Right when Amelia was born, they put her straight onto my chest. I looked down at the squirmy, noisy, small purple monster and wondered about that instant maternal love you hear so much about. I didn't notice any yet. I figured that was okay, though, since 1) she hadn't been here very long, 2) I'd just been through a pretty traumatic ordeal, and 3) my patriarchal blessing seems to indicate we'll eventually like each other lots.
In any case, I certainly was not in the least bit amnesic about the horrors of the recent pregnancy and labor. I thought, Well, I still don't want millions of babies. And I still am I not at all eager to get pregnant again. Or deliver another baby.
By the end of the first day, however, I wasn't wondering about that maternal love. Somehow, it very subtly appeared. Before I knew it, I found my exhausted self blearily staring in adoration at a sleeping baby. And stroking her face lovingly. And cooing softly about how much I love her.
I thought, Yeesh. This makes no sense whatsoever. There is no logical reason to like this creature. It caused me many months of misery and, just recently, an acutely painful experience. It bites my nipples and makes them split and bleed. It keeps me up at night. It doesn't really do anything except eat, sleep, poop, and pee. Why I do I love this thing?
Well, I do. I think she is the most gorgeous baby ever. Or at least she would be if she wasn't yellow. I imagine that if she were in the peak of health, then she'd be the most gorgeous baby ever. I keep meaning to ask my friend Jackie how attractive Amelia actually is. I think I can trust Jackie to tell me bluntly if she looks more like a freaky alien than a cute baby. (This is purely driven by the more scientisty part of my brain.)
I'm sure my maternal adoration is partly the result of oxytocin, endorphins, and dopamine and all those wonderful things. And all those things are pretty predictable, I guess. I'm curious, though, about where all those are coming from in James' brain. He, too, is hopelessly smitten.
Anyway, ta-ta for now,
Jenna and Amelia
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Part Three: Postpartum
Well. I suppose the only ooey gooey details I'll be sharing now are just details about breastfeeding. (Oh no! I'm using the word nipple!) I'd tell you to leave the blog if that bothers you, but I've decided instead to implore you to get over it. Breastfeeding is teh awesome.
Breastfeeding
I might as well start this off with the breastfeeding saga, I guess. Amelia started exhibiting feeding cues about ten minutes after birth. So clearly the urge to eat was there... the skills to eat, however, were not there. Sure, she'd open her mouth wide, but she somehow just could not find the nipple. I'd try to aim it in into her mouth, but she'd take her tiny, uncoordinated fist and bat my hand away. And then flail around desperately looking for the source of noms and making anticipatory sounds.
I knew a lot of the basics involved in breastfeeding, but I was still somewhat at a loss. Sure, I knew that a good latch was not supposed to hurt, but even squishing the nipple into a "nipple sandwich" so it fit better in Amelia's tiny mouth seemed to be of limited help. It still didn't feel good. She might get a latch of some sort, but most of the time it was the kind of latch that required me to immediately break suction and start all over again.
The nurses helped us a bit... it helped to have two more hands besides mine to help guide her mouth to my nipple... and keep rogue limbs out of the way. However, it turns out nipplefinding was not the only problem.
Once the elusive nipple was found and introduced into her mouth, Amelia would thrust it out forcefully with her tongue, and then get furious and shocked to find that the newly caught nipple had escaped already... and after all that hard work just finding the darned thing.
Man, Amelia and I struggled and struggled. The first night was definitely very hard. I am told that many early babies have trouble with breastfeeding... I was comforted many times that our ordeal was mostly Amelia's fault, and not mine. Have you ever tried to waltz with a horrible dancer? Imagine doing pivots with that dancer. Wooo-ee! You fear for your life. And your feet. It is in such a manner that I feared for the welfare of my delicate nipples.
The nurses helped sooooo much. Although I was doing well enough to go home pretty much immediately, I decided to stay in the hospital long enough to get the hang of the whole feeding baby thing. I am so glad I did. One thing they had us do was "suck training" with our finger. We'd let her suck on our finger and we'd try to teach her how to suck correctly by pushing her tongue down. This was supposed to stop tongue thrusting.
At some point, they tested her blood sugar to make sure she was getting enough noms, but it was low. Neither James nor I remember having been told that little tidbit of information at this point, but I think that this was why they began teaching me alternate ways to get noms into the baby's belly.
They sent a lactation consultant to help me. She of course gave me more very useful advice on breastfeeding, but she also taught me how to hand-express colostrum/ milk onto a spoon. James would then spoonfeed her.
She took about 14 drops of colostrum for the first spoonfeeding. This was supposedly plenty for the first feeding. It seemed that she liked it... it was like magic ambrosia or something. I felt better, because now Amelia was certainly not starving to death. I also felt better because... well, who doesn't feel better when their kid isn't screaming his or her head off? The whole feeling-better-about-feeding thing wore off pretty quickly...
The next time Amelia got hungry was particularly traumatic. First we tried the whole breastfeeding ballet thing again, intricate nipple-mouth choreography and all. It wasn't long before Amelia was really upset and crying miserably.
It got to where she was crying continuously without pausing to close her mouth... Which was a problem because I had put the nipple completely in her mouth. Nipples are pretty inefficient feeding devices unless the baby latches on and starts sucking. If she'd just closed her mouth and sucked, she could probably have eaten right then, but she was so mad and didn't seem to notice just how close her quarry was. I'd shove the nipple in deeper, but all that did was muffle her cries. Lame.
Well. That's what the spoon is for, right? I started hand-expressing colostrum again, but soon it was obvious that this time, 14 drops wasn't going to cut it. And getting a mere two or three drops at a time was definitely not okay in Amelia's book. Theoretically I could have kept hand-expressing, but... it took me about 30 seconds to get just a few drops. Oh noes!
The nurse brought a breast pump and taught me how to use it. Man, using a breast pump for the first time is... strange. It's like having two see-through vacuum hoses on your nipples (your oh-so-sensitive nipples, oh my), vacuuming rhythmically. And magically, little yellowish-white streams of liquid drip into an attached container. Weird.
Using the pump, I eventually got about 7 mL of colostrum. Woo! I make lots of milk! Now to get the stuff inside that wailing thing in James' lap over there. We sucked it into a syringe, attached the syringe to very thin and very long plastic tubing, taped the tube onto James' finger, and stuck the finger into Amelia's mouth. Then James would push milk in when she was sucking. This made for a very happy Amelia. (MMMM MALK!) To our surprise, she drank all 7 mL. Oh. She was HONGRYYY.
Next time I made 11 mL. Then 14 mL. Then 35 mL. And she drank it ALL. (In the style of Hyperbole and a Half: DRINK ALL THE MILK!) We began to doubt the commonly held belief that newborn baby stomachs only held a few teaspoons.
At some point in the middle of the second night, a nurse came to check Amelia's glucose again. The nurse mourned aloud that if Amelia's glucose level was low again, she'd probably have to go to the NICU. I'd been pretty sleepy, but this instantly got my attention. I think the nurse had assumed we'd already been informed that her first glucose level had been low, and subsequently informed the potential for treatment in the NICU if it stayed low. We hadn't heard this, however, so we were surprised to hear this. I'm glad neither James nor I are particularly anxious people, because I could see this causing panic in some parents. Pretty soon though, we heard the nurse exclaim with joy--the glucose was back up and Amelia did not have to move to the NICU. Hooray!
Of course I continued to try to get Amelia to learn how to feed at the breast without getting upset and angry. Poor baby. She was definitely getting better each time, but she wasn't getting better quickly enough to survive off of the nutrient-filled boob alone. I'm convinced she liked James better than she liked me for a little while because James' finger gave milk easily and plentifully, while my breasts seemed to enjoy withholding it from her. To make matters worse, I smelled like milk... how tantalizing. And frustrating when you're starving, yes?
Anyway, after two days in the hospital, I decided we were getting the hang of this breastfeeding thing, so we went home. We rented a breast pump ($2 per day!) to take home to aid us as Amelia worked on developing mad eating skills.
The first night at home, however, was rough. I guess she was really, really hungry and thus more impatient than usual. And it took about half an hour to get the milk out of my breasts and into a syringe and into her belly. Now, you try calming an angry, very hungry baby without noms for that long. She was so upset. James and I slept horribly that night.
At about 4 am, I tried to feed her again, but to my horror, when I pumped, there was much less than had been coming out each time beforehand. The ladies felt full, but they certainly weren't acting like it. And my breasts were so sore; my nipples were, cracked, bleeding, and bruised. I felt awful. I kept trying desperately to feed her (or at least calm her) for the next two hours. Finally, at about 6 am, I broke down and started sobbing myself. Amelia finally passed out (possibly from exhaustion) at 6:30 or so. I called the on-call lactation consultant, who promised to come visit us at home at 10 am. Then I, too, passed out from exhaustion.
The lactation consultant did come and she helped us out a bit. It was reassuring to hear her reaffirm that I wasn't doing anything wrong. I was doing everything I could, and I was doing it right... furthermore, my milk was already coming in plentifully. Amelia eventually got a pretty good latch and was able to finally fill her little belly. Then we both passed out again.
And guess what? By that evening, we pretty much had the whole breastfeeding thing figured out. She was still pretty tense during feedings, but she has now started getting all limp and contented as soon as that boob gets out. Success!
Jaundice
Amelia came out with awful bruising all over her head. Poor baby. She probably had the most torturous headache ever for at least the first day of life. Within a day or so after birth, Amelia started turning yellow. We have been told that the bruises probably contributed to the development of jaundice. (Bilirubin is one of the byproducts made when your body breaks down old, dead red blood cells. It turns your skin and the whites of your eyes yellow when your liver doesn't process it quickly enough.) It also probably didn't help that Amelia was two weeks early, as this may have meant her liver wasn't quite developed enough to process everything.
Well... guess what we're supposed to do to help Amelia's jaundice get better? Breastfeed. Give her lots and lots and MORE LOTS of breastmilk... I think the idea is to flush out the bilirubin. So, yeah. No pressure. It's not like breastfeeding was stressful in the first place...
But then Amelia would start sleeping lots. And she wouldn't wake up to eat. We'd poke her. Wiggle a milky nipple in her face... Face paint her with breast milk... Yeah. The kid would be completely conked out. So we'd let her sleep. Apparently, jaundiced babies get super lethargic and sleep lots.
The nurse, though, strongly admonished us to wake her up somehow, because if she doesn't wake up to eat, then she won't eat enough to help the jaundice go away, and then the jaundice would get worse, and then horrible things could happen. Like damage to the nervous system.
Ugh. Okay. Gotcha. Get that baby out of her blissful coma. So basically, to wake her up, we'd often have to do all the things she hates until she got annoyed enough to wake up. Let's strip you naked! Expose you to cold air! Poke, poke! Change your diaper! Oop, cold stethoscope on your chest! Poke you with a cold, wet rag!
Anyway, we've been going to the pediatrician every two days for a jaundice and weight check. On Friday, she was already gaining weight again and was less yellow. Her bilirubin was still high, but she had a negative Coombs test. (That's good.) She was also feeding frequently. Oh, and producing waste frequently.
(Speaking of which, holy cow, this baby has a talent for making poop and pee. They told us that, for a particular day, Amelia should be making x number of wet diapers and y number of soiled diapers. In reality, she produces greater than 2x wet diapers and greater than 2y soiled diapers. She is already such an overachiever! She should get extra credit for that or something.)
Today Amelia's bilirubin was slightly higher than it was on Friday, but she's been doing so well otherwise that they'll just have us keep an eye on her yellowness until her well baby visit next week. Woot!
Mom's Recovery
I am doing wonderfully. I have so much freaking energy, it's amazing. Remember how I mused a few times about how strange it is to actually have energy now that my thyroiditis and depression/ anxiety are well managed? Yes, it's official. I still feel amazing now that I'm not pregnant and incessantly nauseous. (I can stuff my face as much as I want now. Yusssss.)
It's been wonderful. I definitely wasn't expecting the burst of energy right after the birth. I've been able to do all the errands and such that I was too tired to do beforehand. I've actually had energy to get up and clean stuff. I look outside on a nice day and think, "Huh. I should go on a walk." And then I actually do. It's amazing!
Except for that one night where I broke down crying after unsuccessfully breastfeeding for two and a half hours, I sleep well. Sure, it's not continuous sleep, but I do feel rested in the mornings. Overall, I'm getting enough, I think. Amelia doesn't really cry at night. Of course, she makes some noises and wiggles a bit in the night when she wants noms, but I get up and feed her in time to prevent a furious crying frenzy.
In the hospital, they kept asking how my pain level was. Even hours after delivery, I'd blink and think, "What pain? I feel perfect." And this is true. I have zero back pain. I feel full of vitality. At first, I definitely noticed that all my muscles were very fatigued after labor, but I wouldn't say they hurt. It just kind of felt like I'd had a full-body workout.
The only thing that is a little annoying is the presence of stitches in the down there nether regions. Oh, and sore nipples. But I usually have to consciously search my body for pain to find those pains. Sure, the pain is there, but I hardly think about it. It might as well not be there. (Maybe these don't seem like a big deal to me after having a pain disorder for years. I don't know.)
I went to church today. People thought I was super hardcore or crazy or something. I don't think they quite understood how ill I'd been for the last nine months. I mean seriously, I can't think of a good reason why I shouldn't have gone to church today; I feel so much better now than I did throughout pregnancy, and I went to church while pregnant. Whatever.
Oh. Also, I am skinny again. I think I'm the same size as I was pre-pregnancy (or perhaps skinnier?), only squishier.
Love and rice krispie treats,
Jenna and Amelia
Breastfeeding
I might as well start this off with the breastfeeding saga, I guess. Amelia started exhibiting feeding cues about ten minutes after birth. So clearly the urge to eat was there... the skills to eat, however, were not there. Sure, she'd open her mouth wide, but she somehow just could not find the nipple. I'd try to aim it in into her mouth, but she'd take her tiny, uncoordinated fist and bat my hand away. And then flail around desperately looking for the source of noms and making anticipatory sounds.
I knew a lot of the basics involved in breastfeeding, but I was still somewhat at a loss. Sure, I knew that a good latch was not supposed to hurt, but even squishing the nipple into a "nipple sandwich" so it fit better in Amelia's tiny mouth seemed to be of limited help. It still didn't feel good. She might get a latch of some sort, but most of the time it was the kind of latch that required me to immediately break suction and start all over again.
The nurses helped us a bit... it helped to have two more hands besides mine to help guide her mouth to my nipple... and keep rogue limbs out of the way. However, it turns out nipplefinding was not the only problem.
Once the elusive nipple was found and introduced into her mouth, Amelia would thrust it out forcefully with her tongue, and then get furious and shocked to find that the newly caught nipple had escaped already... and after all that hard work just finding the darned thing.
Man, Amelia and I struggled and struggled. The first night was definitely very hard. I am told that many early babies have trouble with breastfeeding... I was comforted many times that our ordeal was mostly Amelia's fault, and not mine. Have you ever tried to waltz with a horrible dancer? Imagine doing pivots with that dancer. Wooo-ee! You fear for your life. And your feet. It is in such a manner that I feared for the welfare of my delicate nipples.
The nurses helped sooooo much. Although I was doing well enough to go home pretty much immediately, I decided to stay in the hospital long enough to get the hang of the whole feeding baby thing. I am so glad I did. One thing they had us do was "suck training" with our finger. We'd let her suck on our finger and we'd try to teach her how to suck correctly by pushing her tongue down. This was supposed to stop tongue thrusting.
At some point, they tested her blood sugar to make sure she was getting enough noms, but it was low. Neither James nor I remember having been told that little tidbit of information at this point, but I think that this was why they began teaching me alternate ways to get noms into the baby's belly.
They sent a lactation consultant to help me. She of course gave me more very useful advice on breastfeeding, but she also taught me how to hand-express colostrum/ milk onto a spoon. James would then spoonfeed her.
She took about 14 drops of colostrum for the first spoonfeeding. This was supposedly plenty for the first feeding. It seemed that she liked it... it was like magic ambrosia or something. I felt better, because now Amelia was certainly not starving to death. I also felt better because... well, who doesn't feel better when their kid isn't screaming his or her head off? The whole feeling-better-about-feeding thing wore off pretty quickly...
The next time Amelia got hungry was particularly traumatic. First we tried the whole breastfeeding ballet thing again, intricate nipple-mouth choreography and all. It wasn't long before Amelia was really upset and crying miserably.
It got to where she was crying continuously without pausing to close her mouth... Which was a problem because I had put the nipple completely in her mouth. Nipples are pretty inefficient feeding devices unless the baby latches on and starts sucking. If she'd just closed her mouth and sucked, she could probably have eaten right then, but she was so mad and didn't seem to notice just how close her quarry was. I'd shove the nipple in deeper, but all that did was muffle her cries. Lame.
Well. That's what the spoon is for, right? I started hand-expressing colostrum again, but soon it was obvious that this time, 14 drops wasn't going to cut it. And getting a mere two or three drops at a time was definitely not okay in Amelia's book. Theoretically I could have kept hand-expressing, but... it took me about 30 seconds to get just a few drops. Oh noes!
The nurse brought a breast pump and taught me how to use it. Man, using a breast pump for the first time is... strange. It's like having two see-through vacuum hoses on your nipples (your oh-so-sensitive nipples, oh my), vacuuming rhythmically. And magically, little yellowish-white streams of liquid drip into an attached container. Weird.
Using the pump, I eventually got about 7 mL of colostrum. Woo! I make lots of milk! Now to get the stuff inside that wailing thing in James' lap over there. We sucked it into a syringe, attached the syringe to very thin and very long plastic tubing, taped the tube onto James' finger, and stuck the finger into Amelia's mouth. Then James would push milk in when she was sucking. This made for a very happy Amelia. (MMMM MALK!) To our surprise, she drank all 7 mL. Oh. She was HONGRYYY.
Next time I made 11 mL. Then 14 mL. Then 35 mL. And she drank it ALL. (In the style of Hyperbole and a Half: DRINK ALL THE MILK!) We began to doubt the commonly held belief that newborn baby stomachs only held a few teaspoons.
At some point in the middle of the second night, a nurse came to check Amelia's glucose again. The nurse mourned aloud that if Amelia's glucose level was low again, she'd probably have to go to the NICU. I'd been pretty sleepy, but this instantly got my attention. I think the nurse had assumed we'd already been informed that her first glucose level had been low, and subsequently informed the potential for treatment in the NICU if it stayed low. We hadn't heard this, however, so we were surprised to hear this. I'm glad neither James nor I are particularly anxious people, because I could see this causing panic in some parents. Pretty soon though, we heard the nurse exclaim with joy--the glucose was back up and Amelia did not have to move to the NICU. Hooray!
Of course I continued to try to get Amelia to learn how to feed at the breast without getting upset and angry. Poor baby. She was definitely getting better each time, but she wasn't getting better quickly enough to survive off of the nutrient-filled boob alone. I'm convinced she liked James better than she liked me for a little while because James' finger gave milk easily and plentifully, while my breasts seemed to enjoy withholding it from her. To make matters worse, I smelled like milk... how tantalizing. And frustrating when you're starving, yes?
Anyway, after two days in the hospital, I decided we were getting the hang of this breastfeeding thing, so we went home. We rented a breast pump ($2 per day!) to take home to aid us as Amelia worked on developing mad eating skills.
The first night at home, however, was rough. I guess she was really, really hungry and thus more impatient than usual. And it took about half an hour to get the milk out of my breasts and into a syringe and into her belly. Now, you try calming an angry, very hungry baby without noms for that long. She was so upset. James and I slept horribly that night.
At about 4 am, I tried to feed her again, but to my horror, when I pumped, there was much less than had been coming out each time beforehand. The ladies felt full, but they certainly weren't acting like it. And my breasts were so sore; my nipples were, cracked, bleeding, and bruised. I felt awful. I kept trying desperately to feed her (or at least calm her) for the next two hours. Finally, at about 6 am, I broke down and started sobbing myself. Amelia finally passed out (possibly from exhaustion) at 6:30 or so. I called the on-call lactation consultant, who promised to come visit us at home at 10 am. Then I, too, passed out from exhaustion.
The lactation consultant did come and she helped us out a bit. It was reassuring to hear her reaffirm that I wasn't doing anything wrong. I was doing everything I could, and I was doing it right... furthermore, my milk was already coming in plentifully. Amelia eventually got a pretty good latch and was able to finally fill her little belly. Then we both passed out again.
And guess what? By that evening, we pretty much had the whole breastfeeding thing figured out. She was still pretty tense during feedings, but she has now started getting all limp and contented as soon as that boob gets out. Success!
Jaundice
Amelia came out with awful bruising all over her head. Poor baby. She probably had the most torturous headache ever for at least the first day of life. Within a day or so after birth, Amelia started turning yellow. We have been told that the bruises probably contributed to the development of jaundice. (Bilirubin is one of the byproducts made when your body breaks down old, dead red blood cells. It turns your skin and the whites of your eyes yellow when your liver doesn't process it quickly enough.) It also probably didn't help that Amelia was two weeks early, as this may have meant her liver wasn't quite developed enough to process everything.
Well... guess what we're supposed to do to help Amelia's jaundice get better? Breastfeed. Give her lots and lots and MORE LOTS of breastmilk... I think the idea is to flush out the bilirubin. So, yeah. No pressure. It's not like breastfeeding was stressful in the first place...
But then Amelia would start sleeping lots. And she wouldn't wake up to eat. We'd poke her. Wiggle a milky nipple in her face... Face paint her with breast milk... Yeah. The kid would be completely conked out. So we'd let her sleep. Apparently, jaundiced babies get super lethargic and sleep lots.
The nurse, though, strongly admonished us to wake her up somehow, because if she doesn't wake up to eat, then she won't eat enough to help the jaundice go away, and then the jaundice would get worse, and then horrible things could happen. Like damage to the nervous system.
Ugh. Okay. Gotcha. Get that baby out of her blissful coma. So basically, to wake her up, we'd often have to do all the things she hates until she got annoyed enough to wake up. Let's strip you naked! Expose you to cold air! Poke, poke! Change your diaper! Oop, cold stethoscope on your chest! Poke you with a cold, wet rag!
Anyway, we've been going to the pediatrician every two days for a jaundice and weight check. On Friday, she was already gaining weight again and was less yellow. Her bilirubin was still high, but she had a negative Coombs test. (That's good.) She was also feeding frequently. Oh, and producing waste frequently.
(Speaking of which, holy cow, this baby has a talent for making poop and pee. They told us that, for a particular day, Amelia should be making x number of wet diapers and y number of soiled diapers. In reality, she produces greater than 2x wet diapers and greater than 2y soiled diapers. She is already such an overachiever! She should get extra credit for that or something.)
Today Amelia's bilirubin was slightly higher than it was on Friday, but she's been doing so well otherwise that they'll just have us keep an eye on her yellowness until her well baby visit next week. Woot!
Mom's Recovery
I am doing wonderfully. I have so much freaking energy, it's amazing. Remember how I mused a few times about how strange it is to actually have energy now that my thyroiditis and depression/ anxiety are well managed? Yes, it's official. I still feel amazing now that I'm not pregnant and incessantly nauseous. (I can stuff my face as much as I want now. Yusssss.)
It's been wonderful. I definitely wasn't expecting the burst of energy right after the birth. I've been able to do all the errands and such that I was too tired to do beforehand. I've actually had energy to get up and clean stuff. I look outside on a nice day and think, "Huh. I should go on a walk." And then I actually do. It's amazing!
Except for that one night where I broke down crying after unsuccessfully breastfeeding for two and a half hours, I sleep well. Sure, it's not continuous sleep, but I do feel rested in the mornings. Overall, I'm getting enough, I think. Amelia doesn't really cry at night. Of course, she makes some noises and wiggles a bit in the night when she wants noms, but I get up and feed her in time to prevent a furious crying frenzy.
In the hospital, they kept asking how my pain level was. Even hours after delivery, I'd blink and think, "What pain? I feel perfect." And this is true. I have zero back pain. I feel full of vitality. At first, I definitely noticed that all my muscles were very fatigued after labor, but I wouldn't say they hurt. It just kind of felt like I'd had a full-body workout.
The only thing that is a little annoying is the presence of stitches in the down there nether regions. Oh, and sore nipples. But I usually have to consciously search my body for pain to find those pains. Sure, the pain is there, but I hardly think about it. It might as well not be there. (Maybe these don't seem like a big deal to me after having a pain disorder for years. I don't know.)
I went to church today. People thought I was super hardcore or crazy or something. I don't think they quite understood how ill I'd been for the last nine months. I mean seriously, I can't think of a good reason why I shouldn't have gone to church today; I feel so much better now than I did throughout pregnancy, and I went to church while pregnant. Whatever.
Oh. Also, I am skinny again. I think I'm the same size as I was pre-pregnancy (or perhaps skinnier?), only squishier.
Love and rice krispie treats,
Jenna and Amelia
Friday, August 24, 2012
Part Two: Labor and Delivery
As a reminder, I'm sharing all the ooey gooey details. I figure if it's worth being embarrassed about, it's probably worth remembering and talking about. Anyway.
If you don't think you can handle all the blood and guts, here's a summary: We went to the hospital to be induced because my water had broken. They started me on Pitocin and I started having contractions. Turns out Pterodactyl was facing the wrong way, so I was in back labor. The back pain eventually got so bad that it hurt almost as much in between the contractions as it did during a contraction... so constant extreme pain. So I got an epidural. After the epidural, I finished dilating pretty quickly, pushed for a while, and out came Amelia. Tada! I think I was in labor for a total of seven hours.
Now for the ooey gooey details. Those with weak stomachs may now leave the blog.
Labor
Once in the delivery room, they hooked me up to an IV system and a continuous fetal monitor. There was also a contraction-o-meter sort of thing. Cervical check was 3-4 cm and mostly effaced. Woo! I was disappointed when I threw up everything I had eaten that morning just after the IV was placed. Surely I needed the energy contained in what was coming back up. Surely.
It took a while before I actually got any Pitocin, though, because they had to have two people verify that I really was supposed to be getting some. Gugh. They also told me that, unfortunately, the contractions you get with Pitocin are harder and much more painful than natural ones... but with only the same efficacy in dilating the cervix as natural ones. So basically normal contractions with bonus pain! (Yay?)
This was a discouraging fact which I tried to ignore. I did not get any pain medication; my options were pretty limited given the Harrington rods I have installed on my spine. I had already consulted with an anesthesiologist, who told me that an epidural had only a 10% chance of working.
They started me out with just a little, and pretty soon I was having some real contractions, though they were certainly manageable. They hurt mostly in my lower back, like menstrual cramps. Really devilish menstrual cramps. I explored different positions that might be helpful... standing, sitting, hands and knees, side-lying, rocking back and forth on the ball...
They kept slowly increasing the dose. My contractions started coming more frequently. They were pretty long, lasting on average about 90 seconds, and always feeling murderous in the lower back. My main coping thought: So what if this hurts. I can do anything for a freaking ninety seconds. I also found eventually that rocking back and forth in the jacuzzi tub with warm water was helpful, but that ended up making me way too flushed and hot and otherwise uncomfortable. And I threw up again. I got out and spent more time rocking back and forth on my hands and knees and such.
Up through about this point, I mostly found James to be annoying. Far too many wise cracks and he was way too results-oriented for me. And really, the most annoying part was that he seemed happier every time I had a contraction. He's just too results-oriented for me, I suppose.
I found it far preferable for him to occupy himself by posting live updates on Facebook and playing video games. It was also okay for him to sit and watch the printout from the contraction-o-meter... But it wasn't all that helpful when he came over and tried to give me encouraging comments. I think my response to these was mostly "shut up, go away", but I'm not confident he heard me because I was concentrating more on the contractions than enunciation. It may have just sounded like "shup gaway". (James: Hmm... She might have said that... but I ignored it so thoroughly that I don't even remember it.)
Of course, things started escalating in intensity. Remember that the main thought I kept telling myself during the contractions was: So what if this hurts. I can do anything for a freaking ninety seconds. To my horror, I felt the pain in between the contractions start to approach the pain level of the actual contractions, which of course, were also increasing in intensity. So the next time the thought I can do anything for ninety seconds popped into my head, I thought, Yes, but this definitely isn't just ninety seconds any more. This is painful ALL the time.
At this point I started liking James a lot more, because the midwife showed him how pressing my hips up and out of the way helped relieve a little of the back labor pain. So I was able to keep going some, but it was getting harder and harder to relax in between contractions. It was also getting harder to maintain movement during the worst of it. I was getting extraordinarily fatigued.
I requested some sort of pain medication. They gave me some IV Fentanyl. It was helpful... but it seemed like it only numbed the pain a little, and hardly lasted all that long. (Ah. I checked on the Interwebs. IV Fentanyl has a halflife of 2.5 minutes... That explains why I thought the effect had worn off completely 15 minutes later.)
At the midwife's urging, I tried a new pain management tactic... vocalization... also known as primal scream therapy. (This is the part that traumatized my little sister, who spent the entire labor observing from the back corner.) Man, I screamed and cried as loudly and as pathetically as I could. It was at this point I realized that although my contraction back pain was now an 8.5/10 on the pain scale (10 is reserved for more unimaginable pain), my non-contraction back pain was a formidable 7/10. And screaming was only doing so much for me.
I think my energy disappeared in an instant. It seemed like one minute I was capable of rocking back and forth during the contractions, and another I wasn't. I stopped moving so much and just moaned. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. It hurts all the time. Too exhausted. Not enough energy to stay on hands and knees.
They had me try the jacuzzi tub again, but I got out almost as soon as I got in. No. Birth ball? Oh no. I'll just lay here nearly immobile and moaning for a while.
I requested an epidural. If I'm too tired to move, I am definitely too tired to keep this up without more pain management. I chose to pretend I hadn't heard about the whole 90% chance an epidural wouldn't work. They checked my cervix. 8 cm.
The anesthesiologist showed up within five minutes. To our surprise, he looked at my back and said, "Oh yeah, I can definitely do this." Dude, where were you when that other anesthesiologist guy was examining my spine?
They had me keep completely still for three minutes while he put it in. I had two contractions at this point, both 9/10 on the pain scale, but I was now at a constant 8.5 anyway. Keeping still pretty much just involved letting the pain wash over me. Apparently this was pretty impressive. I don't think the midwife or the nurses had ever thought me a wimp, but in any case, this pretty much sealed the impression that I was a non-wimp.
The epidural, thankfully, did work. My legs started to go numb. Of course, the epidural did not take away all the pain. It felt much better, though, and the only real struggle was the super uncomfortable (almost painful) intense pressure from baby moving further down the pelvis and... butting her head against my tailbone, which, unlike many of my bones, is immobile after having been tethered in place by a couple titanium rods. BUT. The contractions were all of a sudden quite discernible in magnitude from the background pain and pressure.
Ah. I can do anything for ninety seconds. I can also definitely "relax" now. And guess what relaxing did?
They put in a urethral catheter (standard procedure with epidurals, apparently). But when they checked to see if it was in place correctly, they discovered that despite being at 8 cm only minutes before, I was now completely dilated. Also, I felt like pushing. So, they took out the catheter, and the pushing phase began.
I think I pushed for about half an hour. I started out on my side, but the midwife commented that she knew of a position that is often more helpful for pushing out occiput posterior babies. We switched to that one, and then she really started moving down the birth canal. Woot! They offered me a mirror to watch, but... I didn't think seeing my "progress" would be helpful for me. Soon I could touch her head.
Push! James was right there watching in fascination. I suppose I might as well have had a mirror, because I could definitely tell how close I was by how excited his face and "Oh! Oh! OH!"s got. Happier and more high-pitched James exclamations equals more and more of baby's head visible. Gotcha.
And then, during the last push, James' "oh" got really long, really loud, and really excited... "Ohhhh! OHHHHHH! OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" And then her head was out. One more push and the rest of her followed. Let me tell you, that is a VERY strange sensation. Baby bodies are kind of irregular in shape. And I could definitely feel all those little bumps and limbs as she slithered out. (I think at the last minute she flipped her face the right way, so she came out with her face down. Gee, I wish that had happened much earlier in labor.)
And then there was a flailing, vernixy, purpleish conehead plopped on my chest. My first words to her were something like, "Hello, my little conehead!" Poor kid was so bruised all over her head. She totally was trying to scream, but at first it was just lots of angry, angry air forcefully expunged from her lungs. Eventually, though, her vocal cords kicked in and she made lots of noise.
With the baby on my chest, I pushed out the placenta. Apparently it was ginormicous. It was as big as the baby. They asked me if I wanted to take it home. No, thanks. They also asked me if I wanted to eat it or something. (Some people do that, I'm told.)
I shook my head. "I'd only eat that thing in revenge." That evil thing made me sick the whole time. True, it kept the baby alive for a while, but it also made my pregnancy nasty. Take it away! Don't touch it! It's evil! Okay, okay. I do owe it some gratitude. It definitely did a good job keeping Amelia healthy.
Well, since labor was over, the midwife started to sew up the perineal tearing. I had hoped to avoid that, but being sewn up wasn't too bad. After the labor pain, this sharp needley and pulling pain was nothing. (Although, it was more pokey and pulley...)
Anyway, I guess I can describe the rest of the hospital stay in a separate post. You may anticipate an epic part three, but it won't be as exciting or as dramatic as this one. That's okay. The next one will have more baby details.
Labor definitely did not go at all as I had imagined it would. And I seriously had thought my expectations were pretty wide. I felt like, eh, all these things could happen. And all of those things are okay.
I expected to give birth in the birth center, or at the very least start laboring there and then move over to the hospital if needed, but never did I imagine that I would have to be induced and start out in the hospital... at least not until 41 weeks or so. I also didn't expect back labor. Heck, I didn't expect my water to break first, nor did I expect to this to occur precisely on the day I told Amelia to get out. I didn't expect I would get an epidural, but then I expected a break in between contractions. I also didn't expect that an epidural would work if I did get one.
So I guess what I should have expected was... the unexpected!
Stay tuned for part three!
Jenna and Amelia
If you don't think you can handle all the blood and guts, here's a summary: We went to the hospital to be induced because my water had broken. They started me on Pitocin and I started having contractions. Turns out Pterodactyl was facing the wrong way, so I was in back labor. The back pain eventually got so bad that it hurt almost as much in between the contractions as it did during a contraction... so constant extreme pain. So I got an epidural. After the epidural, I finished dilating pretty quickly, pushed for a while, and out came Amelia. Tada! I think I was in labor for a total of seven hours.
Now for the ooey gooey details. Those with weak stomachs may now leave the blog.
Labor
Once in the delivery room, they hooked me up to an IV system and a continuous fetal monitor. There was also a contraction-o-meter sort of thing. Cervical check was 3-4 cm and mostly effaced. Woo! I was disappointed when I threw up everything I had eaten that morning just after the IV was placed. Surely I needed the energy contained in what was coming back up. Surely.
It took a while before I actually got any Pitocin, though, because they had to have two people verify that I really was supposed to be getting some. Gugh. They also told me that, unfortunately, the contractions you get with Pitocin are harder and much more painful than natural ones... but with only the same efficacy in dilating the cervix as natural ones. So basically normal contractions with bonus pain! (Yay?)
This was a discouraging fact which I tried to ignore. I did not get any pain medication; my options were pretty limited given the Harrington rods I have installed on my spine. I had already consulted with an anesthesiologist, who told me that an epidural had only a 10% chance of working.
They started me out with just a little, and pretty soon I was having some real contractions, though they were certainly manageable. They hurt mostly in my lower back, like menstrual cramps. Really devilish menstrual cramps. I explored different positions that might be helpful... standing, sitting, hands and knees, side-lying, rocking back and forth on the ball...
They kept slowly increasing the dose. My contractions started coming more frequently. They were pretty long, lasting on average about 90 seconds, and always feeling murderous in the lower back. My main coping thought: So what if this hurts. I can do anything for a freaking ninety seconds. I also found eventually that rocking back and forth in the jacuzzi tub with warm water was helpful, but that ended up making me way too flushed and hot and otherwise uncomfortable. And I threw up again. I got out and spent more time rocking back and forth on my hands and knees and such.
Up through about this point, I mostly found James to be annoying. Far too many wise cracks and he was way too results-oriented for me. And really, the most annoying part was that he seemed happier every time I had a contraction. He's just too results-oriented for me, I suppose.
I found it far preferable for him to occupy himself by posting live updates on Facebook and playing video games. It was also okay for him to sit and watch the printout from the contraction-o-meter... But it wasn't all that helpful when he came over and tried to give me encouraging comments. I think my response to these was mostly "shut up, go away", but I'm not confident he heard me because I was concentrating more on the contractions than enunciation. It may have just sounded like "shup gaway". (James: Hmm... She might have said that... but I ignored it so thoroughly that I don't even remember it.)
Of course, things started escalating in intensity. Remember that the main thought I kept telling myself during the contractions was: So what if this hurts. I can do anything for a freaking ninety seconds. To my horror, I felt the pain in between the contractions start to approach the pain level of the actual contractions, which of course, were also increasing in intensity. So the next time the thought I can do anything for ninety seconds popped into my head, I thought, Yes, but this definitely isn't just ninety seconds any more. This is painful ALL the time.
At this point I started liking James a lot more, because the midwife showed him how pressing my hips up and out of the way helped relieve a little of the back labor pain. So I was able to keep going some, but it was getting harder and harder to relax in between contractions. It was also getting harder to maintain movement during the worst of it. I was getting extraordinarily fatigued.
I requested some sort of pain medication. They gave me some IV Fentanyl. It was helpful... but it seemed like it only numbed the pain a little, and hardly lasted all that long. (Ah. I checked on the Interwebs. IV Fentanyl has a halflife of 2.5 minutes... That explains why I thought the effect had worn off completely 15 minutes later.)
At the midwife's urging, I tried a new pain management tactic... vocalization... also known as primal scream therapy. (This is the part that traumatized my little sister, who spent the entire labor observing from the back corner.) Man, I screamed and cried as loudly and as pathetically as I could. It was at this point I realized that although my contraction back pain was now an 8.5/10 on the pain scale (10 is reserved for more unimaginable pain), my non-contraction back pain was a formidable 7/10. And screaming was only doing so much for me.
I think my energy disappeared in an instant. It seemed like one minute I was capable of rocking back and forth during the contractions, and another I wasn't. I stopped moving so much and just moaned. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. It hurts all the time. Too exhausted. Not enough energy to stay on hands and knees.
They had me try the jacuzzi tub again, but I got out almost as soon as I got in. No. Birth ball? Oh no. I'll just lay here nearly immobile and moaning for a while.
I requested an epidural. If I'm too tired to move, I am definitely too tired to keep this up without more pain management. I chose to pretend I hadn't heard about the whole 90% chance an epidural wouldn't work. They checked my cervix. 8 cm.
The anesthesiologist showed up within five minutes. To our surprise, he looked at my back and said, "Oh yeah, I can definitely do this." Dude, where were you when that other anesthesiologist guy was examining my spine?
They had me keep completely still for three minutes while he put it in. I had two contractions at this point, both 9/10 on the pain scale, but I was now at a constant 8.5 anyway. Keeping still pretty much just involved letting the pain wash over me. Apparently this was pretty impressive. I don't think the midwife or the nurses had ever thought me a wimp, but in any case, this pretty much sealed the impression that I was a non-wimp.
The epidural, thankfully, did work. My legs started to go numb. Of course, the epidural did not take away all the pain. It felt much better, though, and the only real struggle was the super uncomfortable (almost painful) intense pressure from baby moving further down the pelvis and... butting her head against my tailbone, which, unlike many of my bones, is immobile after having been tethered in place by a couple titanium rods. BUT. The contractions were all of a sudden quite discernible in magnitude from the background pain and pressure.
Ah. I can do anything for ninety seconds. I can also definitely "relax" now. And guess what relaxing did?
They put in a urethral catheter (standard procedure with epidurals, apparently). But when they checked to see if it was in place correctly, they discovered that despite being at 8 cm only minutes before, I was now completely dilated. Also, I felt like pushing. So, they took out the catheter, and the pushing phase began.
I think I pushed for about half an hour. I started out on my side, but the midwife commented that she knew of a position that is often more helpful for pushing out occiput posterior babies. We switched to that one, and then she really started moving down the birth canal. Woot! They offered me a mirror to watch, but... I didn't think seeing my "progress" would be helpful for me. Soon I could touch her head.
Push! James was right there watching in fascination. I suppose I might as well have had a mirror, because I could definitely tell how close I was by how excited his face and "Oh! Oh! OH!"s got. Happier and more high-pitched James exclamations equals more and more of baby's head visible. Gotcha.
And then, during the last push, James' "oh" got really long, really loud, and really excited... "Ohhhh! OHHHHHH! OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" And then her head was out. One more push and the rest of her followed. Let me tell you, that is a VERY strange sensation. Baby bodies are kind of irregular in shape. And I could definitely feel all those little bumps and limbs as she slithered out. (I think at the last minute she flipped her face the right way, so she came out with her face down. Gee, I wish that had happened much earlier in labor.)
And then there was a flailing, vernixy, purpleish conehead plopped on my chest. My first words to her were something like, "Hello, my little conehead!" Poor kid was so bruised all over her head. She totally was trying to scream, but at first it was just lots of angry, angry air forcefully expunged from her lungs. Eventually, though, her vocal cords kicked in and she made lots of noise.
With the baby on my chest, I pushed out the placenta. Apparently it was ginormicous. It was as big as the baby. They asked me if I wanted to take it home. No, thanks. They also asked me if I wanted to eat it or something. (Some people do that, I'm told.)
I shook my head. "I'd only eat that thing in revenge." That evil thing made me sick the whole time. True, it kept the baby alive for a while, but it also made my pregnancy nasty. Take it away! Don't touch it! It's evil! Okay, okay. I do owe it some gratitude. It definitely did a good job keeping Amelia healthy.
Well, since labor was over, the midwife started to sew up the perineal tearing. I had hoped to avoid that, but being sewn up wasn't too bad. After the labor pain, this sharp needley and pulling pain was nothing. (Although, it was more pokey and pulley...)
Anyway, I guess I can describe the rest of the hospital stay in a separate post. You may anticipate an epic part three, but it won't be as exciting or as dramatic as this one. That's okay. The next one will have more baby details.
Labor definitely did not go at all as I had imagined it would. And I seriously had thought my expectations were pretty wide. I felt like, eh, all these things could happen. And all of those things are okay.
I expected to give birth in the birth center, or at the very least start laboring there and then move over to the hospital if needed, but never did I imagine that I would have to be induced and start out in the hospital... at least not until 41 weeks or so. I also didn't expect back labor. Heck, I didn't expect my water to break first, nor did I expect to this to occur precisely on the day I told Amelia to get out. I didn't expect I would get an epidural, but then I expected a break in between contractions. I also didn't expect that an epidural would work if I did get one.
So I guess what I should have expected was... the unexpected!
Stay tuned for part three!
Jenna and Amelia
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Part One: Water Breaks
As promised, all the ooey gooey details. The squeamish and faint of heart should just know that Amelia Rose Dilts was born on 8/20/12 at 6:11 pm PST in Springfield, OR. She weighed 7 pounds even and was exactly 20 inches long. Those of you eager for the rest of the story may continue reading.
My Bag of Waters Breaks... Dun Dun DUN!
Maybe I'm psychic. While eating my midnight snack on Saturday night (apple fritters are nom) I bounced around on a yoga ball. (They told me to lean forward whenever I could because that might help Pterodactyl get out of occiput posterior and into the perfect position.) As I bounced, I thought, Huh. I think it'll start soon. I am not sure why exactly I thought this. I went to bed.
A few hours later at 3:30 am, I woke up to a little gush. I first thought, "Aw dang, did I seriously just pee the bed?" but then I reconsidered. No, that didn't feel like it came from the urethra. That felt more like a period gush, only more liquidy. I stuffed tissues under myself and, after smelling the small puddle now present in the bed, ambled over to the toilet wondering what amniotic fluid was supposed to smell like. Once on the toilet, I realized I was still trickling (not gushing though) clear fluid.
I looked up at the bathroom clock and realized it had only been fifteen minutes since my last toilet visit. ... Well, that's more evidence that this wasn't pee. My next thoughts: Huh. I think my water broke. I knew we should have put the waterproof mattress pad on the bed today. (I had seriously considered making James do it before he fell asleep.) And I was dripping still. Drip, drip. Nothing. Drip, drip. Tiny gush when baby moved. Nothing.
I sat on the toilet for half an hour, leaking gently but continuously. And I was starving. And my pubic bone hurt. I debated calling the midwife-on-call, but I decided not to, because it was 3:30am and I wasn't super concerned. Given what I'd already been told during my prenatal appointments, they'd likely tell me to go back to sleep, maybe come in later that day, and consider that I may need to be induced if I don't go into labor soon (within the next day or two). Plus, I was GBS negative, so I didn't even need IV antibiotics. Might as well stuff my face then go back to bed instead.
While falling back asleep, I mourned that I hadn't really nested at all. Maybe I should at least do the dishes when I wake up again. ... Naw. In any case, that mattress pad is going on the bed as soon as James wakes up. And James is going to do that.
When James woke up in the morning to get ready for church, I told him what had happened. ... ... He was really excited. He bounced and bounced and bounced and bounced, because now that it was pretty much guaranteed that we'd have a baby in the next day or two, it was okay to be super excited, right? Since I hadn't even remotely started labor yet, I figured I may as well go to church with plenty of padding. I went to church, and continued to not go into labor, and leaked completely through my pads as I walked out the door to go home. Gross. (I've decided having a broken bag of waters is way more annoying than being on a heavy period. Amniotic fluid is much harder to contain between your legs than heavy blood is.)
When we got home, we followed the midwife's recommendation to encourage labor to start: nipple stimulation. Ugh. I disliked this. Intensely. It involved rubbing both nipples for 15 minutes straight, then taking a 15-minute break, then rub for another 15 minutes, etc. How uncomfortable. This did give me three weak contractions during the nipple rub, but as soon as I stopped, so did the contractions. This was frustrating. James was annoying in his cheery contraction-centric comments and questions. Shut up, James. He was good and shut up.
We went to the birth center for fetal monitoring that night. Amelia was doing very well. The midwife confirmed that it was indeed amniotic fluid I'd been gushing all day. We decided to wait through the night to see if labor started on its own. If it didn't, we'd go to the hospital to be induced.
I slept fairly well through the night. I did notice that the weak contractions I'd been having got a little more intense, but they were not at all close to starting active labor. Because it had been so long since the bag of waters had broken, the midwife thought it was a good idea to induce as the risk of infection was now increasing to be less and less negligible. It had also been long enough that I should give birth in the hospital instead of the birth center anyway.
So. We went to the hospital and got there at 9:30 am on Monday morning. My sister came with us. We got to sit in a room for a while to wait the nurses to check me in. Eventually somebody got an IV in my arm and they got the Pitocin going.
Stay tuned for part two! :)
Jenna and Amelia
My Bag of Waters Breaks... Dun Dun DUN!
Maybe I'm psychic. While eating my midnight snack on Saturday night (apple fritters are nom) I bounced around on a yoga ball. (They told me to lean forward whenever I could because that might help Pterodactyl get out of occiput posterior and into the perfect position.) As I bounced, I thought, Huh. I think it'll start soon. I am not sure why exactly I thought this. I went to bed.
A few hours later at 3:30 am, I woke up to a little gush. I first thought, "Aw dang, did I seriously just pee the bed?" but then I reconsidered. No, that didn't feel like it came from the urethra. That felt more like a period gush, only more liquidy. I stuffed tissues under myself and, after smelling the small puddle now present in the bed, ambled over to the toilet wondering what amniotic fluid was supposed to smell like. Once on the toilet, I realized I was still trickling (not gushing though) clear fluid.
I looked up at the bathroom clock and realized it had only been fifteen minutes since my last toilet visit. ... Well, that's more evidence that this wasn't pee. My next thoughts: Huh. I think my water broke. I knew we should have put the waterproof mattress pad on the bed today. (I had seriously considered making James do it before he fell asleep.) And I was dripping still. Drip, drip. Nothing. Drip, drip. Tiny gush when baby moved. Nothing.
I sat on the toilet for half an hour, leaking gently but continuously. And I was starving. And my pubic bone hurt. I debated calling the midwife-on-call, but I decided not to, because it was 3:30am and I wasn't super concerned. Given what I'd already been told during my prenatal appointments, they'd likely tell me to go back to sleep, maybe come in later that day, and consider that I may need to be induced if I don't go into labor soon (within the next day or two). Plus, I was GBS negative, so I didn't even need IV antibiotics. Might as well stuff my face then go back to bed instead.
While falling back asleep, I mourned that I hadn't really nested at all. Maybe I should at least do the dishes when I wake up again. ... Naw. In any case, that mattress pad is going on the bed as soon as James wakes up. And James is going to do that.
When James woke up in the morning to get ready for church, I told him what had happened. ... ... He was really excited. He bounced and bounced and bounced and bounced, because now that it was pretty much guaranteed that we'd have a baby in the next day or two, it was okay to be super excited, right? Since I hadn't even remotely started labor yet, I figured I may as well go to church with plenty of padding. I went to church, and continued to not go into labor, and leaked completely through my pads as I walked out the door to go home. Gross. (I've decided having a broken bag of waters is way more annoying than being on a heavy period. Amniotic fluid is much harder to contain between your legs than heavy blood is.)
When we got home, we followed the midwife's recommendation to encourage labor to start: nipple stimulation. Ugh. I disliked this. Intensely. It involved rubbing both nipples for 15 minutes straight, then taking a 15-minute break, then rub for another 15 minutes, etc. How uncomfortable. This did give me three weak contractions during the nipple rub, but as soon as I stopped, so did the contractions. This was frustrating. James was annoying in his cheery contraction-centric comments and questions. Shut up, James. He was good and shut up.
We went to the birth center for fetal monitoring that night. Amelia was doing very well. The midwife confirmed that it was indeed amniotic fluid I'd been gushing all day. We decided to wait through the night to see if labor started on its own. If it didn't, we'd go to the hospital to be induced.
I slept fairly well through the night. I did notice that the weak contractions I'd been having got a little more intense, but they were not at all close to starting active labor. Because it had been so long since the bag of waters had broken, the midwife thought it was a good idea to induce as the risk of infection was now increasing to be less and less negligible. It had also been long enough that I should give birth in the hospital instead of the birth center anyway.
So. We went to the hospital and got there at 9:30 am on Monday morning. My sister came with us. We got to sit in a room for a while to wait the nurses to check me in. Eventually somebody got an IV in my arm and they got the Pitocin going.
Stay tuned for part two! :)
Jenna and Amelia
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
37W3D
Ah, hello there again. It's me! Super bored pregnant lady!
I decided it's been long enough since I posted my one belly bump shot that I should post another. (Side note... anyone want to teach me how to get good-looking photos with my camera? As you can see below, I'm super knowledgeable about the basics of a point-and-shoot camera... not.)
I don't feel like there's been huge visual changes*, considering it's been 14 weeks since the last photo from 23.5 weeks. I promise, I took this photo today--that really is a 3-month difference. Also, I am trying desperately to make it look bigger, and I actually succeeded somewhat. The midwife keeps telling me there's a nice, long full-term baby in there weighing somewhere between six and seven pounds (that's my estimate based on gestational age, not based on anything specific to Pterodactyl).
My boredom** is exacerbated by not feeling well. Too hot, too nauseous, too weak, too unable to concentrate, too uncomfortable and too in pain. Even reading is hard. When writing in my journal each night, I'm having some difficulty even remembering anything that happened during the day.
As best I can recall, the last several of my days have consisted of the following:
There is a little part of me that wonders if I am being a wimp. As I get bigger, I seem to get more uncomfortable, so I guess biggerer means more uncomfortabler, right? And I'm pretty small, right?
There's a woman in my ward who has practically the same due date as I do, but she has the opposite problem when going out in public. Instead of people marveling at how small she is, people marvel at how big she is.****
So I try to tell myself that surely I must be a wimp, because surely the woman in my ward who is carrying much bigger than I am is much more uncomfortable... right? Ah, who knows. Maybe her baby isn't flattening her insides as much.
Anyway. The worst part of all this is that my boredom is compounded with some guilt. As I mentioned in a previous post, the advice I got from the Lord in regards to surviving the last month of pregnancy was that I serve others and that in doing so, my burdens will feel lighter.
I'm a little frustrated, as I feel isolated and stuck in my own apartment. How am I supposed to figure out the needs of others while staring at my ceiling? How am I supposed to actually do service when I can't even go grocery shopping without vomiting or nearly fainting?
Sigh. My goal is to go to a few social events this week.***** Tonight is book club. Tomorrow is the Relief Society evening meeting. I didn't make it to church on Sunday because I was so ill, so I obviously didn't find any service opportunities. Maybe I will at these other social functions.
I don't talk or interact with people much at these things though. It's like I'm a specter (hopefully minus the terror and dread, though). I'm visible and watch and listen, but I could be mistaken for an incorporeal being because I don't interact with the others. Maybe I should try walking through walls. Gently.
I also am wondering if I can somehow be of service over the Internet. This is a novel idea, but I don't quite know how that'd work. My biggest contribution to people's Internet-lives is this blog, and while it seems to entertain people, I wouldn't call it the most helpful wealth of information out there. I guesstimate that about 75 individuals read this at least somewhat regularly. I don't even know for sure who all of them are.
Suggestions?
Love and orange Creamsicles,
Jenna and Pterodactyl
P.S. Yikes, I have lots of endnotes today. Do people actually like the extra details I include in these? I figure if they annoy some people, those people can just stop reading at the end of the main post, right?
---
*James tells me he's pretty sure my belly only just grew past my boobs last week. Le sigh. As if not fitting into pre-pregnancy bras anymore wasn't depressing enough.
**When I say I'm bored, I keep getting this rather dismissive response: "Ha. Just wait until you have the baby. THEN you won't be bored!" ... You know what? I potentially have four weeks left to stare at the ceiling all day, every day before I actually have a baby. How is pointing out I'll be busy later supposed to remedy the fact that I'm dying from boredom NOW? /rant
***I plan on making a baby book, but it will be one of those cheap and easy photo books from Wal-Mart or Target or Shutterfly or something. People keep asking me if I want to keep stupid things to put in a baby book. I have no desire to keep old balloons, cake toppers, used-up gift cards, etc. I've been a little surprised at the intensity of people's reactions when I express apathy regarding to the fate of that cute baby-themed gift card. "You HAVE to keep at least one!" ... "But I don't want to keep it." So far, the unwanted items have all ended up forcefully shoved into my hands by older women who are convinced they know better. My protests are met with protests that I will be glad someday that I kept the old, deflated "It's a girl!" balloon, and I will look at it fondly, and I will be horrified that I ever considered throwing it away.
****Why does nobody ever say, "Wow! You look just the right size!" It doesn't feel good when people tell me I'm "too small", and I'd imagine that it also doesn't feel good to hear you're "too big".
*****I am hopeful that I will feel well for these. I have noticed something strange: I am less sick at social functions. If I go to interact with people, I feel sick right up until the time I get there and start feeling sick again when I get home. It makes me wonder if I am being classically conditioned to look forward to social events, as I've typically always dreaded them. (And no, I don't think there's something in our apartment making me sick, as I've been just as sick at work, in grocery stores, and in theatres...)
I decided it's been long enough since I posted my one belly bump shot that I should post another. (Side note... anyone want to teach me how to get good-looking photos with my camera? As you can see below, I'm super knowledgeable about the basics of a point-and-shoot camera... not.)
I don't feel like there's been huge visual changes*, considering it's been 14 weeks since the last photo from 23.5 weeks. I promise, I took this photo today--that really is a 3-month difference. Also, I am trying desperately to make it look bigger, and I actually succeeded somewhat. The midwife keeps telling me there's a nice, long full-term baby in there weighing somewhere between six and seven pounds (that's my estimate based on gestational age, not based on anything specific to Pterodactyl).
My boredom** is exacerbated by not feeling well. Too hot, too nauseous, too weak, too unable to concentrate, too uncomfortable and too in pain. Even reading is hard. When writing in my journal each night, I'm having some difficulty even remembering anything that happened during the day.
As best I can recall, the last several of my days have consisted of the following:
- Sleep in. Wake up with a backache and feeling pretty nauseous. Can't think of anything better to do... Roll over, go back to sleep. Eventually...
- Either my full bladder or my empty stomach can't take it any more. Remedy situation.
- Check email/Facebook for approximately 15 minutes.
- Lay down on couch, staring at ceiling, zoning in an out. Have difficulty focusing eyes/ thoughts.
- Repeat steps 2-4 until, strangely, time passes and husband gets home.
- Repeat steps 2-4 with James in the house.
- Take a cold shower. Stare at the shower wall. Have difficulty focusing eyes/ thoughts.
- Get ready for bed.
- Watch Avatar: The Last Airbender with sister.
- Do elementary school math for fun.
- Get groceries, often getting sick in the store.
- Tidy up for five minutes.
- Write blog post.
- Read 10 or so pages of "The Lost World", then give up.
- Throw up.
There is a little part of me that wonders if I am being a wimp. As I get bigger, I seem to get more uncomfortable, so I guess biggerer means more uncomfortabler, right? And I'm pretty small, right?
There's a woman in my ward who has practically the same due date as I do, but she has the opposite problem when going out in public. Instead of people marveling at how small she is, people marvel at how big she is.****
So I try to tell myself that surely I must be a wimp, because surely the woman in my ward who is carrying much bigger than I am is much more uncomfortable... right? Ah, who knows. Maybe her baby isn't flattening her insides as much.
Anyway. The worst part of all this is that my boredom is compounded with some guilt. As I mentioned in a previous post, the advice I got from the Lord in regards to surviving the last month of pregnancy was that I serve others and that in doing so, my burdens will feel lighter.
I'm a little frustrated, as I feel isolated and stuck in my own apartment. How am I supposed to figure out the needs of others while staring at my ceiling? How am I supposed to actually do service when I can't even go grocery shopping without vomiting or nearly fainting?
Sigh. My goal is to go to a few social events this week.***** Tonight is book club. Tomorrow is the Relief Society evening meeting. I didn't make it to church on Sunday because I was so ill, so I obviously didn't find any service opportunities. Maybe I will at these other social functions.
I don't talk or interact with people much at these things though. It's like I'm a specter (hopefully minus the terror and dread, though). I'm visible and watch and listen, but I could be mistaken for an incorporeal being because I don't interact with the others. Maybe I should try walking through walls. Gently.
I also am wondering if I can somehow be of service over the Internet. This is a novel idea, but I don't quite know how that'd work. My biggest contribution to people's Internet-lives is this blog, and while it seems to entertain people, I wouldn't call it the most helpful wealth of information out there. I guesstimate that about 75 individuals read this at least somewhat regularly. I don't even know for sure who all of them are.
Suggestions?
Love and orange Creamsicles,
Jenna and Pterodactyl
P.S. Yikes, I have lots of endnotes today. Do people actually like the extra details I include in these? I figure if they annoy some people, those people can just stop reading at the end of the main post, right?
---
*James tells me he's pretty sure my belly only just grew past my boobs last week. Le sigh. As if not fitting into pre-pregnancy bras anymore wasn't depressing enough.
**When I say I'm bored, I keep getting this rather dismissive response: "Ha. Just wait until you have the baby. THEN you won't be bored!" ... You know what? I potentially have four weeks left to stare at the ceiling all day, every day before I actually have a baby. How is pointing out I'll be busy later supposed to remedy the fact that I'm dying from boredom NOW? /rant
***I plan on making a baby book, but it will be one of those cheap and easy photo books from Wal-Mart or Target or Shutterfly or something. People keep asking me if I want to keep stupid things to put in a baby book. I have no desire to keep old balloons, cake toppers, used-up gift cards, etc. I've been a little surprised at the intensity of people's reactions when I express apathy regarding to the fate of that cute baby-themed gift card. "You HAVE to keep at least one!" ... "But I don't want to keep it." So far, the unwanted items have all ended up forcefully shoved into my hands by older women who are convinced they know better. My protests are met with protests that I will be glad someday that I kept the old, deflated "It's a girl!" balloon, and I will look at it fondly, and I will be horrified that I ever considered throwing it away.
****Why does nobody ever say, "Wow! You look just the right size!" It doesn't feel good when people tell me I'm "too small", and I'd imagine that it also doesn't feel good to hear you're "too big".
*****I am hopeful that I will feel well for these. I have noticed something strange: I am less sick at social functions. If I go to interact with people, I feel sick right up until the time I get there and start feeling sick again when I get home. It makes me wonder if I am being classically conditioned to look forward to social events, as I've typically always dreaded them. (And no, I don't think there's something in our apartment making me sick, as I've been just as sick at work, in grocery stores, and in theatres...)
Sunday, August 12, 2012
37W0D / (Happier!) Childhood Memories
Pterodactyl seems to be doing quite well, though she must be getting squished in there. I'm starting to kind of identify lumps on my belly. Sometimes--eep! That is a FOOT! Also, ouch. It's kind of creepy to watch my belly warp and ripple like... well, a wiggly baby underneath a blanket of... skin, fat, and muscle.
As many of you have likely realized from my fairly frequent Facebook updates, I'm tired of being pregnant, even though I potentially have another four weeks to go. I'm always exhausted and frequently sick and weak. Of course, I have turned to the Lord for help. His main advice is: "It's going to continue to suck. I know it's hard. You should try and serve others. Focusing more on the needs of others will help."
To be honest, I'm a little stumped here. The main problem I have is that I've been feeling bad enough to stay home. And I don't discover other people's needs while sitting at home on my butt. How the heck am I supposed to serve others when I can hardly serve myself a meal? So that's my main dilemma for the moment.
I originally prefaced this post with "This'll likely be a short post" but those three short little measly paragraphs above just seemed so... lonely. Thus, I decided that since yesterday's post was a little depressing, I'd share a little bit of the happier followup memories.
After the torture of second grade, I ended up in Chandler's gifted* program: Chandler Academically Talented Students (CATS)... or something like that. I thought CATS was a great name for the program, because guess what? My most favoritest animal ever was the cat. I had a million cat stuffed animals and had read every book in the library which even remotely touched upon felines. So I liked that I was going to a CATS class.
Third grade was when I first became known popularly as Jenna rather than Jennifer. On the first day of class, Mrs. O'Neal took roll. After she had read "Jennifer Griffin", she asked, "What do you want us to call you?" This was such a novel question. It had never occurred to me to go by anything besides my full first name, but the idea had instant appeal. I remembered being called Jenny by relatives when I was really young, but I wanted something fresh and entirely new. I responded to the teacher's question: "Jenna".**
In retrospect, I guess the "name change" could be seen as symbolic or something. I was getting a new start to life! Woohoo! It really was kind of like a new life. It was refreshing to be surrounded by other kids who were passionate about learning--kids whose idea of fun consisted of imagination and creation rather than torture of a kid who was different. And guess what?
Pretty soon, I was friends with not just one of these kids, but many of them. It was amazing to have friends who appeared to like me despite my curious and socially-unacceptable habit of acting like a cat. Heck, they didn't even make fun of me in PE, and if there was ever a time to make fun of me, it was in PE. I was not particularly athletically skilled... I guess spending my recesses at the wall reading in years past had come back to bite me in the butt.
Which brings me to another good change. Instead of reading during recess, I actually played with the other kids. I have a hard time differentiating in my head which games we played during which years, since I played with mostly the same group of kids for the rest of elementary school, but I think we might have played swing spaceships in third grade. We'd all get on the swings, pretending that our swings were our own little one-person spaceships. Then we'd yell to each other through the air resistance swing-wind noise, describing all the things we encountered in our space journeys. I think my planet was Catopia. It was shaped like a cat's head, and even had whiskers. (Don't ask about the astrophysics on that one...)
One day in March, though, I suddenly found that everyone was avoiding me during our lunch recess. My group of friends that I usually followed around tried to give me the slip as soon as they had finished their lunches. I was confused--they were all terrible liars. (It's pretty difficult to lie consistently if you're making it up on the spot, and the rest of the group doesn't know or remember what the original lie was.) I eventually figured out that what they were telling me wasn't actually true--they very clearly were trying to get me to go away. I gave in and let them leave. It hurt to see them looking so grateful to get away from me.
I was pretty devastated. In my mind, this meant I had suddenly lost all my new friends in one fell swoop. Well, I still wanted to play with somebody and there were still the other kids in the class. To my intense dismay, however, as soon as I approached any of the others, they too got incredibly uncomfortable and, just like my friends, started to spout off poorly-thought-out lies.
And, one by one, I began to notice that my classmates were disappearing from the playground. How could I fail to notice their mysterious disappearances when I was desperately searching for people I knew? I eventually gave up when I could no longer hold my tears back. In my hopes to avoid the gazes of other kids outside, I found a swing and swung as high and as fast as I could, thinking that perhaps it would be difficult to tell I was crying if I was just a blur.
The bell rang. I got down from the swing, dried my tears as best as I could, and made my way to line up with my classmates to go back to the classroom. I was surprised to find that I was the first one lined up. This never happened, as I was one of the slowest kids in the entire third grade.
Where was everybody? I supposed that they must have been hiding from me for the entire recess, and were still in their hiding spots. Surely they'd come out eventually. They'd get in trouble for not coming back from recess, right?
Mrs. O'Neal came to collect her line of students. She stood there for a little bit, as if waiting for the others. I looked around... still no sign of the others. I began to tear up again. Wow. They must really hate me if they'd rather get in trouble than stand next to me. Mrs. O'Neal, however, seemed oddly unfazed by her incredibly shrunken class size. "Guess it's just you," she eventually quipped cheerily, and she turned to walk back to our classroom. I followed her dejectedly, feeling awkward.
Mrs. O'Neal unlocked the classroom door and opened it wide, holding the door open for me and gesturing for me to get a move on. It was dark in there--strange--but I went in anyway.
And then the lights came on. All the missing people jumped up excitedly, shouting enthusiastically, "SURPRISE! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" I was, indeed, surprised.
Now, I'd heard of surprise parties before, but it hadn't crossed my mind that I would ever receive one. And it definitely hadn't occurred to me that people were ditching me in order to decorate for my birthday party that day, because, well... my birthday wasn't for another two months. My birthday was May 24th, but somebody thought it was March 24th.
I was pretty shocked. There were cake and goodie bags, which I guess some parents had put together. And I was extremely relieved that my classmates did not hate me. I also felt a little silly for thinking that they did, and wondered why I hadn't been more suspicious after having noticed a handful of them going to our classroom. (I had at least jiggled the classroom door handle in an attempt to follow them, but it was locked, and I couldn't get in.) But the main thing I felt was happiness. I think the party lasted the rest of the afternoon.
So there. A nice happy memory (though oddly, still traumatic) to make up for yesterday's not-so-happy memories. I have no idea how that birthday party came about. I'm mystified. None of the other kids got birthday parties. Every once in a while, I sit and wonder who the heck thought, "Hey, see that kid acting like a cat over there? Let's throw her a surprise birthday party!" I had always considered myself to be in the lowest quartile with regards to social skills, and even though people liked me, I wouldn't have called myself popular. I guess it shall remain a mystery.
Hopefully giving birth/being born any day now***,
Jenna and Pterodactyl
---
*I am always hesitant to use this word, as it seems to imply you are only gifted if you are academically gifted. That, of course, is certainly untrue, and I think it is an unfortunate semantic problem... and I'm not quite sure how to solve it.
**My dad was shocked and perhaps a little dismayed when he learned I had shortened my name to Jenna. I'm not entirely sure why. This was a bizarre response to me (still is). If I had to guess at the reason, I'd say he was a little put out that I wasn't fond enough of my full name--which he had chosen with care--to use it regularly. When he found out I was going by Jenna, he told me that he had always loved the name "Jennifer Marie" and had always wanted to give that name to his daughter. Because my dad was so disappointed, I felt super guilty and tried to get people to call me Jennifer again. It didn't work, though... There were always enough people around calling me Jenna that even when I introduced myself as Jennifer, new acquaintances were calling me Jenna in no time.
***Ah, who am I kidding? I probably won't go into labor until I'm 41 weeks or something.
As many of you have likely realized from my fairly frequent Facebook updates, I'm tired of being pregnant, even though I potentially have another four weeks to go. I'm always exhausted and frequently sick and weak. Of course, I have turned to the Lord for help. His main advice is: "It's going to continue to suck. I know it's hard. You should try and serve others. Focusing more on the needs of others will help."
To be honest, I'm a little stumped here. The main problem I have is that I've been feeling bad enough to stay home. And I don't discover other people's needs while sitting at home on my butt. How the heck am I supposed to serve others when I can hardly serve myself a meal? So that's my main dilemma for the moment.
I originally prefaced this post with "This'll likely be a short post" but those three short little measly paragraphs above just seemed so... lonely. Thus, I decided that since yesterday's post was a little depressing, I'd share a little bit of the happier followup memories.
After the torture of second grade, I ended up in Chandler's gifted* program: Chandler Academically Talented Students (CATS)... or something like that. I thought CATS was a great name for the program, because guess what? My most favoritest animal ever was the cat. I had a million cat stuffed animals and had read every book in the library which even remotely touched upon felines. So I liked that I was going to a CATS class.
Third grade was when I first became known popularly as Jenna rather than Jennifer. On the first day of class, Mrs. O'Neal took roll. After she had read "Jennifer Griffin", she asked, "What do you want us to call you?" This was such a novel question. It had never occurred to me to go by anything besides my full first name, but the idea had instant appeal. I remembered being called Jenny by relatives when I was really young, but I wanted something fresh and entirely new. I responded to the teacher's question: "Jenna".**
In retrospect, I guess the "name change" could be seen as symbolic or something. I was getting a new start to life! Woohoo! It really was kind of like a new life. It was refreshing to be surrounded by other kids who were passionate about learning--kids whose idea of fun consisted of imagination and creation rather than torture of a kid who was different. And guess what?
Pretty soon, I was friends with not just one of these kids, but many of them. It was amazing to have friends who appeared to like me despite my curious and socially-unacceptable habit of acting like a cat. Heck, they didn't even make fun of me in PE, and if there was ever a time to make fun of me, it was in PE. I was not particularly athletically skilled... I guess spending my recesses at the wall reading in years past had come back to bite me in the butt.
Which brings me to another good change. Instead of reading during recess, I actually played with the other kids. I have a hard time differentiating in my head which games we played during which years, since I played with mostly the same group of kids for the rest of elementary school, but I think we might have played swing spaceships in third grade. We'd all get on the swings, pretending that our swings were our own little one-person spaceships. Then we'd yell to each other through the air resistance swing-wind noise, describing all the things we encountered in our space journeys. I think my planet was Catopia. It was shaped like a cat's head, and even had whiskers. (Don't ask about the astrophysics on that one...)
One day in March, though, I suddenly found that everyone was avoiding me during our lunch recess. My group of friends that I usually followed around tried to give me the slip as soon as they had finished their lunches. I was confused--they were all terrible liars. (It's pretty difficult to lie consistently if you're making it up on the spot, and the rest of the group doesn't know or remember what the original lie was.) I eventually figured out that what they were telling me wasn't actually true--they very clearly were trying to get me to go away. I gave in and let them leave. It hurt to see them looking so grateful to get away from me.
I was pretty devastated. In my mind, this meant I had suddenly lost all my new friends in one fell swoop. Well, I still wanted to play with somebody and there were still the other kids in the class. To my intense dismay, however, as soon as I approached any of the others, they too got incredibly uncomfortable and, just like my friends, started to spout off poorly-thought-out lies.
And, one by one, I began to notice that my classmates were disappearing from the playground. How could I fail to notice their mysterious disappearances when I was desperately searching for people I knew? I eventually gave up when I could no longer hold my tears back. In my hopes to avoid the gazes of other kids outside, I found a swing and swung as high and as fast as I could, thinking that perhaps it would be difficult to tell I was crying if I was just a blur.
The bell rang. I got down from the swing, dried my tears as best as I could, and made my way to line up with my classmates to go back to the classroom. I was surprised to find that I was the first one lined up. This never happened, as I was one of the slowest kids in the entire third grade.
Where was everybody? I supposed that they must have been hiding from me for the entire recess, and were still in their hiding spots. Surely they'd come out eventually. They'd get in trouble for not coming back from recess, right?
Mrs. O'Neal came to collect her line of students. She stood there for a little bit, as if waiting for the others. I looked around... still no sign of the others. I began to tear up again. Wow. They must really hate me if they'd rather get in trouble than stand next to me. Mrs. O'Neal, however, seemed oddly unfazed by her incredibly shrunken class size. "Guess it's just you," she eventually quipped cheerily, and she turned to walk back to our classroom. I followed her dejectedly, feeling awkward.
Mrs. O'Neal unlocked the classroom door and opened it wide, holding the door open for me and gesturing for me to get a move on. It was dark in there--strange--but I went in anyway.
And then the lights came on. All the missing people jumped up excitedly, shouting enthusiastically, "SURPRISE! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" I was, indeed, surprised.
Now, I'd heard of surprise parties before, but it hadn't crossed my mind that I would ever receive one. And it definitely hadn't occurred to me that people were ditching me in order to decorate for my birthday party that day, because, well... my birthday wasn't for another two months. My birthday was May 24th, but somebody thought it was March 24th.
I was pretty shocked. There were cake and goodie bags, which I guess some parents had put together. And I was extremely relieved that my classmates did not hate me. I also felt a little silly for thinking that they did, and wondered why I hadn't been more suspicious after having noticed a handful of them going to our classroom. (I had at least jiggled the classroom door handle in an attempt to follow them, but it was locked, and I couldn't get in.) But the main thing I felt was happiness. I think the party lasted the rest of the afternoon.
So there. A nice happy memory (though oddly, still traumatic) to make up for yesterday's not-so-happy memories. I have no idea how that birthday party came about. I'm mystified. None of the other kids got birthday parties. Every once in a while, I sit and wonder who the heck thought, "Hey, see that kid acting like a cat over there? Let's throw her a surprise birthday party!" I had always considered myself to be in the lowest quartile with regards to social skills, and even though people liked me, I wouldn't have called myself popular. I guess it shall remain a mystery.
Hopefully giving birth/being born any day now***,
Jenna and Pterodactyl
---
*I am always hesitant to use this word, as it seems to imply you are only gifted if you are academically gifted. That, of course, is certainly untrue, and I think it is an unfortunate semantic problem... and I'm not quite sure how to solve it.
**My dad was shocked and perhaps a little dismayed when he learned I had shortened my name to Jenna. I'm not entirely sure why. This was a bizarre response to me (still is). If I had to guess at the reason, I'd say he was a little put out that I wasn't fond enough of my full name--which he had chosen with care--to use it regularly. When he found out I was going by Jenna, he told me that he had always loved the name "Jennifer Marie" and had always wanted to give that name to his daughter. Because my dad was so disappointed, I felt super guilty and tried to get people to call me Jennifer again. It didn't work, though... There were always enough people around calling me Jenna that even when I introduced myself as Jennifer, new acquaintances were calling me Jenna in no time.
***Ah, who am I kidding? I probably won't go into labor until I'm 41 weeks or something.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
36W6D / Childhood Memories
Wow... Tomorrow I'm officially 37 weeks, which is technically full term. That means that--assuming I don't go into labor today--I successfully avoided preterm labor for this pregnancy. Woot. Pterodactyl has been head down for 10+ weeks already. Also woot. And she was super active during my exam yesterday. Also also woot. The midwife's comments today included, "Wow, she's super long" and that she was probably sucking her thumb since her hand was right next to her face. I'm amazed at what the midwife can tell just by feeling my belly, because I can't differentiate between the little lumps. Is that baby? Or is that just uterine muscle? Who knows.
As has lately become common, I can't sleep tonight. I am perpetually uncomfortable. My stomach is squished, so I'm either super full or super hungry... and frequently plagued by heartburn, particularly when I'm lying down trying to sleep. My body aches lots. I feel like all my muscles and ligaments and all that are getting pulled and stretched in unnatural ways. Any heat waves we get are translated into severe nausea and lightheadedness. Tonight I have the added inconvenience of feeling emotionally wonky and down. So, despite being exhausted, I am also wide awake.
In my wakefulness, I started thinking about what I could remember about childhood, and in particular, what I could remember about how I interacted with other kids. (I've decided to write it down because some of it is emotionally charged, and if I keep thinking about it all night, I'll certainly never sleep.)
To be honest, the existence of other children was super uninteresting until I was about 7.
I remember some sort of preschool. There were other children and there were activities to encourage interaction between kids. I remember feeling pretty apathetic about the other kids, though. I remember realizing that I didn't particularly enjoy all the energetic-ness that was happening. I didn't want to run and jump and play. I was perfectly content to sit still. And I preferred it that way.
The first time I ever remember having a friend over to play isn't exactly a positive memory. I wouldn't say that it was negative either, but it certainly confused me. The girl who had come over to our townhouse proclaimed at some point during the visit, "Guess what! I can count to five! One, two, four, five!"
I countered, "That's wrong. It's one, two, three, four, five."
Well, the girl insisted she was right, even after I had consulted all the resources I could think of to convince her otherwise, including books and parents. I was very confused when she continued to insist she was right.
I was only five or so, but I remember thinking, "It's almost like she knows she's wrong, but she won't admit it because she's embarrassed." And then... "That's stupid. It's much more embarrassing to keep saying one, two, four, five over and over again as if I think it's right."* I'm pretty sure that girl didn't come over anymore. I was confused, particularly because I couldn't understand the need to appear right rather than actually be right. After all, I couldn't think of anything more exciting than learning something new.
I also remember kindergarten. There were other kids, of course, but I don't remember a single occasion in which I interacted with the other kids beyond in-class group activities (i.e. forced interaction). I didn't really care and didn't really think it was important. Perhaps I never felt I got much out of it.
In first grade, I still didn't play much with other children, but I actually had a friend! Her name was Alyssa. I actually liked talking to her or something, but I don't remember any playing. I much preferred to sit at the wall during recess and read. All that moving around and running and stuff was such a bother.
In retrospect, I wonder if my parents and teachers were concerned about me being "shy". I think, though, that to say I was shy would be largely inaccurate (at least prior to second grade). Sure, I was quiet, but I wasn't nervous about other people. I read entire books in front of the class, at the request of the teacher--and it never once crossed my mind to be nervous about standing and "performing" in front of others. They were just other kids.
... And oh, goodness. I was not timid. Some boy was annoying me pretty consistently. I decided that this must stop, so I threatened to kiss him if he didn't stop. (Oh no! The horror! The cooties!) He didn't believe me. I chased after him, pinned him down, and kissed him squarely. I remember being immensely satisfied with myself, because this had exactly the result I wanted it to have. I don't think that boy ever talked to me again. In fact, he avoided me like the plague. Excellent.
So yeah. I just didn't care how the other kids perceived me. I did start to care, though. I started to realize that it did actually matter if another kid hated you, because some kids (particularly the popular ones) have the tyrannical ability to make your life awful.
Near the end of first grade, I lent my most favoritest toy ever (this Beanie Baby cat) to a girl named Linda. But then she never returned it. I begged and begged and begged, but Linda seemed to enjoy coming up with new lies to explain why Kittyanna wasn't coming back. That was my first up-close-and-personal experience with a mean kid.
It got worse. (Sigh... I cry pretty much every time I think about the second grade. Prepare for a sob story.)
In second grade, my one and only friend Alyssa got transferred to a different school. Now, while I hadn't cared about not having friends in kindergarten, I actually understood what it was like to have a friend now and, of course, wanted it again.
To my immense despair, however, the most popular girl in the entire second grade (that's right--not just my class) hated me and made it a priority to make me miserable. I'm not sure why Christina hated me so much.** All I know is that Mr. Romero had me sit next to her the entire year.
Christina insulted me as frequently as possible--and because she was so popular (or perhaps so mean?), the other kids would all agree with her, and laugh. Pretty soon all the kids were torturing me.
The worst incident was when we were playing blind Tag on the jungle gym. When I was It, the game transformed from Tag to something else entirely--Humiliate Jennifer. I touched other kids several times, but Christina would declare that I hadn't actually touched anyone. Or that the person I touched wasn't playing, so it didn't count. Or another ridiculous lie. She hadn't done this to any of the other players.
I got fed up with this supposed game of Tag, and finally decided to leave my eyes slightly open to see what was actually happening. I tagged Christina. She exclaimed, "EEEEEEW, JENNIFER! You just touched a boy with tons of snot all over his face--right on the snot!"
"Liar."
"It's true! It was nasty."
"There is no boy with snot all over his face."
"He ran away really fast as soon as you touched him!" And, to my horror, the other twenty or so kids loudly proclaimed that Christina was being completely truthful. Even worse, every single kid seemed to be enjoying this show immensely.
I think after that day, I spent every recess sitting against the wall, probably with a book. I wouldn't read the book, though. I couldn't read because I was crying the whole time. Sometimes I would pretend to be a cat for fun, but only when all the other kids were far away.
I felt absolutely hopeless. I was immensely grateful when a Mexican girl named Nora moved in midyear. She treated me with kindness and made me cry, too, but instead with tears of shock and gratitude because she was treating me like a human being. Once she spelled my name in sticks on the ground. ("Zhen-ee-fair, ¡mira!")
The big problem, however, was the impenetrable language barrier. Nora didn't speak a word of English and I didn't speak a word of Spanish. There were plenty of Spanish-speaking kids, though, so I never got to spend time with her. I followed her during recess once, but her Spanish-speaking groupies just eyed me suspiciously the entire time, sending me signals that I was definitely not welcome in the group.***
So yeah. I hated second grade immensely. I was relieved when Mr. Romero announced near the end of the year that we'd be taking a test to see if anyone was eligible for the gifted program--which meant going to another school. I don't think it occurred to me that I wouldn't get into the program. My thought was, "Oh good, I'll be going to another school next year."****
I passed that test with flying colors, and it was the best thing that happened to me as a kid. The next year I actually had friends again, even though I had developed shyness and a terribly quick crying reflex. I think I was pretty maladjusted at that point. I frequently acted like a cat... even when it wasn't socially appropriate.
I guess my mind is groping for an idea of what Pterodactyl will be like as her personality starts to develop. I don't know if she'll be anything like I was. Part of me is afraid that she, too, for whatever reason, will be the unpopular kid. I'm not sure how I'd handle it if I ever discovered that my daughter was having experiences like I had and as regularly as I had them in second grade. Oh well.
Bye for now,
(Hopefully soon to be asleep) Jenna and Pterodactyl
---
*I've noticed that adults do this all the time.
**If I had to guess, Christina's problem with me was that I was smart. I didn't realize that at the time, but it's all I can think of. It's the only thing that made me stand out from the other kids. I got taken out of class regularly for more advanced instruction with some volunteer tutors. And Mr. Romero tended to praise me for knowing all the answers. ... Plus, in later years, I noticed that the "gifted" kids were largely disliked by the "non-gifted" kids, because apparently, we all thought we were better than everyone else. I don't know what the other gifted kids thought, but I thought that was super unfair. I never understood why smartness should have anything to do with who you played with at recess, but apparently it did matter to pretty much everyone else.
***The ability to speak Spanish was something I found many of the other kids to be immensely proud of. At some point, I realized that many of the same kids who hated the kids in the gifted program would flaunt their Spanish-speaking ability--that was something they could do much better than the gifted kids. Therefore, the gifted kids were inferior. ...Again, I was so confused. People make no sense.
****Christina announced that all the cool kids would purposely fail the test, because apparently, going to another school was a bad thing.
As has lately become common, I can't sleep tonight. I am perpetually uncomfortable. My stomach is squished, so I'm either super full or super hungry... and frequently plagued by heartburn, particularly when I'm lying down trying to sleep. My body aches lots. I feel like all my muscles and ligaments and all that are getting pulled and stretched in unnatural ways. Any heat waves we get are translated into severe nausea and lightheadedness. Tonight I have the added inconvenience of feeling emotionally wonky and down. So, despite being exhausted, I am also wide awake.
In my wakefulness, I started thinking about what I could remember about childhood, and in particular, what I could remember about how I interacted with other kids. (I've decided to write it down because some of it is emotionally charged, and if I keep thinking about it all night, I'll certainly never sleep.)
To be honest, the existence of other children was super uninteresting until I was about 7.
I remember some sort of preschool. There were other children and there were activities to encourage interaction between kids. I remember feeling pretty apathetic about the other kids, though. I remember realizing that I didn't particularly enjoy all the energetic-ness that was happening. I didn't want to run and jump and play. I was perfectly content to sit still. And I preferred it that way.
The first time I ever remember having a friend over to play isn't exactly a positive memory. I wouldn't say that it was negative either, but it certainly confused me. The girl who had come over to our townhouse proclaimed at some point during the visit, "Guess what! I can count to five! One, two, four, five!"
I countered, "That's wrong. It's one, two, three, four, five."
Well, the girl insisted she was right, even after I had consulted all the resources I could think of to convince her otherwise, including books and parents. I was very confused when she continued to insist she was right.
I was only five or so, but I remember thinking, "It's almost like she knows she's wrong, but she won't admit it because she's embarrassed." And then... "That's stupid. It's much more embarrassing to keep saying one, two, four, five over and over again as if I think it's right."* I'm pretty sure that girl didn't come over anymore. I was confused, particularly because I couldn't understand the need to appear right rather than actually be right. After all, I couldn't think of anything more exciting than learning something new.
I also remember kindergarten. There were other kids, of course, but I don't remember a single occasion in which I interacted with the other kids beyond in-class group activities (i.e. forced interaction). I didn't really care and didn't really think it was important. Perhaps I never felt I got much out of it.
In first grade, I still didn't play much with other children, but I actually had a friend! Her name was Alyssa. I actually liked talking to her or something, but I don't remember any playing. I much preferred to sit at the wall during recess and read. All that moving around and running and stuff was such a bother.
In retrospect, I wonder if my parents and teachers were concerned about me being "shy". I think, though, that to say I was shy would be largely inaccurate (at least prior to second grade). Sure, I was quiet, but I wasn't nervous about other people. I read entire books in front of the class, at the request of the teacher--and it never once crossed my mind to be nervous about standing and "performing" in front of others. They were just other kids.
... And oh, goodness. I was not timid. Some boy was annoying me pretty consistently. I decided that this must stop, so I threatened to kiss him if he didn't stop. (Oh no! The horror! The cooties!) He didn't believe me. I chased after him, pinned him down, and kissed him squarely. I remember being immensely satisfied with myself, because this had exactly the result I wanted it to have. I don't think that boy ever talked to me again. In fact, he avoided me like the plague. Excellent.
So yeah. I just didn't care how the other kids perceived me. I did start to care, though. I started to realize that it did actually matter if another kid hated you, because some kids (particularly the popular ones) have the tyrannical ability to make your life awful.
Near the end of first grade, I lent my most favoritest toy ever (this Beanie Baby cat) to a girl named Linda. But then she never returned it. I begged and begged and begged, but Linda seemed to enjoy coming up with new lies to explain why Kittyanna wasn't coming back. That was my first up-close-and-personal experience with a mean kid.
It got worse. (Sigh... I cry pretty much every time I think about the second grade. Prepare for a sob story.)
In second grade, my one and only friend Alyssa got transferred to a different school. Now, while I hadn't cared about not having friends in kindergarten, I actually understood what it was like to have a friend now and, of course, wanted it again.
To my immense despair, however, the most popular girl in the entire second grade (that's right--not just my class) hated me and made it a priority to make me miserable. I'm not sure why Christina hated me so much.** All I know is that Mr. Romero had me sit next to her the entire year.
Christina insulted me as frequently as possible--and because she was so popular (or perhaps so mean?), the other kids would all agree with her, and laugh. Pretty soon all the kids were torturing me.
The worst incident was when we were playing blind Tag on the jungle gym. When I was It, the game transformed from Tag to something else entirely--Humiliate Jennifer. I touched other kids several times, but Christina would declare that I hadn't actually touched anyone. Or that the person I touched wasn't playing, so it didn't count. Or another ridiculous lie. She hadn't done this to any of the other players.
I got fed up with this supposed game of Tag, and finally decided to leave my eyes slightly open to see what was actually happening. I tagged Christina. She exclaimed, "EEEEEEW, JENNIFER! You just touched a boy with tons of snot all over his face--right on the snot!"
"Liar."
"It's true! It was nasty."
"There is no boy with snot all over his face."
"He ran away really fast as soon as you touched him!" And, to my horror, the other twenty or so kids loudly proclaimed that Christina was being completely truthful. Even worse, every single kid seemed to be enjoying this show immensely.
I think after that day, I spent every recess sitting against the wall, probably with a book. I wouldn't read the book, though. I couldn't read because I was crying the whole time. Sometimes I would pretend to be a cat for fun, but only when all the other kids were far away.
I felt absolutely hopeless. I was immensely grateful when a Mexican girl named Nora moved in midyear. She treated me with kindness and made me cry, too, but instead with tears of shock and gratitude because she was treating me like a human being. Once she spelled my name in sticks on the ground. ("Zhen-ee-fair, ¡mira!")
The big problem, however, was the impenetrable language barrier. Nora didn't speak a word of English and I didn't speak a word of Spanish. There were plenty of Spanish-speaking kids, though, so I never got to spend time with her. I followed her during recess once, but her Spanish-speaking groupies just eyed me suspiciously the entire time, sending me signals that I was definitely not welcome in the group.***
So yeah. I hated second grade immensely. I was relieved when Mr. Romero announced near the end of the year that we'd be taking a test to see if anyone was eligible for the gifted program--which meant going to another school. I don't think it occurred to me that I wouldn't get into the program. My thought was, "Oh good, I'll be going to another school next year."****
I passed that test with flying colors, and it was the best thing that happened to me as a kid. The next year I actually had friends again, even though I had developed shyness and a terribly quick crying reflex. I think I was pretty maladjusted at that point. I frequently acted like a cat... even when it wasn't socially appropriate.
I guess my mind is groping for an idea of what Pterodactyl will be like as her personality starts to develop. I don't know if she'll be anything like I was. Part of me is afraid that she, too, for whatever reason, will be the unpopular kid. I'm not sure how I'd handle it if I ever discovered that my daughter was having experiences like I had and as regularly as I had them in second grade. Oh well.
Bye for now,
(Hopefully soon to be asleep) Jenna and Pterodactyl
---
*I've noticed that adults do this all the time.
**If I had to guess, Christina's problem with me was that I was smart. I didn't realize that at the time, but it's all I can think of. It's the only thing that made me stand out from the other kids. I got taken out of class regularly for more advanced instruction with some volunteer tutors. And Mr. Romero tended to praise me for knowing all the answers. ... Plus, in later years, I noticed that the "gifted" kids were largely disliked by the "non-gifted" kids, because apparently, we all thought we were better than everyone else. I don't know what the other gifted kids thought, but I thought that was super unfair. I never understood why smartness should have anything to do with who you played with at recess, but apparently it did matter to pretty much everyone else.
***The ability to speak Spanish was something I found many of the other kids to be immensely proud of. At some point, I realized that many of the same kids who hated the kids in the gifted program would flaunt their Spanish-speaking ability--that was something they could do much better than the gifted kids. Therefore, the gifted kids were inferior. ...Again, I was so confused. People make no sense.
****Christina announced that all the cool kids would purposely fail the test, because apparently, going to another school was a bad thing.
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