A few days ago, my friend Jordan emailed me. She'd been cleaning out her computer files and found this photo:



That's her adorable daughter sitting next to me, and that's Shef sitting on Dan's lap. I think he is about two weeks old here, or maybe three. Is he the hugest, least baby-like baby you've ever seen, or what?!

I laughed pretty hard about how ridiculous this whole picture is when I opened the email. The funny things are:

• I put real clothes on. You know that's a feat when you have a two or three week-old baby.
  
• My smile is insane. It's like I'm pretending to be normal, when everyone pretty much knows you're not normal when you have a two or three week-old baby.
• Dan also put real clothes on and also appears to be trying to look normal, except that his hair is kind of sticking out a bit on the left side.
• Despite looking so silly, we also look REALLY YOUNG compared to how we look today.
• I'm pretty large and lumpy, and I remember thinking that I felt thinner than I ever had in my entire life at this point in time, that's how over the moon I was to be not pregnant after 42 weeks of being pregnant.

Rachel says that I don't even look like myself in my Shef pregnancy photos, including this one. She says I look like an unlucky twin sister.

That's nice of her to say, but this is really me. I'm actually pretty happy to have this photo on file now. Spring of 2004 was a momentous time.

One of my pals just had a baby boy yesterday and posted some lovely photos on Facebook of moments after the event. They're images you've seen a million times, featuring a triumphant mother and a beautiful newborn looking into each other's eyes.

My friend looks radiant in these photos - really glowing with the joy of birthing her new child.

And of course, I'm super happy for her and her unbloated face.

Now, offered here for the sake of contrast, this is me about four hours after Mac was born:



Seriously. WTF?

A couple of weeks ago, I ran into my doula, whom I adore, at a coffee shop. She admired the baby and then mentioned that she was facilitating birth story night at an upcoming meeting of the Childbirth Collective. Would I want to come and talk about Mac's birth? she wondered.

Wouldn't it be too depressing for the expectant moms? I asked.

"No," she said, "It was a wonderful birth, and besides, people need to understand the reality of VBAC."

I thought about it overnight, and then I agreed to go. I imagined it would be good for me to tell the story from start to finish. Maybe process it a little.

So Mac and I went, and there were four other moms at the meeting who'd agreed to speak.

The first mom had an idyllic water birth. "Labor wasn't that bad!" she said. "It never occurred to me to ask for drugs!"

The second mom also had an idyllic water birth. "They gave him to me, and it was amazing!" she said.

The third mom had a mostly-idyllic water birth. "I did two pushes, and her head was out!"

The fourth mom had a three-hour labor, and because her hospital doesn't allow water birth, she got out of the tub to push once or twice before her boy was born. "It can go fast, even the first time!" she reminded us.

Then, the group erupted into spontaneous conversation about how to boost your chances of having an unmedicated birth.

"I'm only listening to positive stories," said one expectant mom, bouncing on an exercise ball. "I don't want to hear anyone's scary experience. I think it's bad for the psyche." People nodded sagely.

"So true," someone murmured.

And then my doula invited me to start my story. My pitocin induction/vacuum-assisted/failed VBAC saga.

"Okay," I said, already sweaty and red in the face. "So, because my first baby was born my emergency c-section with general anesthesia, my #1 goal for this labor was to remain conscious."

When I was finished, one of the doulas called me a Birth Warrior, which was nice. But that positive-story lady didn't really say anything at all.

It's hard for me to see my incision what with the round, mushy belly I still have; but Dan said something looked odd about it this afternoon while I was getting dressed after a shower. I called the doctor, and she suggested I come and see her and have it checked out.

After she poked around a little with some swabs and removed the "steri strips," which in her estimation, had only made the situation worse, she asked me to sit up a little and take a look at what we were dealing with.

"Oh, GROSS," I said, sinking back down on the table after looking at it for a second or two. "That is the most disgusting thing I've ever seen."

"I've seen worse," she said, smiling.

"Yes, but you're a DOCTOR," I blurted. She agreed this was the case, and then she stepped out for a moment to get some supplies.

"Dan," I said when she was gone, "isn't that the most disgusting thing you've ever seen in your life?"

"No," he said. I could tell he was trying to make me feel better.

"What have you seen that's more disgusting?" I demanded.

"Your face," he countered.

This made me laugh really hard, which hurts my incision. When she got back, the doctor probed around in there some more, attempting to see if in fact, my skin is coming apart. This obviously hurt my incision, as well.

When I got home, I had to take a nap to rest from all the hurting. And while I was drifting off, I thought about how much I hadn't wanted this stupid surgery in the first place.

Yesterday’s doctor’s appointment confirmed that the kid is just completely happy hanging out right where he is. Sadly, he can’t stay there forever.

“There has to be an end point,” my doctor told us, as I finagled for more time in various hypothetical situations.

I told Dan the other night that I would be so happy to go into labor that I would welcome the onset of each contraction with unconditional joy. We’ll see if that’s the case when I go to the hospital tonight, where I agreed to have my water broken.

This is basically the last resort for someone with a prior uterine surgery who needs to get induced. Regardless of whether or not it works, the baby should be born tomorrow, June 11th. I’ll let you know.

I just finished Jhumpa Lahiri’s new book, Unaccustomed Earth. I enjoyed it heartily. To tell the truth, I didn’t think I would finish the book before the baby came, but in the end, that’s the way it worked out.

This has been a hard wait at times, but I am trying to be patient. I am reminding myself I have been here before. Some people just cook their babies a little longer, and apparently, I am one of those people.

Depending on which calendar you use, I’m either five or three days overdue.

I alternate between feeling totally zen-like about this situation and totally despondent. The swings between these extremes happen mostly without warning; although they sometimes correspond to the number of inquiries I’ve received in a day. Like one-word emails that just say, “Baby?” Or voicemail messages that begin, “I certainly hope you’re holding that baby by now!”

Today, I’m planning on spending some time reading Jhumpa Lahiri’s new book while lying in my bed. I’m tired and fat, and lying down seems like kind of a good idea. I probably won’t go into labor, but I’ll let you know. I promise I’ll let you know.

Most of this pregnancy been pretty satisfactory in the appearance department: my face hasn’t been as swollen, my ring came off relatively late, and I have a more pronounced belly and less of a pronounced everything-else.

However, this weekend, despite still being able to wear my size medium maternity pants (not a possibility past 30 weeks with Shef), I’ve officially entered the “there’s no way to make this look good” phase.

“I’m a big fat cow,” I told Dan last night, after I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a window while we watched our third episode of Friday Night Lights.

“No, you’re a very pretty cow,” he said sweetly.

And then we both tried to talk the new kid into making an appearance. I think he’s ready. Today would be as good a day as any.

Ok, so the study I cited about the effectiveness of acupuncture for labor induction was conducted with women who'd already hit 40 weeks. I am just hitting that today.

So, we can all have faith and just believe that Ramon will start my labor next Tuesday if it hasn't started already. He says he'll be even more aggressive, using some points in my lower back. At one point during yesterday's treatment, he twisted and prodded at a painful point in my right pinky toe.

"Are you feeling anything in there with this?" he asked.

"Um?" I said, "He's moving. I feel some tightness."

This was less than satisfying to Ramon. "This point should really get it going," he said, twisting harder despite my grimaces. "It might be that you're just not quite ready yet," he said, patting my tummy when the twisting was through.

Here's the truth: regardless of how much I'd like to be, I am just not in control of this situation.

After the treatment, I had seven hours of irregular and unproductive contractions, so that's... something? I saw my OB this morning, and I let her check to see if there'd been any progress.

"Maybe, if it's the same as last week, you could just change the phrasing a little bit?" I suggested.

I could tell she was trying to accommodate me, but basically the message was, Things are pretty much the same as last week.

Surprisingly, I have a pretty zen-like attitude about today's situation. Shef is very sick - he has strep throat with all kinds of nasty symptoms. Dan is incredibly busy at work. And frankly, I don't think I'll allow myself to go into labor until our front yard is taken care of. It looks hideous, but I have called for help. Please, Lawn Guy, give me a call back soon.

The nesting has continued. I have proceeded to organize the downstairs closet, the storage bench in which we keep extra kitchen equipment, and the recycling area. The recycling area was pretty disgusting, and it has been for a long time, so that was especially satisfying.

Today, I’m not really feeling like doing much; although the desk in the foyer and the filing cabinet are clearly next on the list.

In the last two days, I’ve accomplished the following:

• Cleaned out my front porch. Meaning, emptied it, washed all surfaces, washed the furniture and cushions that go in it, vacuumed the rugs, and reassembled it.
• Organized and vacuumed Shef’s play room.
• Taken four bags of books and a bag of clothes to the Good Will.
• Washed every part of my refrigerator and thrown away all old and/or questionable items.
• Cleaned out my lazy susan and thrown away all old and/or questionable items. Also, I vacuumed the shelves and wiped them down with a wet rag. Then, I organized the contents according to the following categories: breakfast, rarely-used recipe items, canned goods, and grains.
• Cleaned out the over-the-stove shelves where I keep all the random cooking crap like oils and vinegars and baking needs. Then, I dug out from the deep storage the containers that are supposed to hold those very baking needs and used them for the purposes which God intended.
• And then, finally, I made Jello. Because I found some deep in the lazy susan, and I’ve never made it before. I do know the stories about the horse hoofs, and I really don’t want to talk about it.

Yesterday, my glamorous friend Emily came over to march up and down hills with me. This was a good workout, but it didn’t start labor, just FYI.

Em is training for her first triathlon, so it was fun to talk with her about her workouts, her progress, and the spandex outfit she’ll be wearing on the big day.

We also talked about our future fitness goals. I said I wanted to run a couple of marathons in the next couple of years, beginning with Twin Cities in ’09 and then turn to longer-distance tris. Em is sticking with triathlon, which is good since I’ll be able to leech some biking know-how off of her.

Of course, these plans are dependent on me birthing a child and then losing 35 pounds ASAP.

Shef came into my room this morning while I was still dozing. Dozing for as many minutes as possible.

“Mom!” he exclaimed. “Your underwear is on backwards!”

“They’re not on backwards,” I said, reaching around to tug them down a bit.

Shef looked confused. “But, your butt is really sticking out,” he said.

And then three hours later, when I was up and dressed and ready to take Shef to school, I realized I had no idea where my car keys were. I thought about it for a minute, and then I started to have a sinking feeling that they might be on the front seat of Dan’s car, where I sat last night.

I called Dan, already sort of hyperventilating about how irritating it would be for him to have to lose a half-hour of work because I can't keep track of my personal belongings. “I think my car keys are in your car,” I blurted.

“No they’re not,” Dan said calmly. “I've seen them. They’re in the bathroom.”

“Oh,” I said. Of course they are.

Ramon tells me my heart and stomach pulses get much stronger after acupuncture treatments designed to fortify my kidney energy.

Apparently, I’ve had the same reaction both times, which is remarkable. Ramon says he's building up all the reserves of strength I’ll need to birth the new kid.

I find myself wanting everyone I know to try acupuncture. I’m sure it can solve all of our problems.

This is actually a pretty good photo of me from today. I'm 35.5 weeks, and wow -- I did not have a belly sticking that far out with Shef.



What I did have with Shef, though, was a much bigger everything else, including arms, legs, butt, boobs, and face.

Overall, despite the many, many belly-related comments I've received (new favorite: "Looking larger than ever!"), I'm pretty okay with how things are turning out.

Dr. G. suggested at Shef’s four-year visit that we start paying him to sleep through the night.

I was skeptical that this would work because so far, in four years, nothing has worked.

But we started trying it anyway about three weeks ago because, why not? And sure enough it does work.

God bless you, Dr. G.

Every time we go to Target, I march the kid through the car aisle, so he can see the Hot Wheels accessories he might buy if he sleeps enough nights. Then, I remind him of these things as I’m tucking him in at night.

“I’m gonna get a quarter,” he usually says.

Yes, we did raise the daily pay to twenty-five cents from ten, which was what Dr. G. originally suggested. Dan wrote about other key factors of implementation here.

And so this is the irony: this sleeping boon comes at a time when I have to pee at least four times per night.

Also, let’s not forget we’ll be starting over with another baby in about five weeks.

It will come to no surprise to any of you that I always try to look my best for my darling husband. Like, I comb my hair, apply concealer to my under-eye circles, wear attractive lounge wear, and bathe. I also try to impress him with my ingenuity, which is quite difficult to do, seeing as he can beat me easily at Scrabble and is better at Sudoku.

My efforts, though. The fact I TRY. That's what's really important.

I think I was especially successful last night, which is why he ran for the camera when I used my huge belly as a snack tray WHILE wearing a totally chic t-shirt. So CLEVER!



And obviously, so incredibly good looking.

We met with Emme, my birth doula today. She's a very calm person who has attended more than four hundred births.

"I think you're going to have a relatively fast and uncomplicated labor," she pronounced, citing several factors from my experience with Shef as evidence.

She also said that Shef "wasn't THAT big" at nine pounds and fourteen ounces. "That's still a baby," she told me knowledgeably.

I really like this woman, it goes without saying.

My school building is having temperature control issues, and I spent the majority of the day fanning myself with a copy of Night and making sarcastic remarks to the students. Really, they should know better than to antagonize a woman in my condition. It was so hot my hands and feet swelled to record sizes, and all I could say to Rachel between classes was, “I’m hot.” Over and over again.

While I passed out a quiz to my fifth hour, a girl in the front noted, “Wow, you’re getting bigger.”

“Yes,” I said. And then, I went back to my desk and recommenced the fanning.

A special ed. staffer whom I’ve never really spoken with before decided to voice her opinion on my size on Monday. We were washing our hands next to each other in the bathroom, so apparently there was a natural opening.

“When are you due?” she asked.

“Oh,” I said warily, “not until the end of May.”

“Goodness!” she exclaimed, clearly shocked. “And you’re carrying just ONE baby?!”

“Mmm hmmm,” I said politely, smiling tightly and grabbing a towel.

People: I have a mirror, so I know what's happening to me. Also, I totally know that my hands and feet have started swelling uncontrollably, and now only two pairs of my shoes fit me. I think the ending here could be a little rough.