And then there were three.
She’s here! Georgia Rose was born last Saturday, Dec. 20 at 3:19am. 6 lbs, 11 oz, 19 1/4 inches.
Me and Georgia
Needless to say, I’ve been very busy since then and barely managed to get an email out to friends and family. Posting to this blog seemed daunting, but here I am, cogent and awake and writing. I’m sure writing will come in short spurts now, but I’ll be grateful for any time spent here.
I started IVF last November, became pregnant in April, weathered various scarey and minor complications through September and had a typical third trimester pregnancy. Each step of the way I thought, boy, this is hard. It can’t get any harder. It has to get easier some time. Wrong. I will say that the IVF treatments were the worst by far, but the drain was more emotional than physical. The pregnancy was draining physically. The birth, well, more on that later, but it’s true what people say — it doesn’t last forever, to remember that it will eventually be over. Now that the little bambina is here I understand that the rest was nothing. Now the real work begins. The responsibility of round the clock care for an infant is astounding. For some reason, the hospital sent us home with this child thinking that we knew how to care for her. Day by day, things seem to make more sense and I become more confident that R. and I will find our way.
There’s too much to tell right now and not enough time. I am going to choose sleep over writing this time. Night night.
Two weeks to go
I think I’m almost prepared for the baby to be here. All weekend R. and I have been cleaning out closets, packing away extraneous files, and made what I hope is our final trip to Buy Buy Baby. After six attempts, we’ve achieved the right configuration in the bedroom to accommodate the playard, changing table, bed, dresser, and two night stands. All in an 8 x 13 room. I still have about twenty items to check off my prep list (and another twenty to add), but if the baby were to come tomorrow I think we could manage. We have diapers, a changing pad, a place for the baby to sleep, my breasts. After months of avoiding baby stores and stuffed animals, I now happily arrange tiny onesies and sleep suits on the bed and marvel at how they will be filled in a few weeks. Who will occupy them? What will he or she look like? Will it be a he or she? In my final month, I’ve let myself get romantic and imagine a cooing baby in my arms, hours shifting back and forth in my glider, nesting in one of my new lounge outfits bought specially for long winter days of nursing.
By working on my checklist, I’ve done a good job distracting myself from the actual birth. I went from pregnancy to baby, forgetting (well, not forgetting but maybe conveniently ignoring) the fact that I have to yet endure a sweaty, painful labor. (I called one of the nurses this morning to see if I could bring a robe to the labor room. She said not to because it would only get bloody) It’s easy to deny the least pleasant aspect of something.
But now that the preparations are almost done, I’m left with the stark reminder that this baby has to come out, physically and painfully, soon. Most days I forget to do my kegels (which are now nearly impossible to feel with the added pressure on my abdomen). I promise myself I will do perineal massage, however uncomfortable and immodest, to help avoid an episiotomy. R. and I have practiced our 1, 2, 3, 4 and he-he hoo-hoo Lamaze breathing twice. Am I in denial? Why am I more worried about diapers and room layout than perhaps the most challenging and painful event of my life? Maybe I’m thinking about that epidural too much. More and more people are telling me how it made their childbirth experience better, by reducing the pain they could actually enjoy the birth.
Yesterday a friend reminded me that women give birth all the time, gently suggesting I stop freaking out about it. Yes, they do it all the time, but not me!
Is that me?
I walked by our full length mirror this morning and saw someone with quite a huge belly. Okay, maybe it was the draping maroon dress that I used to find so forgiving. Now it resembles one of those tent dresses I swore I would never wear. But it’s the home stretch (I hope) and tomorrow is my last day of work, so from here on out I’m retiring back to yoga pants and big sweaters. Today is also the last day I will wrestle with maternity stockings. The end feels near, but not too near. Yesterday my doctor examined me and proclaimed that there was no progress. She said it apologetically, but I said, great! I’m not ready anyway. She said most women are anxious by this point and want things to progress. Maybe I’ll feel that way when the apartment is straightened out and we’ve figured out what the baby is going to sleep in. Or when I’ve checked off at least half of fifty items on my to do list. I know I’ll never be truly prepared, but at least I can pretend.
Last night I said to R., pretty soon there is going to be another person here. It’s going to be strange. A friend told me after their baby girl arrived, they felt like they had a new visitor. But then they realized she wasn’t going to leave. I wonder how I’ll feel. I think I’ll be too tired to think about it.
Big mommy doesn’t mean big baby
This morning I had an ultrasound to check the position and size of the baby. The head is down, the technician said, which is a relief as the baby was tranverse a few weeks ago. Most of the movement I feel is below my right breast. Lots of butt and leg movement, especially at night when I lie down. The head is where it should be at 36 weeks but apparently it is still bobbing around. It hasn’t fastened itself, or dropped, into my pelvis, even though I feel more pressure down there and pee about every half hour. I usually have to pee again before I even leave the bathroom. I’m told this will get worse. That’s fine. I’m in the home stretch — only one week away from being considered full term.
According to the measurements, the baby is now six pounds. Six pounds! The technician predicted a 7 1/2 pounder. Almost fully baked. A couple more weeks of finishing. Dr. L. said it’s a good size — not too big and not too small. Fine with me — I don’t need to be further terrified by the possibility of a ten pound baby exiting my premises. I was a seven pound baby and I heard that the mother’s size has something to do with how big the baby will be. And it’s an average to small size. But I have to admit, I wonder why it isn’t larger. Maybe this is a preview of wanting your child to be bigger, faster, stronger. I get very influenced by numbers, like the growing one on my scale. I was sure I was going to have a ginormous baby — my belly looks like it can hold twins. But I’ll take my medium to small package. Let him or her feed and grow another few weeks. Plump up. Fill out. Get ready for the real world.
I also thought my due date was Dec. 30 but I noticed on the chart it said the 28th. How did I miss that? Dr. L. said only 5% are born on the due date, and 95% a week before or after. So now I wait. The nurse said to start squatting and walking every day. Dr. L. made her usual grimace at any suggestion for making my life easier. Don’t bother, but it can’t hurt is her mantra. There is a 50% chance that she will deliver this baby. I’m not bothered this. I don’t think the doctor does all that much during labor, or maybe I’m fooling myself. I’m sure I won’t care who is at the receiving end when the time comes. Just as long as they get him/her out safely.
