A Lactation Room By Any Other Name…

Not too long ago, while skimming an email from my company’s Human Resources Department, something caught my eye. The email referred to the department as the company’s People Department.

What the what?

Apparently Human Resources wasn’t warm-fuzzy-feeling enough. So they went with the new  moniker, which—I don’t know about you—makes me think they’re the type of people who go around saying things like “Turn that frown upside down,” and, “Looks like someone’s got a case of the Mondays.”

The "People Department"

I’ve met a few of the people who work in the People Department; they seem pretty normal. They’ve certainly never commented on my lack of enthusiasm at work. (Perhaps they can see on my face that I have a case of the Every-Day-of-the-Work-Weeks.) Needless to say, the name change was a little baffling.

While people might be their thing though, naming clearly isn’t. So I wasn’t completely shocked when I saw the new paper plaques posted beside both lactation room doors. Normally, I’m in a rush to get in and out without drawing too much attention to myself. (Despite this blog, which I know is read by some of the people I work with, I really don’t want my co-workers knowing or thinking too much about my boobs.) But the new sign stopped me in my tracks, and I just stared up at it in disbelief, wondering who thought this was a good idea.

I doubt anyone in the People Department read my last blog post, so I’m just trying to imagine how this change came about. I’m the first to admit that I don’t really know what the People Department does on a daily basis. But I imagine that maybe they were all sitting around a large conference table one morning, and someone eagerly suggested renaming the lactation rooms. One of the rooms is on the same floor as their department, and I guess passing that “Lactation Room” sign every day gave someone a frowny face.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m all for a new name for these rooms. I am no fan of disappearing into a room that’s name—for me at least—makes me feel even more like a cow lining up to be milked. (Although I like to think other people imagine it to be a Willy Wonka-esque room full of streaming rivers of breast milk and majestic white waterfalls, and where we moms sing and dance to the delight of newborn babies everywhere.*)

But, well, Mother’s Room? Really?

Firstly, we’re a publishing company. There are grammatically-gifted people swarming this place, yet they still put the apostrophe before the S (as if there is just one mother using the room). Call me anal retentive, but this is just irritating. Mothers’ Room would have been slightly better. Slightly.

Second, this is just a shitty name. My guess is not too much brainstorming went into that choice. I don’t know about you, but this conjures images of Mrs. Bates’s silhouette in the window in Psycho and Norman saying something like “Oh yes, that up there… that’s Mother’s room.”

Mother doesn't like being disturbed.

Once again, there are plenty of creative types roaming these cubicles. Surely someone could have thought up something better. And why not have a little bit of a sense of humor about it too? Mother’s Room sounds so dour, as if it’s some sort of breast milk sweatshop where we go to toil away at our daily drudgery.

It's more like this. But with breasts slung over our shoulders, not pick axes.

So, I thought I’d offer up some possible alternatives. Let me know which one you think I should suggest to Human… I mean, the People Department:

• The Booby Parlor
• The Lactating Ladies Lounge (With this option, I think we should be issued pink satin bomber jackets with Lactating Ladies embroidered on the back.)
• The Penguin Milk Bar
• The Pumping Station
• The Breastroom
• Shake Shack (as in Milkshake—too obscure?)
• The Mamas & the Tatas Room (They could play California Dreamin’ on repeat.)
• Mammary Lane
• The Milky Way
• McBoobies

Any other suggestions?

*It is. Jealous?

Got Milked?

"If you tell anyone about this, I will cut you."

Not long after giving birth to my daughter, I found myself in a room surrounded by bare breasts. Big ones.

Before you get too excited, you should know these breasts were not for fun. These were breasts with problems. They’d seen better days. MUCH better days. With the exception of the lithe, young, Julie Delpy-type to my right with her chic ensemble and sexy-without-trying French pout (giving men hope that things like ladies having pillow fights in lingerie actually happen), these were worn out women with unwashed hair, bags under their eyes as big as the diaper bags slung over their shoulders, and clothing that looked like it had been slept in for several nights in a row. We were evidence of the dark side of breastfeeding, the cautionary tales you never hear about until it’s too late.

Before getting pregnant, I never pegged myself as a breastfeeder. As a baby, I drank formula, as did my younger brother, and everyone else I grew up around (as far as I knew). Hell, I don’t think I even knew people actually did that until long after my little Tic Tac boobs started to come in. Even living in Manhattan, I rarely saw an exposed mammary.

But then I moved to breeding-like-bunnies Brooklyn. And I started reading baby books. And websites. And they all told me the same thing—“breast is best”—and guilt made me rule out formula as if it was tantamount to feeding my kid poison.

Now, I’m not going to try to tell you that breasts aren’t best. They are. For some things. But feeding a baby? Well, yes, ok. But while they may be best, they’re really a fucking pain in the ass.

Conveniently, they neglect to mention this.

No matter how cute your baby is, when he or she is greedily sucking away on your nipple, you can’t help but think of them as a creature from a bad horror movie. To make matters worse, something that seems like it should be easy and come naturally sometimes just doesn’t. Done incorrectly, your nipples come out feeling like a Jaws victim. And then, it seems, just as soon as you’ve finished, you have to offer up your stinging/aching/bruised/all of the above nipples once again. You live in constant fear of every feeding.

And when you Google “Why are my nipples burning like the seventh circle of hell?”, you are told that you must be doing it wrong, you idiot.” Because a starving baby rabidly gumming one of the most sensitive parts of your body should feel like butterfly kisses. Really?

Do you remember Stretch Armstrong? Yeah, it's a little like that.

How could a sweet, innocent little baby inflict so much pain? Don’t let those big doe eyes and cute pout fool you. Babies can be vicious. It didn’t take long for my daughter to earn the nickname “The Beast”. One moment she was looking up at us sweetly, and the next, she was attacking like a blood-thirsty little piranha. (Piranha was our other nickname for her in those early days.) She would violently gnash her gums and bang her head at anything and everything in the hope that she would land upon a nipple.

So, a few days after leaving the hospital, I went to a breastfeeding support class. Because yes, these bad boys (girls?) needed support that those hideous nursing bras could not provide.

There I was, surrounded by my comrades. These were tired women who, like me, missed the days when their breasts were, for the most part, carefree. When they didn’t need constant attention and maintenance. When they didn’t cower in fear at the slightest touch. Once they had been proud, perhaps even perky. But now? Now they looked like they were fresh out of Guantanamo (at least until their torturers were hungry again). Each woman told her own war story and we all winced in empathy.

Unfortunately, the class was useless. My daughter took a coma-deep nap the entire time, and I couldn’t rouse her (nor was I sure I wanted to). And as the lactation consultant worked with each woman individually, really getting hands-on with each set of beleaguered breasts, I was not sure paying too close attention to her techniques was welcome. I mean, what’s the etiquette for staring at another woman’s boobs even if it is purely for educational purposes?

Things eventually eased up a little though around the nine week mark. And there were good days. But then the beatings started. I don’t know if this happens to other women, but my daughter occasionally turned into a mini Ike Turner. She would literally maul me on occasion, frequently at 3 am when I was too exhausted to defend myself. My child, in fits of frustration from my apparently disappointing boobs, flailed her little arms, slashing at me with her tiny Ginsu-sharp fingernails (my own fault because I was afraid to cut them). She also has a mean right hook. If it was anyone other than my newborn daughter doing it, I would have filed a police report.

So yeah, breastfeeding is a lot tougher than it looks. Or should be quite frankly. Nursing is like trying to put together IKEA furniture without even the shitty instructions.

And now? Now I don’t even flinch when my daughter looks at me with those hungry eyes.* I just whip ’em out and pop her on. And I bare my breasts three times a day at work. No, I have not become a stripper.** My office has it’s own “Lactation Room”, and it’s marked as such so that all my co-workers know I’m going in there to “lactate”. (I’m tempted to change each of the bathroom signs to “Urination and Defecation Room” just to make it equally awkward.)

No big deal.

I’m basically an old pro at this now. These breasts are like tanks. I think they could survive a nuclear holocaust alongside the cockroaches. No joke. And it only took a few months of torture. The six month mark—the point where they pat you on the back and say it’s ok to throw in the breastfeeding towel—is quickly creeping up though. And maybe it’s like that feeling of nostalgia for being a teenager even though I hated every minute of it, but I’ve even started to wonder if maybe I should keep at it for a little longer. You know, because it’s a beautiful bonding experience and stuff.

*Is it wrong that I linked to a sexy song when referencing my daughter? Eh, whatever.

**Maybe I should. My boobs have never been bigger and stripping is a hell of a lot more lucrative than publishing. Diapers don’t buy themselves, you know. Do you think there are strip clubs who’ll hire a lady with a little bit of post-baby pudge around the middle?

The Miracle of… Holy Sh*t This Hurts

Plugged into The Matrix

Scheduling the birth of your child is a weird thing to have to do. And catching a cab to get to your “appointment” is weirder. Part of me was a little disappointed that there was no element of surprise the way it’s always depicted in movies. There was no gush of my water breaking at an inopportune moment (i.e at the grocery store, in my cubicle, in a broken elevator with only a pimply-faced teenage boy to deliver the baby). There was no look of incomprehension on Dan’s face as I told him “It’s time.” And there was no frantic packing of hospital bags and speeding off to the hospital.

Instead, we went out for steak. It was our last meal as a two-person unit and I knew I wouldn’t be able to eat much other than chicken broth and Jello in the next twenty-four hours or so. We double-checked that our bags were equipped with all the crap half-a-dozen baby websites told me we needed (but didn’t). And we hailed a cab as if we were heading off to the airport for a vacation.

That was, by far, the scariest and most exciting cab ride I’ve ever taken (and I once took a sketchy Russian van from Brighton Beach to the Upper East Side that sounded like the whole thing would fall apart every time it drove over a pebble like some cartoon car). There were no contractions to distract me from the huge thing that was about to happen to me and my lady bits. That time tomorrow I was going to be a mom (and very, very uncomfortable) whether I was ready or not.

At the hospital, they plugged me into a bunch of monitors and I changed into a robe that, at the start of the night, I modestly held closed where it gaped open in the back. It only took a couple of hours for me to throw caution (and my hooha) to the wind. If there’s anything in life that reminds you that we’re all just animals that ridiculously insist on wearing clothes, it’s giving birth. They conveniently leave this out, but when you have a baby, you need to get comfortable with your own nudity and bodily functions. Quickly. By the time you leave the hospital every staff member from the doctors down to the janitorial staff has seen more parts of your anatomy than your significant other and you just have to be ok with that. Really. There was a steady stream of people poking around under my gown—doctors, nurses, residents, foreign tourists, etc.—and I just grinned and—pun intended—bared it.

Other than the nudie show, most of that first night was waiting. And trying to sleep between nurses checking my blood pressure (which was annoyingly high), doctors checking on my cervix (open enough yet?), contractions that ached just enough to wake me, and women in nearby rooms making horrible sounds. There were two of these women and they both made me wish NYU had invested in soundproofing the walls. The first was just next door and at first I thought “Is there someone having sex in the next room? I mean, I know it’s supposed to get the ball rolling, but this is a hospital!” And then I listened more closely and realized her breathy moans were actually deep, guttural “Ows”. Later in the night, I heard what sounded like a feral cat being slaughtered down the hall. Needless to say, listening to these sounds of torture as I waited for my turn was not comforting.

I made it through the night without an epidural. Not to brag or anything, but the contractions really weren’t that bad. The nurses kept asking if I wanted the drugs and every time I turned it down, they were surprised. And I was surprised that they were surprised. And that I was really ok with the pain. I was a little proud of myself. Epidural, schmep-idural. I could handle anything. No big deal.

Of course the thing that was really killing me was—can you guess?—my f*cking acid reflux. It was in full force. All. Night. Long. They gave me a horrible tasting shot of some medicine to deal with it, but it didn’t help. At one point it was so bad I threw up all over myself. Dan, who was passed out face down on the small fold-out couch in the corner, was awakened by me calling out for him to pass me a bucket as I sat there with a pool of partially digested strawberry Jello in my lap.

The next morning my doctor came in and told me she wanted to put me on Pitocin to get things moving since they’d stalled a bit. And she warned me she was going to break my water, which meant the contractions were going to get serious. If I was going to go the epidural route, that was the time to do it. I took her word for it. Bring me drugs! Dan likes to say that I enjoy suffering unnecessarily. As scary as having two people put a needle in your spine is, I think Dan must be right, because that epidural was awesome and I should have gotten it earlier. Contractions? What contractions?

Some hours later, my doctor checked in and announced “You’re ten centimeters dilated.” Bagel time! Great! Until she explained that they needed to reduce the epidural so I could push. “You mean you want me to feel something?! But, drugs are nice.” And I was right. Feeling contractions is not fun. Of course weening me off the epidural wasn’t an exact science it seemed and I started feeling pain only on one side. And it was excruciating. And I threw up, again. To the ladies who go natural, I salute you.

Once things started hurting, everything sort of became a blur. One minute my legs were up in the air and there was just Dan, my doctor, and a couple of nurses. The next moment it was like I was in the middle of the Filene’s wedding dress sale if it was only shopped at by medical professionals. There were women in scrubs scurrying all over the place. I’m not sure they were all actually doing anything useful. I think some were just extras there to make things seem chaotic.

And then? Then I was pushing with every bit of energy I had in me. Almost fourteen days late and I wanted that baby out of me. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I didn’t scream. Or moan. Or cry like a dying cat. I didn’t even curse Dan. Hell, Dan could have left the room to go grab a drink and I don’t think I would have noticed. I was incredibly focused on the task at hand—eyes closed, teeth clenched. And when I felt what I imagined was Babganoush’s big head pushing its way out, I tried my best to help. The downside of the epidural was that I couldn’t feel any progress. I just had to take their word for it when they said my pushing was working.

Having a chorus of women and your husband surrounding you telling you that you’re doing a great job is surreal. I’m not used to having cheerleaders. Part of me wished they’d given me more details though. “What do you mean I’m doing great? Can you see her forehead? Eyes? Nose? What?” I thought maybe they were exaggerating. That was until my doctor asked if I wanted to feel the head. “What?! No, I do NOT want to feel the head! Are you kidding? Not until everything attached to that head is out of my body!” Now, I didn’t say that out loud, but I think I might have snapped at her in that moment. I hope not (she’s a very nice woman), but I was in no mood for distractions. It was all or nothing.

Now, I could not (and would not) look at what was going on down there at the foot of the bed, let alone touch it. But Dan, who had vowed he would not either, let his curiosity get the better of him. In his recollection, he saw a hairy egg emerging from my body and couldn’t fathom what part of her head it was until they turned it around to reveal a face. A quiet face that he was sure should have been wailing its head off considering the predicament it was in (i.e. neck deep in another person’s vajayjay). Dan witnessed a few other things that he will never be able to un-see, but I will spare you the details because, well, you can’t handle the truth. Hell, I don’t think I could have handled it.

And then, after just forty minutes of pushing, it was over.

I'm not going to lie, the baby sort of looked like this when they first held her up. Minus the tentacles of course.

I will tell you, proudly, that I didn’t poop myself. However, that was remedied by my daughter (Holy sh*t, I have a DAUGHTER) who, as her first eff you to us all, proceeded to take a big dump as she entered the world. And then once more on my arm as they placed her on my chest. If the fact that human excrement on me didn’t faze me in the slightest as I stared in awe at my daughter lying there doesn’t give you some idea of how much love I had for this tiny human, I don’t know what would. Even I—as jaded and cynical as I am—was amazed by how incredible she was. She was swollen and mushy… and she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I’m not going to lie—Dan started crying. And so did I.

Nothing in the world is as perfect as something you squeeze out of your own vagina.

We’re Coming to Get You, Baba!

Baba held her ground and resisted all our attempts to get her out. We even resorted to two new methods: watching Human Centipede (the “disgust the crap out of Mommy” method, although we didn’t make it all the way through this one) and assembling Ikea furniture (I was sure the frustration alone would at least break my water). Even our bribery attempts were ignored. Granted, there isn’t much you can promise a person who doesn’t know what ANYTHING is yet (and even if she did, she doesn’t know the word for it).

So, induction it is. Next time I post, I will be fetus free!

Don’t expect any photos of Baba though. I’m holding out for top dollar from a tabloid. Sorry folks.

(Just kidding! You know this kid’s face is going to be all over the interwebs.)

Week 41+: My Cervix Can Kick Your Cervix’s Ass

Babaganoush collaborating with me on today's post

That’s right, I said it. My cervix is hardcore. It wears leather and rides a Harley and has a few of those tear tattoos that you get in prison for killing people. In fact, it’s so badass it’s in there right now saying “You want this baby out? Fuck you! I do what I want. Suck it, bitch!”

We’re a lot alike, my cervix and I.

My uterus isn’t much better. She’s just apathetic. And lazy. I imagine she’s in there filing her nails and cracking her gum, rolling her eyes every time we pray for contractions.

So, this means we’re going to resort to coercing my crappy, uncooperative parts to get Baba out of there. And that’s where the drugs come in. Wednesday night they initiate the rescue mission (aka induction) by plying my cervix with (I think) Cervidil until it’s stoned and starts opening up about it’s feelings. It might even cry a little. And then Thursday, they give my uterus Pitocin so that she gets off her ass and starts contracting.

It should be fun.

And then? Then I want Dan to blast this for motivation:

The whole process is supposed to take twenty-four to thirty-six hours. So Baba should be here, at the latest, Friday afternoon.

In the meantime, I had to go for a BPP or biophysical profile today. It’s basically an ultrasound where they check out the baby’s body, heart rate, and the amniotic fluid that’s left. I was a little ambivalent about seeing what Baba looks like so close to actually seeing her in real life. Part of me is dying to see her tiny little face and part of me wants to be surprised a little, you know? Luckily, the sonogram didn’t reveal anything (to us anyway). Because her bones are so well-developed, everything just appeared shadowy. The most recognizable part that we got a glimpse of was her spine which means we can continue to imagine her looking like this:

So, assuming this is not an accurate portrait, we’ll still be surprised when they pull her out crying and covered in goo. If it is, well, Dan’s probably going to want to order one of those paternity tests you can get on the Internet now.

As for the results of the test, all good. All her parts (i.e. lungs, bladder, kidneys, heart, etc.) are in working order. And her amniotic fluid supply will definitely last her for the rest of her stay at Hotel Uterus. We also discovered that she’s curled up in a backward “C” shape (something we’ve been curious about for a long time). That big round bulge I wake up to every morning is her round little booty sticking out, just as I suspected.

Now it’s really just a countdown. Unless of course my badass cervix and lazy uterus finally decide to get their shit together and do what they’re supposed to before Wednesday night.

But we’re not holding our breath.

Old Wives Apparently Don’t Know Sh*t

When your due date comes and goes, the DIY induction methods start flying at you from all different directions. No joke, the hostess where we had brunch on Sunday told me I should have sex and eat spicy food to get this kid out of me. When was the last time a stranger gave you that kind of advice? (Unless of course they wanted to participate.) I should have responded, while sweeping eggs Benedict and mimosas off a nearby table, “Right here? Sure! Bring me some Tabasco Sauce while you’re at it. Might as well try both at once, right?”

Of course, these suggestions are mostly just old wives’ tales and are usually followed by a disclaimer that it’s not exactly the most effective method. Or that it worked great for someone’s brother-in-law’s cousin once-removed’s hair stylist. So I’m generally pretty skeptical of all of them.

I don’t know who all these old wives were who were sitting around doling out these pearls of wisdom, but really, I think they were just sitting in their rocking chairs pulling stuff out their asses to mess with pregnant women. It all seems like some weird hazing ritual that no one was in on but them.

Anyway, here are some of the suggestions Dan and I have gotten:

1. Have sex – Sleep deprivation, feeling like you’ve been riding a bucking bronco all day, and carrying a watermelon around your midsection don’t exactly make you want to strip off your clothes and get it on. Really, nothing puts you in the mood like not being able to locate your own genitals. The only proof you have that they’re still there is that the doctor’s been poking at them recently. Also, I’m supposed to believe the thing that got her in there in the first place is supposed to be the thing that gets her out? Really? There’s supposedly some science behind this one—some hormones in semen and/or from the orgasm—but I don’t know. When someone starts violently banging at my front door that doesn’t make me want to come out and see what’s going on. It makes me want to hide in the closet until it’s quiet and then call the cops.
2. Stimulate the nipples – Dan’s friend suggested this one with a disclaimer: “hers, not yours”. I would’ve preferred that there was some reason stimulating Dan’s nipples would have an effect. Oh well. I also find this funny because, while it’s also supposed to be a hormonal thing, I think of it more like Baba senses someone else has gotten to her food first and she’s like “Hell no! That bitch ain’t gettin’ my milk. I will CUT her!” (Yes, my unborn baby belongs on the Jerry Springer show.) (How cute is it when she says she was sitting on the toilet while her partner “twiddled her nipples” with her British accent?)
3. Walk / Run a marathon / Dance – I walk. About twelve blocks a day, so that’s got to count for something. As for running a marathon to get this kid out, well, a marathon would kill me even if I wasn’t carrying another person inside me. I say great for that woman who ran the Chicago Marathon and delivered her baby right after, but damn, that is crazy. As for dancing, I only do that when I’m drunk. In the dark. And in such close proximity to other people dancing that my movements are virtually undetectable. Let’s just say this woman’s choreography far surpasses my own. And her music selection is awesome.
4. Eat spicy foods – Baba already gives me crazy indigestion, so this seems like I’d only be hurting myself. But I tried it. Or at least I tried spicy food within the range of my white-Jewish-girl tolerance level. And I will admit, it felt like Lord of the Dance in there afterwards. But no, nothing. That seemed to only prove that Baba too is just a white Jewish girl that finds a little chipotle muy picante.
5. Eat pineapple / eggplant / chili dogs / Chicago deep dish pizza – Ok, I’ll try some pineapple. I don’t like eggplant or chili dogs though. And well, before I knew about the pizza, Dan and I submitted to our darker urges and ordered deep dish from Domino’s the other night. Granted, the entire city of Chicago would probably stone me to death for daring to call Domino’s pizza Chicago-style deep dish (that would be like calling a McDonald’s cheeseburger beef), but I’m guessing it’s the heaviness of the meal and not the actual ingredients that are supposed to get the baby moving. And well, you can’t get much heavier than Domino’s; it’s like eating a doughy brick. Hell, I could maybe see this plan working on some level though; even my unborn child should be like “Hell no! I am not eating this crap. Get me out of this woman!” Apparently, Baba’s no foodie though because she had no objections to the Domino’s. (Oh, and it actually had pineapple on it! Bonus!)
6. Jump on a trampoline – All I can think is pre-natal Shaken Baby Syndrome.
7. Drink castor oil – My only knowledge of castor oil is that scene in Stand By Me when Gordie is telling the story about the blueberry pie-eating contest where Lardass, the overweight kid, exacts revenge by downing a raw egg and castor oil to start a vomit chain reaction. So no, I am not trying this. But it did make me want to watch that movie again. Great movie.
8. Just wait – Ok, fine. Where do I find castor oil?

Occupy Womb Street

When someone high fives you, generally it’s safe to assume you’re on the same team. So you can imagine my surprise when my unborn daughter did just that and then betrayed me. You just can’t trust fetuses these days, can you?

Forty weeks* have come and gone and Baba’s gestation has gone into overtime. My reaction to this is about the same as when Dan is forcing me to watch the Yankees with him—“More innings? Are you kidding? Wasn’t nine ENOUGH??!!”

So, as the sun was setting on Friday, the 14th (aka my due date), I started thinking about my next best choice for Baba’s birthday. I’ve heard that the most deaths happen in hospitals on weekends because there’s less staff on hand. So that ruled out the 15th and 16th. And call me crazy (if you haven’t already at this point, I would question your own sanity), but I just prefer even numbers. They’re just so… even. So that ruled out Monday, the 17th.

The 18th! Weekday? Check. Even? Check! Plus, it has the number eight, my lucky number, in it. And, as the cherry on the top, October 18th was my great grandmother’s birthday. Bingo!

So I sat Baba down for a chat. “Look, Baba…” (Yes, we usually call her Baba even though she knows her real name.) “How do you feel about being born on Tuesday, the 18th?” I proceeded to explain why it would be the ideal birthday and she was still and listened quietly.

“So, what do you think? The 18th? Give me a high five if that’s cool with you.” I placed my hand on my belly and within seconds, my daughter (who I remind you was not moving at all) suddenly tapped my hand. Now, I can’t be certain that what I felt was actually her hand. I’m thinking it was more likely an elbow since I’m pretty sure it’s her back that’s facing outward, but sometimes when you’re in a tight spot (literally) you have to improvise.

Well, let’s just say that when you’re dealing with the unborn, always get it in writing. It’s now Tuesday evening and all’s quiet on the womb front. No mucus plugs (DO NOT click on that unless you’ve got a strong stomach)**. No contractions. No signs of babypocalypse.

So thanks, Baba. For NOTHING!

*(FYI, in case you guys were wondering, yes, I screwed up the week count on my posts. It’s kind of complicated, but last week, week 39, was actually week 40. Oops! By the time I realized this months ago it was too late.)

**Mucusplug.org. You’re kicking yourself now for not snatching up that domain name when you had the chance, aren’t you?

Week 39: How to Drive a Pregnant Woman Crazy

1. Tell her there’s a chance she has a scary illness just two days before her due date.

2. Tell her there’s no need to worry and that the results will be ready the next day.

3. Not have the results the next day.

4. Tell her they’ll be ready the next morning.

5. Not have the results the next morning and half-heartedly promise them by 5pm, barely concealing your annoyance that a pregnant woman has the nerve to worry she might have a serious condition that could harm her and her baby.

This is what I had to deal with last week. But don’t worry, guys. I finally got a call back and it’s nothing.

At my doctor’s last Wednesday, the nurse who put me in the exam room took my blood pressure. And then she took it again. Which seemed odd, but since it was the sour-looking nurse who never smiles, I was afraid to question it. Maybe it was just a bad reading the first time.

But then the doctor walked in and said she was going to take my blood pressure, which was even stranger because the doctor NEVER does that. I thought maybe I should speak up and mention that the nurse already did it, but I didn’t. (I try not to be the person who questions people who are supposed to know what they’re doing.) And then she did it again, switching to my other arm. And it was at this point I started to worry. Do I not have any blood pressure? Am I a zombie preggo? What’s going on?

So after about 3 or 4 tries, she tells me my blood pressure is high and she just wants to be certain. She takes it one more time, literally seconds after the last reading, and now it’s normal. High blood pressure doesn’t really sound too scary until she sits down on her little vagina-at-eye-level height stool on wheels and asks me if I’d ever heard of toxemia.

Oh crap. THAT is scary.

I’ve run across the term in my baby books, and I usually stop reading after the first couple of sentences about it because, well, that’s not something that would happen to me. Right? Ignorance is bliss and all that. And then I start remembering the few facts about it that managed to burrow into my gray matter despite my best efforts to avoid it and the term preeclampsia pops up. Of course any disease that basically has the word “toxic” in its name can’t be good. But if you’ve ever watched House M.D. (you know, the show with the genius but mean doctor who solves crazy medical mysteries), you know that every pregnant woman that makes an appearance on that show has preeclampsia. It’s kind of the vague catchall for anything and everything that can go wrong. It’s some serious business.

Of course, whenever a doctor tells me not to worry, I do. Because, well, I’m neurotic like that. And while I’m generally a glass-half-full type of person, when it comes to my health, all I see is empty.

So, they draw more vials of blood. (I’m really getting used to this. I mean the biggest hurdle to shooting heroin is the needles, right? That won’t be a problem for me now.) And I leave another urine sample (lucky for them I’m pregnant and can fill those little cups with assembly-line regularity). The doctor tells me I’ll have results the next day.

It’s 1:30 pm the next day and no call. So I call them. They put me on hold for a ridiculously long period of time. I finally talk to a nurse and she tells me they need to call me back. And when they do, nothing. No results yet. Because, well, they just haven’t come in and they can’t tell me when exactly they will.

WONDERFUL.

October 13th: the night before the day I’ve been both longing for and fearing like none other and now I have to worry about this?

I make it through the night and the morning flies by. No baby. No contractions. No water breaking. No call. No results. Nothing.

At 2 pm, I call the doctor’s office. Still nothing. I sigh and the nurse on the other end of the phone tells me I should get a call one way or the other by the end of the day. And she sounds annoyed. Because really, what kind of pain in the ass am I to want to know if my body is suddenly crapping out on me and Baba? Also, I know that when a doctor’s office promises to call, the likelihood of them actually calling is about equal to that of the one-night-stand you wake up next to after a long night of drinking calling you. It’s not going to happen.

But, amazingly, they surprised me. An hour and a half later, my doctor actually called. (God, I loved her at that moment.) And she told me the results were fine.

It almost (ALMOST) made me feel better about the fact that Baba was not coming on schedule.

(On a side note, to make the visit even more frustrating, I hadn’t progressed at all. No more dilation. No more fingers, not even a pinky. Unfortunately, I don’t know about effacement because she didn’t say and I was too worried about the other stuff to ask.)

Week 38: A Finger Closer to Baba

My week started with a surprise. No, no… not THAT surprise. As of this moment (9:45 pm on October 10th), Baba is still cooking in her Easy Bake Uterus. No this was a surprise I really didn’t see coming at all—a surprise baby shower thrown by my co-workers. My friend Milly really did an excellent job planning it and hiding it from me because I am generally far too paranoid and suspicious for surprise parties. She is apparently far too sneaky for me.

Someone at the party asked when I would start my maternity leave. When I announced that I didn’t know because I was staying up until the end, I felt as though everyone was thinking, “Please don’t let her go into labor at work. That is not something I want to be a witness to.” So now it feels like they’re looking at me like I’m a ticking time bomb that could explode at any minute. Every morning they seem surprised (and nervous) that I showed up to work that day.

This was also the week I finally got my act together and started putting together my hospital bag. Considering I usually procrastinate packing for vacations (i.e. trips that are going to be enjoyable), preparing for a trip to the hospital where I’ll be experiencing vast amounts of pain was not something I wanted to do at all. Of course, like any packing I do, I went overboard for fear I’d be missing something I needed. Plus, as hard as it is for me to judge what I’ll want to wear in the future, knowing what a tiny human being who’s breathing air and seeing the world for the first time will want to be dressed in is virtually impossible. I mean, I don’t even know her. She may like velour track suits with “Juicy” written on the ass. And Uggs. Or argyle and hot pink pants with little whales embroidered on them. Like I said, I don’t even KNOW her. Yet.

So I packed up options for both of us, whether it’s forty degrees or ninety degrees. First, I thought maybe I should go with something fancy for her coming home outfit, and then I thought about it a bit more. I mean, what would I want to wear after what is probably the most traumatic experience in a person’s life. One minute you’re cozy and warm in a dark, quiet bath and the next you’re being pushed and pulled through a little hole that you will later wish you could pretend didn’t exist. So instead of fancy, I went the as-comfortable-as-possible route, for both of us. Fancy can wait.

I also threw in about a month’s worth of products to maintain us both above the waist and below post-birth. Don’t ask. Really. If you thought being pregnant is less than glamorous, it only gets worse AFTER. Let’s put it this way: you’ll both be leaking all over the place, and, in some cases, from places you never knew you’d leak from.

Of course, none of this packing makes me feel any more ready.

And finally, I found out that, as of Thursday, I was about fifty percent effaced, meaning my uterus is “ripening” or thinning. This doctor, unlike the one I saw last week (I have about half a dozen at the practice), gave me the option of checking my cervix because, as she said, it’s not very helpful and can’t really predict exactly when labor will start. I kind of wish she hadn’t because it put me in the position of asking her to poke around in there when there wasn’t much reason to. For those of you who don’t know, (and it was news to me), visits to the obstetrician are surprising chaste, usually pants-on exercises. But I’m a need-to-know kind of person. Sorry doc. I was not letting her out of there without checking things out first.

The verdict? One finger dilated. Yes, apparently the finger is a valid form of measurement when it comes to cervices. Is that a dainty lady finger? An Andre the Giant finger? What exactly does that mean? How many fingers until Baba can pop her head through? And of course sharing that measurement with people feels like I’m over-sharing, like that’s just too graphic a detail. (Is it? If so, I apologize.) Centimeters are the more useful measure, but no, I had to get “fingers”. I think she did it on purpose as payback.

Shopping at the Gap: Tees, Khakis, and Obstetric Services

Being a noticeably pregnant woman in New York City means random people who normally wouldn’t even look in your direction start talking to you. There’s something about an inflated uterus that makes people chatty. Particularly men. I’ve had the occasional women smile and ask me when I’m due, but men tend to make a game of it. Men will call out to you like they’re on the floor of the Stock Exchange, either a guess about the sex or how far along I am. Sometimes it’s just a “Have a happy baby!” or “Congratulations!”, but more often than not, it’s like they’re making a bet.

I don’t really mind it, so I answer with a smile. I particularly find it funny when they’ve guessed wrong. And they usually smile as I walk on. Generally, it’s a pleasant experience.

That was until I met the serial pregnant lady heckler.

About two weeks ago, I was walking through Gap, having just picked up some things for Baba. I was strolling through the non-preggo women’s section, sadly eyeing the clothes I could only fit my limbs into when he walked passed. Like a sleazy guy making a lewd comment under his breath, he uttered “Eight months,” and kept walking.

Despite the unusual way he said this, I cheerfully answered, “Actually, I’m nine months.” He was already about six feet away from me when he turned and said, “Really? I could deliver that baby right now.”

I laughed a little uncomfortably and continued on my way. Yes, it was a strange statement. But I gave him the benefit of the doubt and figured he just hadn’t put much thought into the words coming out of his mouth. I’ve done that. Hell, maybe he was an obstetrician. I don’t know.

Fast forward to today. Once again I’m at Gap dealing with more tiny clothes. (Let’s just say Baba is going to have a better wardrobe than I do.) I am heading towards the door and there’s a man standing there. He looks at me and calls out, “Eight months!” and before I can register this strange bit of deja vu, I correct him, “Actually, nine and a half. I’m due next week.” I’m smiling until he says:

“If you want, I could deliver that baby right now.”

And then it all comes back to me and I realize this is the same guy. And now the somewhat awkward comment has become full-blown creepy. I smile nervously and say, “That’s ok,” and push my way out that revolving door with every bit of strength this baby-beaten body has left.

Obviously, offering to deliver strangers’ babies was not an unfortunate slip of the tongue that he regrets saying. In fact, it’s apparently a line he’s recycled time and time again. And it seems like too much of a coincidence that he’s such a frequent Gap shopper. Could it be possible that he hangs out there knowing they’ve got a maternity section and hoping to pick up pregnant women? It might work on some ladies (those with a strange sense of humor and/or raging hormones). An obstetrics student looking for practice? Hospital bills are expensive, even with insurance. A really bored and socially inept undercover store security guard? Possibly.

I really have no idea. But a word to the wise: if you offer to deliver a woman’s baby—especially if it’s on more than one occasion—you had better be an obstetrician.