The contractions started all of a sudden. The entire experience can actually be summarized as “all of a sudden.” Two Sundays ago, while I was taking it easy, per my doc’s order, I began to feel immense pressure of baby girl making her way down low. Not long after, the contractions started. Much like last time, I questioned their existence all together. Like a bad job interview that you try to convince yourself went so-so. I had my yoga ball next to my “to-go” bags (that’s what I called each of our bags, which annoyed Jolie), and I rolled it into the living room. When a contraction started, I sat and rocked from side to side until it passed. I attempted to time contractions based on duration and frequency. Anyone who truly knows me knows how tragic my math skills are, so this wasn’t easy. Brett took over shortly after I began. I assumed this was the beginning. All the books say to rest. You will need your rest for delivery. How can you rest? Seriously? I began doing last minute things around the house: made a note card with detailed instructions in the event someone else had to take Jolie to her first day of kindergarten on Wednesday; made sure she had socks in her bag for gym day; made sure I had all my hospital paperwork; emailed an agenda for a committee meeting I assumed I would be missing. Brett gave Jolie her shower, and I braided her hair and took deep breaths. Routinely, we read a chapter of Junie B. Jones (I love this kid narrator) before Brett tucked her into bed.
Brett sat on the couch, watching a basketball game that came on after a baseball game and before a pre-season football game. (I LOVE Sundays and sports) An advantage of being a guy is that you don’t actually feel the contractions, your brain doesn’t send tons(I mean tons) of messages to your body telling you to ACT NOW, like nesting instincts on speed. I politely told him (really, I stayed calm) that he may want to start loading the car up, and consider taking Jolie to his grandmother’s instead of in the middle of the night, because lying on the couch may not be the best idea at this point. He sat up and looked surprised. He started going through my copy of “What to Expect When You’re Expecting,” and as he read each symptom. I played them out. And get this, I was doing them in the same order. Freaky stuff. Confident after consulting his stupid book, not the wife who was taking warms baths and shitting like crazy, he packed the car and took Jolie to his grandmother’s.
The contractions were picking up, I could feel them resonating in my vagina. I found myself back in a warm bath, waiting for Brett and slowly breathing. When he returned I got out of the bath tub to find that my contractions were two minutes apart. They were toe curling, but I didn’t think much of my progress since they had only started a couple hours before. Brett insisted we get to the hospital, but I told him I didn’t want to go only to be sent home. He won this disagreement. As he drove to the hospital, they remained intense. I started to breathe a little too deep, and he reminded me that I need to take little slow breaths or I would pass out. So I tried. We got stuck behind a car adhering to the speed limit up a two lane road, a shortcut to the hospital. I instructed Brett to cut him off, but he wouldn’t. I focused on breathing instead. Brett’s always so calm and levelheaded. He pulled up to the front of the ER door. It was slightly after 11 at this point, and one little blond lady sat behind the front desk. I limped in, and threw my body on the desk. She asked Brett if we needed a wheelchair. This hospital is set up terribly wrong, and the birthing center is not in a centralized location. It requires a good bit of walking down several long halls. I shook my head yes, and Brett wheeled over to me. She instructed him where to go, and he began jogging me down the halls.
A Lamaze nurse told me when I was pregnant with Jolie that when your contractions are so bad you can’t stand through them it’s time to get to the hospital. My rule of thumb is this: If you are typically a polite person and you begin shouting profanities at nurses, it’s time. The nurse checked me, as I lay having incredible contractions, and reported that I was fully dilated. Like my cervix rolled out the red carpet (a very thin one), and was ready to deliver.
I planned on getting an epidural. I did the last time. I knew this time that would not be an option. You have to be able to sit still long enough for them to administer the needle in to your spine and such. The nurse assured me that I would be happy I didn’t, as we wheeled down another long hall. I assured her that at this point in time I could care less about the epidural, I wanted to get this baby out of me.
My doctor was in surgery, and didn’t have time to get to me. Four nurses, a great doctor, and Brett helped me deliver another beautiful little girl. I felt everything. I would be lying if I said I remained peaceful. I never sweat or yelled so much in my life. At least not in front of total strangers. I told Brett to “shoosh” at one point, which everyone thought was funny. I also told everyone how awesome they were doing. They truly were awesome. The doctor I had apparently runs her own practice but doesn’t deliver as much these days. My actual doctor made it in for the paperwork. He didn’t realize I was going to deliver her in thirty minutes after getting there.Neither did I. My labor was roughly 5 hours.
It’s been about a week and a half, and I’m pretty sure the baby’s personality may be even bigger than her sister’s. She’s beautiful and stubborn and can toot and poop with the best of them. Poor Brett, a little sailor lost in a sea of women. He’s so great with his girls. It makes me fall in love with him all over again to watch him fill out Jolie’s school paperwork without even sharing it with me first, swaddle the baby when she’s inconsolable, and of course taking care of me post-baby. I’m a lucky woman.
It's bad when you have to tell yourself to take it easy.
I’ve been swamped with everything life. What’s more? The swelling in my feet have traveled my calves, so I walk around like my underwear are down around my ankles, like my legs have been bound together: stretched and stiff. 39 weeks. My body is pretty much, “Okay, I’m going through the motions until little woman wants to come out. I’m not going to be pretty. Deal with it.” And I’m all like, “I have this and this to do, and this, and then I’ll prop my legs up and watch the swelling go down to a manageable amount…around midnight.”Too much is going on to do this three times a day as the doctor recommended.
A committee I’m co-chairing is currently selecting a local nonprofit to do a fully integrated advertising/marketing campaign for this year. It’s a great cause, and group of people. We interviewed our top five candidates last night at a hole in the wall coffee shop that had limited air flow and a hodgepodge seating arrangement in a confined space. We thought last night would bring clarity, that one group would outshine all the others. We were so wrong.We are trying to select before next week when we have our first official committee meeting (something I’m asking little woman to hold off from coming out until after).
Jolie starts kindergarten at her new school next Wednesday (something else I’m asking little woman to hold off from coming out until after). We’ve had a couple informational sessions this week, and she was able to attend a jump start during the day to hang out with her teachers in her classroom. I’m so excited for her. It’s such a great school, with great resources and incredible parent involvement. I feel very fortunate for her to have this experience, education.
This week has been so unbelievably go-go-go/do-do-do that I feel I have robbed myself the opportunity to relax and reflect before the baby gets here. I go to the doctor today. I wasn’t dilated last week, and have no clue if I will be this week. I know she’s (eehhh-hmmmm) low because, well, you know when something is moving around in your vaginal area, but other than that I have no speculations on her progress. It’s going to take having this baby to slow me down. I thank her in advance.
This couple I know share a Facebook account. They both post things, general posts and posts to one another. It confuses the hell out of me because I never know which one of them it is posting. Plus, it’s obvious that there are relationship issues. Joint account screams, “We are for sure in an unhealthy relationship.”
Remember that huge hole in our front yard from yesterday? Well, I was informed that they were replacing a service pipe that is connected to our home. They did this yesterday morning.
Our water isn’t working. It starts, slows, browns and stops. Late last night it wouldn’t even turn on.
We’ve been in direct communication with the water company since we got home from work last night. A dispatcher came to the house, and left after no luck trouble shooting. We’ve spoke to multiple dispatchers who ultimately relay this message from their supervisor: you’re going to have to get a plumber because the outside water is working fine and we can’t figure out the problem. if the plumber finds it’s related to something the water company did, then you can bill them.
IMPLYING THAT IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH WHAT THEY DID. WOW. My husband gave them his number because he didn’t want me talking to them. I had to pack up and take our daughter over to a relatives to shower. She had a dentist appointment at 7:30 this morning and I have my 38 week appointment, so I didn’t want us smelling. My swollen feet felt like they had literally been beat with a hammer. The water company told us they would send someone out last night…so we waited, only to have to call around 11:30 and wait to get a call back. When we did get a call we had to explain the situation for the 1,000 time only to hear the generic response about hiring a plumber since something was more than likely stuck in the pipes inside the home. At that point I grabbed the phone out of my husband’s hand, explained to the guy on the other end that I had called last week to simply have someone look at our outside meter to test the water pressure and ended up with a huge ass hole in my front yard and no water this week. I explained that we would not be paying a plumber, or getting reimbursed, that they would be taking care of the problem they created. He kept saying, “Well, I can’t guarantee you won’t have to pay a plumber. More than likely not.” To which I explained, “We will NOT be paying a plumber.” I also explained that I was 38 weeks pregnant with a child in the house, and they needed to accept responsibility for what they did.
I am fuming. I wouldn’t even care as much about the fact that we don’t have water/functioning toilet (since I have to go to the bathroom every time I stand up) if they were more customer service oriented and not assholes.
Supposedly someone is coming at 5:00 tonight. If my blood pressure is up at this doctor’s visit, I’m “billing” them.
As a mommy, I’m nervous about the foreshadowing present in last night’s Mad Men.
Is little Sally Draper going to pull down the curtains with comparably troubled, and from a now similar family dynamic, Glenn?
Did everyone else get that vibe? Like Glenn is showing her the ropes of growing up in a broken home, teaching her about how parents will now be “sleeping” with other people. Then he sabotaged her home, all but her room, as his way of coming to her aid? I was half expecting to find him hiding in her closet, waiting for everyone to go to sleep. I just can’t watch….