Navel Gazing

Never has staring at my own belly button been more rewarding. What was once a definite "innie" is stretching out and becoming alarmingly shallow to accommodate the growing girl inside. This weekend brought about a whole new experience: I can now see the baby moving. While the feeling of movement has been an exciting and comforting, if sometimes sea-sickening, feeling, seeing my belly move independent of me is a whole new ballgame.

There is something disorienting about watching a very familiar part of me moving because of someone else, someone else inside. Our active little girl can now be seen to stretch my skin out or roll herself over. Andrew, lying his head on my belly, felt her little hand or foot not just kick out, but drag down his cheek. He is now regularly coaching her on the continuation of her exercises. Yes, we occupy a bit of our time these days staring down at my expanding belly.

I should say, the lines on belly are bothering me. Why aren't they centered properly? Isn't my body aware that I am a White? Do they know who my father is? He is a man who uses a level and carpenter's square to set up a Jenga tower. We missed a party once because we as a family needed to stay home to mourn the discovery that the kitchen cabinets were off by at least an eighth of an inch. Do the lines indicate that my belly button is off-center? And what if it is? It's a most disconcerting development.

Occasionally, I have the feeling that my skin is at its limit and isn't taking this anymore. I woke up the other night imaging that the breathe-taking pain on my right side could only mean that I was tearing in two. But in fact, my body is shifting everything into place and I am apparently going to follow the course most women take and not be the exception who somehow burst open.

There's no crying in baseball

Tom Hanks, as baseball coach to 1940s women's team, memorably yells this to a sobbing player in A League of Their Own. This line has become a mantra of sorts between me and my mother. That's maybe not accurate, let me try again: During the many times that I have burst into tears throughout my life, Mom has responded with this line. She even told me this on my wedding day; granted she said it through her own tears.

There may not be crying in baseball, but, my god, is it present in pregnancy! I have burst into tears so often this week, I'm in danger of becoming dehydrated. Granted I am no stranger to tears. I tend to cry when I'm sad, or angry or happy or touched or overwhelmed or on Tuesdays, but this is getting ridiculous. I called Kim this week, said hi, everything was fine, I had no discernible source of agitation (rare moment - I know) but she asks how I am and I became a sobbing mess. I'm holding back big, gulping, choking sobs.

I have cried this week while driving, shopping, eating, reading, emailing, talking, thinking. This is getting out of hand. Who cries because Marty Robbins is singing? Yes, it is a rare thing to hear on Canadian airwaves and I am from El Paso, but really? tears? Today, I read an email from a dear friend, laughed at her wit, and immediately let loose a flood. Remember when I wondered if I had lost my mind or if I was just pregnant? Apparently, it's a double positive.

Yes, I know this is normal, I've got oodles of hormones running around with no place to escape except my tear ducts, apparently. Mom kindly pointed out that all women cry a lot during pregnancy. I just happened to be one who cried a lot before pregnancy. Last night, Andrew asked if I could just stop being crazy. I told him I'd quit right about the time he stopped saying stupid things. God help him.

I think the truly bothersome thing about the random crying is the feeling that I'm not in control. Intellectually, I realize that I'm not and I have some vague inkling that this feeling is intrinsically linked to motherhood. The actual experience of it unnerves me. The feeling is altogether similar to that of depression - with the elephantine difference being the noticeable lack of suffocating sadness. The similarities have kept me from sitting back and riding the hormone rush and laughing about how totally ridiculous it is to cry continuously.

But this is, in fact, different. There is no sadness, just my body making adjustments for our house guest. It's nice to be here at this point. We're in week 23. The baby is weighing a whole pound! From here on out, we just have to beef up, while she explores all the possible organs into which she can stick her appendages. She's occasionally found what, I can only guess, is my spleen and boy does it hurt. But it's a pleasant kick to my internal organs - that's how I know she's there. It's nice to say, "Oh yes, I am six months pregnant." Even if I have to follow it by saying," Yes, I know you can hardly tell. If you say that again, I may start crying."

We have no plan

During one of our first snow storms in Vancouver, Andrew and I were exploring the joys of navigating rear-wheel drive vehicles on icy hills. This was going smashingly well for us, as you might imagine. I still remember the helpful people who honked their horns as we slid sideways back down the hill: "Ah, Thank you for that reminder. We should straighten-out and go forward; we were just waiting for you to recommend it."

At one point, shortly before we abandoned our car and searched out the safety of a friend's couch, we were stuck behind a stranded, tire-spinning minivan filled with Korean women. Andrew left our car and went to assist these women by letting some air out of their tires and suggesting that they stop gunning the engine. As they rolled down the window to greet him, he said, "Well ladies, what's the plan?" "We have no plan!" they chorused plaintively.

All that to say, I'm feeling more like those women from the snow storm, than the confident, in-control, over-planner whose pose I usually assume. Birth plans and planning are not for the faint of heart. Have you considered that there are about a billion different scenarios to account for and each little factor can have some lasting effect on your child or your body? Well if you haven't, then you and I probably haven't been reading the same books on childbirth.

A small side note: My father said I'm "strangely obsessed" because I'm reading and learning and forming opinions about my birth. He never did any of this, he assures me. His caution is hard to take seriously though, since he also thinks mom is "strangely obsessed" with "weird ideas" like "being a grandmother" or "retiring." You have to love him.

But back to the birth plan. I have been trolling the internet for a sample plan from which to work and get ideas. There are a lot of options, but interestingly not one that I feel easily fits our situation and preferences. It tempts me to become obsessive (my dad hasn't seen anything yet) and start a plan that has sub-plans and multiple endings, like a choose your own adventure book. Just when I think I'm the most incredibly picky woman to give birth on the planet, I realize that I don't even have a preference for some things. How am I supposed to know what exact position I want to be in when the baby comes? What water temperature will I prefer?

Thanks to my God-son Roberto's arrival, I do know that even the best laid plans must be set aside to account for what comes. I know that the most important goal of all is to work to ensure the health of me and my baby. I know that being flexible, relaxed and open will enable me to make the right choices and surround myself with people who will support and augment that. But a small part of me thinks: I could just write up that 40-page thesis on how I want to give birth which takes into account nearly all imaginable factors. Can you picture it? "Turn to page 16 for preferences involving smells and acceptable lighting options."

For those who have not considered the intricacies of birth plans you may be blissfully unaware that a great deal of effort can be spent researching and preferring various interventions or aspects of birth. Most birthing plans spell out what pain relief options a mother would prefer: massages, ice, drugs, no drugs, what kind of drugs, what dosages of drugs (see how these things grow complicated). Essentially, the reason I see the birth plan as being most useful is that it provides people with a concrete reference of the expectations that I'm bringing into this situation. This can be incredibly useful. How often do miscommunications, hurt feelings, disagreements, and even fights erupt because we are unaware of our own or of another's expectations?

On this occasion, I think it advantageous to let Andrew and my midwife and anyone else involved know that I expect to labour and birth at home. I expect to be allowed to walk if I want to walk, to eat if I want to eat. I don't expect to be cut open; if it comes to that, I think it's important that the doctors and nurses know. If we were always so clear in listing our expectations, we could save ourselves some trouble.

It might be useful for me to know that Andrew might expect the house to be shining clean and dinner to be on the table. I'm not saying that this expectation will be met, but if I know of his expectation then I might better understand and handle the situation. "A quick guide to my expectations of the experience: a birth plan." That's what I'm hoping to provide for the midwife, for me and for anyone else who may happen to find themselves at our birth.

Pregnant Brain Parked the Car

It began easily enough. While Andrew was at a training seminar for a few days, I would hang out and explore Toronto. So how did I find myself searching the streets of the city without any idea where I had left my car? I mean, zero idea as to where this thing could be. I knew it was in a parking garage under a building on Bloor Street. What floor? What helpfully lettered and numbered spot? What building? Which one with a book store?

Angela has helpfully told me that pregnant women lose 7% of their brain cells (or is that capacity?). The midwife backed this up. Countless mothers have confirmed for me that, yes, while pregnant, they too forgot very simple things or lost touch with things they once knew. My mother said that for two full years her accounting co-workers blamed her oversights on Ryan's birth. Now, I can't get these women to reach a consensus as to whether this brain function returns. The midwife said it goes with the placenta - creating possibly the most valid reason for eating that thing that I've heard.

But in the meantime, I'm wandering around Bloor Street imagining the conversation I'm going to have to have with Andrew when he gets out of his conference.

"Yes Andrew, I knew I said I'd pick you up from the hotel right at 4:00.
You see, I've lost the Volvo.
That's right, the Volvo.
It's most likely not stolen. It's just somewhere in some parking garage. Yes, that is the description I gave the police.
No, they don't seem hopeful.
This is not my fault. I don't forget directions. I don't lose my way. I don't lose entire cars. Pregnant brain parked the car."

This would not go well. Pregnant brain has been rather active these past months. Great swaths of my vocabulary are missing. It reminds me of a line from a Billy Collins poem about growing old and memory loss. The words, he said, are not on the tip of your tongue. They have retired to a remote fishing village in the Southern part of the brain where there are no phones. Had Billy Collins been a woman, he would have realized when the words first choose that village for later retirement.

The problem, I believe, is that pregnant brain operates only in the present. The immediate, urgent present. There is no future to prepare for, no past for which to account. There is only now and now must happen NOW! It may be important to note that at the time of parking the car, pregnant brain was immediately and urgently involved with the problem of finding a washroom. Someone was standing on our bladder and there was no time for noticing anything about the place where we abandoned the car in our flight for relief. The cares of tomorrow (and the cars of today) were left to fend for themselves.

I should say, I found the car. I traced down the bookstore only to discover that it had several locations in one building. Stupid bookstore. I did recall that the bookstore I wanted was across from a liquor store (a sure sign of my old brain in action). From there I retraced my steps to find our car securely parked in spot 32 H. Crisis averted.

This morning I shot up from my bed. Thoughts in full panic mode: We haven't had our period in a very long time. What was it? Months?

Ah, pregnant brain. It has been months and we've got months to go.

The baby made me eat it

I saw this on a maternity tee shirt and I laughed, but I did not buy it. My father has requested one though. He wonders if people would let him get away with it. It's cute, it's funny, but I'm not sure I'm ready to have my shirts announce in print that there is in fact a baby on board. Yes in other ways, my shirts are announcing that we're carrying a little extra weight down there, but is it tacky to say it?

Besides, does a woman standing in line at Dairy Queen alone at 10 pm on Friday night really need to wear her justification across her chest? And at that point is it still cute or just over-the-top? Andrew feels that sitting around chomping on pickles is too cliche. "Really, Dana?" he says. Is it necessary to feed the stereotype? Little does he know I'm suppressing an urge to accompany that pickle with ice cream. Ridiculous, yes, but as Flannery O'Conner said, "stereotypes begin in truth."

So, yes, I did go to Dairy Queen last night. For ice cream. Why? Because I had wanted to go there all week, several times a day and I began to fear that it would be impossible. This is not an entirely irrational fear. Dairy Queens close for the winter in Ontario. Why? I don't know, something about making them cost effective and torturing pregnant women who need hot fudge sundaes.

Do you know what makes me a worse person? I brought that ice cream and ate it in front of children and did not care that they had no ice cream. I unabashedly ate my ice cream as a five year-old and seven year-old looked on longingly. I did not share - they may carry germs. When asked why I was eating ice cream, I said, "It's nice to be a grown up."

"Can you eat whatever you want all the time?" asked Niko. "Yes," I said, but then feeling slightly guilty, I added, "You have to make good choices though. I ate a very nutritious dinner before this and I finished all of it." He wasn't impressed with this blatant attempt at parent propaganda. But he wasn't on doctor's orders to eat more. My friend pointed out, kindly, "Well that'll take care of the extra 500 calories you needed."

But really did I need the ice cream? No, I wanted a full glass a of red wine - something dry and delicious. I wanted a nice end-of-the-day scotch, smokey with a single ice cube. I could have used a morning cup of coffee, steaming hot with cream and sugar. A rich and foamy latte would have done the trick. Even a nice cold, super sweet Dr. Pepper would have sufficed.

But no one has told me that I can't eat ice cream. So I stand in line and I'm a touch defensive - so it's probably for the best that no one can comment on the irony of a t-shirt slogan.

Quickening

I have been eagerly awaiting the time when I would feel my baby moving. The last week or two I felt something, but it didn't seem to clearly be the baby. I have a very active stomach and those who have kept up with the pregnancy from the beginning know that my stomach had been especially busy, what with sending back everything it received and all.

I'm pleased to say that those days of emptying seem to be behind me and I'm looking forward to doing some serious filling work. Chocolate croissants seem to be haunting my dreams. I'd better eat another apple.

But to the baby, as mentioned at the ultrasound, she is a mover. She moves so much in fact, that Andrew felt her kick. He was lying with his head on my belly listening to the cacophony inside, when our little girl felt that she'd give her Daddy a nice sound kick in the cheek just to let him know that she's around.

We are thrilled. Now perhaps if she continues to go about kicking her dad in the face, he may change his mind about it. It's nice to know that she's here with me throughout the day and wow is she ever with me around the time I decide to lay down to sleep.

A thought has started to follow me: my mother had the daughter that her mother wanted (shy, quiet, played dolls and tea party); is karma delivering to me the daughter that my mother wanted (optimistic, athletic, out-going)? What in the world will I do if she always wants to see the bright side of things? And go on walks?

Here she is!

She's here. Limbs and fingers and toes in tact. In the last picture, you can see her darkened little beating heart. She is her father's girl moving so much we could hardly get a picture. The ultrasound tech said, "You'll need running shoes for this one."

I can feel her moving around. We're thrilled!