The Trivial Pursuit of Happiness

When we forget our fabric grocery bags (despite having 20some of them floating around our house/car), we always ask for paper, not because it’s a more environmentally friendly choice, but because there is really no end to their uses when it comes to kids crafting. No scrap paper? Paper bag. Need an emergency pirate hat? Paper bag. Want to be a robot?

Paper bag.

Aww, and looking through flickr, I realized we have pictures from march of last year, of the same game. I’m going to be sad when Ella outgrows paperbags…

Still here. Still pregnant.

Also still contracting regularly. It comes and goes in intensity, but is often and strong enough to keep me on my toes, and keep me from getting much deep rest. And while I am so, so, SO ready for this to either go somewhere or stop already, I am feeling pretty blessed. In the last five days, I’ve been so amazingly supported by my husband, my friends, my midwife and my community of healing hands. (Gretchen, you need a contact info page I can link to!) I am feeling the love, and it’s keeping me afloat.

The current theory of why this is happening is because baby is malpositioned, either with a hand up near her face, with her chin cocked back (instead of tucked in), or because she is posterior. Or all of the above. If my body goes into active labor before we correct her position, I’m likely in for a longer and harder labor than I’ve had before, so we’re doing all we can to convince her to tuck and roll her way out. If we do get her to shift, I may go into active labor right away, or we may get a few days (or even weeks!) of rest before she decides to come. No one knows, and it is a daily (hourly; every-5-minute) reminder that this baby is on a path of her own.

(Edited to add: It feels weird not to note it here, since this is my external memory, but I’m not ready to write a full post about it: My grandmother passed away today. She was a exceptionally religious woman, so if anyone has ever died with a smile on her face, I’m sure it was her.)

I am standing in our bedroom, Sublime blasting through my earphones, dancing through contractions and folding laundry. I pair up tiny socks and bend my knees, shifting my weight from one hip to the other, feeling the bass in my thighs, shimmying my way back up, feeling the contraction recede, just as all the rest have in the last 48 hours. 48 hours of contractions every 5 minutes, and it’s all I can do to keep sorting laundry, keep dancing to lyrics I won’t let my kids listen to, my iPod tucked into the waist band of my skirt.

The girls run in and out, so happy to be home after spending the night at grandma’s, and the day with friends. We were so sure that by now there would be a baby, but after two days away from our girls, we brought them back home tonight, warning friends to keep their phones by their beds tonight, just in case. This baby has  a plan, but she’s not letting us in on her datebook, so we’re not scheduling around her any more.

I keep reminding myself that I trust her, I trust my body, I trust that every contraction now is one I do not have to have later. Some contractions are mild, a small wave of electricity creeping up past what is left of my belly button; others make my hips dip low, needing to feel closer to the ground, my calves firm, my feet rooted to the floor. I hum through some of them, and Tom comes to find me, hearing something I can’t say. My eyes are closed, but I hear our floors squeak as he comes nearer, waiting for me to open my eyes before rubbing my back. The first few hours of this was exciting; by the 47th, it has lost its appeal.

Ella’s labor lasted from dusk to dawn; Alice’s less than one trip around the sun. This baby’s labor (if that is what this is) has straddled Winter and Spring, Pisces and Aries.

I tell myself I am patient, but then I turn up the music and let myself be anxious and frustrated just long enough. Another contraction travels down my thighs, up through my shoulders – my arms go slack and rest easily on this belly, this small strained world I carry beneath my skin. I consider pushing all the clothes off onto the floor, and crawling into bed, crawling away from this body for just a minute, just long enough to fall asleep. I promise I will come back, I will do another week, perhaps month of work to bring my daughter into the world, but for now, I just need a minute in a different skin. Instead, I bend my knees, and wait for the next song to start. I wait for the moment of peace. I move my hips in a figure eight, feeling the weight of the world slide easily to the left, then the right, always back through the center.

Tonight the laundry will be put away; all the tiny socks in a basket on top of my dresser, waiting for a purpose, a reason. We will sleep, and when we can not sleep, we will rest. And when I can not rest, I will dance.

First, a quick house update:  less than 24 hours after we put the house back up on the MLS, we had an offer, which we accepted. If you have ever bought or sold a house, you know that nothing is set in stone at this point, but it is a huge relief to have activity on it right away. As always, I am the pessimist in the family, sure that something will go wrong, but Tom is sure that the universe is coming through for us this time. Cross your fingers that he is right.

I am behind in my ‘year of pleasures’ countdown, which shouldn’t surprise anyone. I planned to have one for each week of the year, and we may catch up later, but for now, I’m lucky if I remember to feed the kids lunch. My to-do list is shrinking as the weeks tick by, and keeping us fed and clothed feels like a pretty big accomplishment lately.

Pleasure #8: My little midwives.

I suppose if you are new to the blog, you may not realize we plan to have Polliwog at home. We’ve never had a baby in the hospital – Ella was born at a local birth center (which we joke was a homebirth at someone else’s home, since we were home 2 hours after her birth), Alice was born at the big house, and this baby will be born in this little house. During the girls’ pregnancies, I craved the opportunity to talk about birth and our ‘alternative’ choices. I was passionate about our path, and wanted to share the information I had, as well as our experiences. I wrote about homebirth here; I helped start a local mamas group of like minded women; I was outspoken about our plans when strangers asked where we were delivering (which, btw, is just one of the many strange things strangers ask pregnant women. How is that relevant to checking my groceries, and what on earth would you do with that information? Just tell me I am glowing and give me my change, thankyouverymuch.)

This time, I don’t feel as compelled to shout it from the roof tops. Maybe some of the new wore off over the last five years, or maybe I am just tired of butting my head up against the wall of conventional birth. I am still passionate about our choice, but I am much more aware that a 2 minute conversation with the tile lady at Home Depot is probably not going to change her opinions much, but it will leave me steaming all day. Ironically, pregnancy seems like the worst possible time for me to advocate normal birth, since I am more likely to burst into tears when someone criticizes our choice, than to calmly lay out an evidence based medicine argument.

One of the perks of homebirth though, is that Cathy, our midwife, comes to the house for our now weekly visits, and my girls enjoy every minute (of the two hours) she is here. Mostly they just want to talk to her about her ducks, her grandson, and ask her whether or not she thinks they have grown this week, but they also help listen to Polliwog’s heartbeat, rub lotion on my belly, and  demonstrate how the baby will come out (usually with the help of a stuffed animal or two). Having this relationship with the person who will assist me during birth is something I wish more people understood the value of. It’s almost enough to get me back on my soapbox. Almost.

Every few months, we try to do a Day in the Life of our family. The entire series is here.

3/9/10

Alice inherited the “morning person” gene from Thomas, and has taken to waking up with him at 5am when he is getting ready for work. They eat breakfast together, she helps make his lunch, and then if she’s lucky, she gets to watch an episode of her favorite show without her sister shouting out all the answers. Tom wakes me up as he is leaving, and I’m greeted by my sunshine girl, ready for her day.

I poke around the house for a bit, cleaning and trying to wake up, until Ella crawls out of bed. I get her breakfast, and she promises to keep her sister out of trouble while I take a shower. I’m not feeling very optimistic about our day, but try to put on a happy face.

Once out of the shower, I wonder if I shouldn’t have had a cup of coffee before taking a four year old’s word on keeping her sister out of trouble.

The cat and I have a chat about her staying the heck off my bed, because she needs a haircut and I’m tired of waking up hacking up furballs. She ignores me.

I document the 36th week of this pregnancy. A month more to go, if this baby (unlike her sisters) actually comes near her due date. 30 days sounds so much sooner.

I finally feel up to eating, so I make a mega shake and gulp down 50 grams of protein in one sitting. The girls beg for “smoothies!” and then take one drink and dramatically tell me that “THAT is not a smoothie”.

We stalk the mailman, but he doesn’t bring us packages, just magazines and bills.

I eat my body weight in Sonic ice each day. My iron levels are fine; I just like how it crunches.

This plus this = my attempt at not spending money at the coffee shop.

+

The girls spend a lot of time looking out our front window, talking about squirrels, noting the comings and goings of the neighbors, and fighting over who saw that bird first.

I plot out what to take and when today. I think I need a fancy pill case with a reminder bell or something. I have another group of vitamins that I only take at night, but forgot to round those up.

Alice is potty training, so we spend a lot of time singing songs in the bathroom.

I consider making my bed, but instead crawl back in and cuddle with my pillow for a bit. I seriously thought this was the stupidest pillow on earth when I saw it online (“Pshh, I can do that with my 6 pillows! Who would waste the money?”) but then I found one for a great deal and now I can not believe I lived without it. I love you noodle pillow!

It’s close to noon by this point, so we decide to go for a quick walk around the neighborhood, and then come home for lunch. Instead, we get two feet outside the front door and I am hit with a series of killer braxton hicks contractions. Walk = sooooo not happening. I hobble the kids over to the van, and promise them that we’ll go do something else. (Note the baby seat. I installed it a few days ago to see if I want the van set up this way, and am not sure yet. Every time I go out I am caught off guard by it though. THREE carseats? OMG.)

I drive around for a while, and finally decide to give in and take the kids to “Old MacDonalds”. We rarely eat fast food, but Pam, my mother-in-law, takes the girls “out to dinner” here when she babysits them, so it is a sacred and mystical place for Ella. She thanks me over and over again for bringing her here. I’m thinking maybe we should come more often, if only to make it less attractive.

Once we get home, I enforce naptime, despite everyone swearing they are not tired. Of course they are asleep within 5 minutes of reluctantly agreeing to lay down and “think about summer”.

This is where our day went south and I forgot about my camera for a few hours. While the girls slept, I called our insurance company to follow up on an appeal we’d made, in hopes of them covering the cost of our midwife. Not completely surprisingly, they denied the claim again. I was bummed, but okay with it, since we had planned for this possibility, and were going to use some of the money from the sale of our house to pay Cathy.

As soon as I hung up the phone, Tom called and gave me the news that the people who were buying the house were backing out, after months of assuring us that they would not, and that it was all just paperwork and red tape holding everything up. Not only are we now back at square one with the house, but we feel scammed. Bonus that that money I had just been counting on a half hour before was now nonexistent.

So, as is my usual coping technique, I ran the bath as hot as I could stand it, and crawled in, and cried. The girls woke up, Tom came home, the water got cold, and I calmed down. By the time Cathy came by for our weekly appointment I was able to talk to her about it without sobbing, and of course she assured me that she wasn’t going to abandon us. She stayed for two hours, talking and laughing with us. We listened to Polliwog’s heartbeat and talked about what the next month will look like. I could have a baby in a week, or in a month and a half. When Ella is being antsy or nagging me to do something, I often ask her what patience means, and she always sighs and says “Waiting without complaining” with a resigned look on her face. We’ll see if I am any better at it than a four year old.

Once Cathy leaves, we hurry to make dinner and get the girls in bed, since it is already close to their bedtime. I do dishes,

and zone out to an audiobook.

Alice sorts through the tea, and I tell myself that the 15 minutes of quiet I get is worth the 2 minutes it will take me to pick them up later.

Tom makes dinner, heavy on protein.

The kids eat, and then Tom gets them ready for bed. He does most of the bedtime routine now, in preparation for the fact that sooner than later I will have a tiny nursling. Once they are quiet, we both sit down with our respective computers and zone out until we curl up on the couch and watch TV.

I pass out in the middle of a DVR’d episode of Lost, and am so, so glad this day is over.

The big house is back on the market as of today, a family member is back in crisis, insurance isn’t going to cover our maternity care/birth, and I have heartburn. Three of these have a long back stories that I am trying not to dwell on, and the heartburn is from a bad choice for lunch (*shakes my fist at delicious eggplant parmesan*), but I’m equally anxious about it all.

But hey, look, there’s a squirrel on the porch eating a cracker. We think his name is Wendle.

Do you know what is better than dressing up your babies in cute outfits? Not having to get them dressed at all.

Sure, sometimes they try to leave the house with only one shoe,

or with three shirts

or looking like they have been raised by blind gypsies

but never has the saying “Choose your battles” been more true than when you are trying to get a toddler and preschooler out the door.

And besides, sometimes they end up pretty darn cute.