours after the baby is born.  In that capacity I can state with authority that after giving birth, one's sister will be in bed claiming that the baby she just had is the best baby that's ever been and that her older children will be climbing on her bed to drink her juice boxes and poke their new sibling in the eye with the straw.

One thing that is notably different in the UK is that maternity care is handled almost exclusively by midwives.  I consider this a positive thing, because I would lean toward midwifery in the States, too, but here it is my only real option.  If I had medical problems that complicated my pregnancy, I would be referred to a doctor, but my default healthcare provider during my pregnancy is the midwife at my GP's office.  She's based at the hospital but holds appointments at my health center on Thursdays.

I'm giving birth in a hospital, but the hospital has two different birth wards--the labour suite and the midwife unit. The labour suite looks like the birth wards I've visited in the US.  The midwife unit has birthing pools (large enough for dads to hop in too) and showers, birth balls, and low, padded resting/sleeping areas, but no beds.  Active birth is encouraged there and the only drugs available are gas/air and diamorphine.  Anything stronger (like an epidural) is available in the labour suite.

Yesterday in antenatal class we were informed that after the baby is born, they no longer whisk him away to weigh and clean him first thing.  They prefer that we snuggle him up for an hour or so and let him eat first.  There are no hospital gowns; I give birth in whatever I feel like wearing (if I feel like wearing anything at all).  I leave 6-24 hours after a normal birth and then a health visitor comes to our flat periodically over the next 10 days to check on me and the baby.  All of these things were new information to me, but maybe they happen in the US, too.  I don't know.

Naming the Bairn

Steve and I have a working list of baby names we agree on.  Kind of.  None of my favorite names made the list and none of his favorite names made the list and there's some disagreement about possible nicknames for the approved names.  I think a working list of 10 names is fine, but Steve still pitches suggestions every morning and every night and he feels strongly that we can't settle on a final name until we actually see the baby and determine which name looks like him.  The problem with that approach, of course, is that babies look like root vegetables when they're born and I don't want to name the baby Celeriac anymore than I want to name him Donald.