15 weeks

Being pregnant again is weird, you guys. When I was growing George, it seemed like the seconds dragged between milestones. Getting blood drawn was exciting. Ultrasound appointments were made weeks in advance and I began reading books about labor and birth before the end of my first trimester. Unwarranted? Of course not; pregnancy is full of things to look forward to, the ultimate, of course, being meeting your kid. This time around, though, I'm a lot more...relaxed. Relaxed is a kinder term than lazy, right? I'm also a lot more tired, but I don't know that I can solely blame exhaustion for my willingness to lie in bed and watch Monk on Netflix instead of drafting a birth plan and revising my Amazon wishlist. 

There I am at 12 weeks. This time, we said, we'll take pictures! Every week! Cute ones! Har har har. Here I am at 15 weeks. Pacing the Panic Room we are not. 

I finally got around to visiting the lab on the last possible day before genetic screening was moot, and when my midwife called this afternoon to leave a message saying that everything was normal, I realized it had been a couple of weeks since I left four vials of blood with a chatty technician who seemed less than thrilled to've been roped into working on the sole sunny Saturday in our pathetic Northwest summer. Last time? I hounded the lab tech (who, in my defense, was also a friend), the very afternoon of my blood draw and, lab report print-out in hand, looked online for what each level could mean. We got an early ultrasound to learn the sex. I had a laughably unnecessary blow-by-blow birth plan.

This time, I'm sticking to the fun stuff. Teaching George the sign for 'baby', which he displays proudly with anything in reach -- baby burrito, baby water cup, baby soccer ball. Looking for names: scouring my brain for my favorite words and things and people. Buying tiny socks, for which we found ourselves at a mysterious loss with newborn George. Sewing diaper covers. I am, maybe naively, unworried about the potential overwhelm that keeps pregnant mothers of soon-to-be-two up at night. We have diapers, I have boobs, and the kid we've already got is pretty fucking rad. It's all starkly different than what I remember feeling as I prepared to have my first child. Creature of habit that I am, lover of knowing what to expect and hater of surprises, it makes sense that this time around will be more enjoyable. Not unexciting, but sort of like going on Space Mountain for the fiftieth time. Knowing what's around the next bend allows you to lean into it and put up your hands rather than getting thrown around your tiny space ship built for two. 

n&ls: playmates

Sometime around February 1st, George will have a new full-time playmate. 

expect

I am always late in turning my calendar. A shame, and odd since I'm eager for the coming month spent with a fresh page of Nikki McClure's art, hanging in the kitchen, visible and inspirational at (almost) all times. As I was doling out avocado slices or picking up a thrown water cup for yet another rinse, I looked up and realized that the calendar still said February though it was March fourteenth. George and I had plans, like we do every month on the fourteenth: go to the mall. Use the newfangled photo booth that Mama wishes was still the real, old kind with the red or blue curtain but consoles herself by choosing a funny header appropriate to the past four weeks of development. "Oh, by the way: I'm awesome" for 13 months. "I freaking love you" for fourteen months, Valentine's Day. Our new tradition whose seed was planted years before when my roommates and I covered the grimy breakfast nook of our punkrock house in photo strips, demanded one from each houseguest that crossed our couch, every band that used our floor. 

I got distracted, didn't turn the calendar, but released George from his high chair and we got ready for the day. Went to the mall. Got our pictures, chose the "USA!" header for George's recent rallying cry/fist pumping victory dance. We stopped off at the drug store and came home. While George played on the floor with his puzzle, I took a pregnancy test that turned positive even as I willed it not to, glaring down at the defiant little plus sign that wussed out and only partially materialized. But it was enough. I didn't really need the confirmation, anyway. Even barely pregnant -- one day late -- my body gives itself away; we've been together for awhile, you know. 

Feeling a sudden burst of responsibility to my household, I remembered I'd left February's cheery cherry blossoms hanging in the kitchen. Turning the page, I felt a little silly. If Nikki McClure could be so prophetic, a complete stranger reassuring me with her meant-to-be-looked-at-for-31-days art, things would surely be okay. 

Of course, it was cruel of me to be anything but immediately delighted, and, it turns out, this pregnancy was easily jinxed. March changed to April and after three weeks of getting-used-to, what are we going to do? turning into we can do this, right?, the bleeding began. Though my midwife was optimistic and Nathan favored looking on the bright side (after all, this had also happened with George), I knew it just wasn't meant to be: an instinct confirmed by the poor ultrasound wand-wielding lady whose thankless job requires that she tell expectant women there is no sign of viability. The loss is sad, obviously, but this brief flirtation with another kid has opened my mind to the possibility of loving another one, doing this again, maybe even sooner than I'd envisioned when painstakingly organizing the timeline of my twenties and thirties. 

If and when we're afforded the luxury of adding to our family, I hope the person who joins us and George are lifelong lifelines to one another. Filling each other's gaps, two 24 hour open signs when everywhere else closes at 7pm and 5 on Sundays. People -- smart people -- have told me that a sibling will be one of our most valuable gifts to George, and the chance to parent another kid would be a gift to me, for sure. It's terrifying to replay the hapless nights we spent in George's beginning: the sleeplessness, the confusion and eventual giving up akin to the moment you realize you're drowning and start to enjoy the languorous kelp floating around you. But, you know? Sometimes, you're not drowning. I wasn't. Soon came the realization that I'd drifted back inland and could easily stand. It'll come again, after all that other stuff, which will (fingers crossed) be less like drowning and more like a too-adventurous swim. I'm lucky to've had the opportunity to work through those feelings before our next (next) shot at parenthood. To start with excitement, assured that we can hack it. Nobody deserves an "oh, shit" at their first sign of life, and for that motherly transgression, former fetus, I am truly sorry. 

I didn't plan on getting pregnant when I had a fifteen month old, but once I was, I quickly warmed to the idea -- the upsides, the pleasantness of the surprise, the potential -- which is, I think, my lesson in this bummer of a situation. The stranglehold I once had on PLANS has, in the past year and a half, loosened to a lazy handhold. I never thought I'd be the kind of person to let life happen to me, but here we are, Universe. Show me what you got.  

Have you dealt with an early miscarriage (lame, huh)? Did you get pregnant again quickly? How did it affect your family plans?

george's birthday

I've told George's birth story more times than I care to count. At times I've been shy to share it because I truly feel that it was the ideal experience, and this is not in line with what most people consider to be "normal" for women, for childbirth. I can't commiserate with those who had 70-hour labors or eventual c-sections, who say that childbirth is totally miserable but worth it. I came out of the experience wanting to do it again. Not eventually, right away. I say this not to be a braggart, but because I am coming to realize that it bears saying, and repeating. Women do not need to fear childbirth the way we're taught to. Of course, some people will say I make these statements from a pretty sweet position, and I do. I was lucky, but I also let my body do its job, and was rewarded.
Three days before I gave birth, I looked like this:
We spent the day before I went into labor (and, coincidentally, the day George was born) in Anacortes for Jess Lynch's craft fair at the Adrift. It was a long, tiring but fun endeavor and as the fair wound down, it began to snow. Hard. Beautiful, big white flakes. The first (and, it turned out, last) snow of the Winter. I was momentarily excited, then remembered we had to drive home. We quickly said our goodbyes, Jess ushered us out the door and we made it home as the snow started to slow. We walked in, lit the Hanukkah candles and crashed.
At 2:45 I woke up with what I thought was mild cramping, no big whoop. I woke Nathan to say I was getting in the shower for some relief. All the ladies I had asked about labor told me I would know when real contractions hit. Without a doubt. YOU WILL KNOOOWWWW, they said. Ominously. I did not KNOOOOWWWW, so I figured this was not "it." Like a fool, I parked the iPod outside the shower and, using the labor app I'd downloaded, tried to time what I had decided were not-really-contractions. I am still shocked that the iPod survived my waterlogged hands reaching out every two (that's right, TWO) minutes to restart the timer. I shampooed my hair between waves and was less than thrilled to recall, after ten months, what it felt like to have cramps.
When I got out of the shower it was about 3:30am. I told Nathan to call Winni, our midwife, who asked me some questions, reassured me, then sleepily told me to try to get some rest and call her in the morning. We both assumed I was mis-timing the not-really-contractions, and I still felt that it probably didn't much matter, as I wasn't in labor.
I was experiencing what I'd consider fair-to-middlin' menstrual cramps, so I took to walking laps around the livingroom, into the bedroom, and back. My cats trailed me from room to room, better aware than I was that something important was happening. Though I had taken the HypnoBabies home course, using what I'd learned didn't occur to me; I was content to pace and breathe, my parade of pets behind me. Unfortunately, neither did it occur to me to get dressed, and in about 45 minutes, when those "fair-to-middlins" turned into "okay, ouches" followed immediately by I am having a baby right here in the living room, I was wearing nothing but underwear and a t-shirt. One pressure wave forced me to the floor, and while I rocked on hands and knees, Nathan called a questioning, shocked Winni back and she told us in no uncertain terms to GO NOW; she would meet us at the birth center.
In addition to being half naked, somehow, in all my preparation, I had not completely packed a bag. My duffel inexplicably contained graham crackers, a note to "remember the popsicles," a pair of hilariously impractical underwear, a nursing tank top and two outfits for the baby. Nathan cobbled together an outfit for me, helped me into some pants and my coat and I went outside while Nathan loaded up the car. Until I felt the night air, I hadn't noticed how sweaty and inwardly focused I'd gotten; it was so refreshing to stand, silent, while the town slept around me and Nathan ran back and forth from the house to the car. I realized that I was having a snow baby, just as I had predicted. Poor Nathan's mantra during the thankfully brief ride to the birth center was "Don't push; please don't push." I must've looked like the stereotypically ridiculous lady in labor, huffing and puffing futilely to make the urge to push lessen. 

We walked into the birth center and Eloisa, the midwife who miraculously temporarily lived in the basement, appeared to welcome us into our candle-lit, warm and cozy room. There wasn't much time for pleasantries. We said hi, she told me to strip and she checked me -- 100% effaced, 100% dilated, bulging bag, ready to go. She started the tub water and I got the go-ahead to push. NOTHING in my life has ever felt better. I eased myself into the water and any pain I had been feeling was gone. The pressure of the baby was there, but the relief of the freedom to push and the soothing, warm water made everything better. Eloisa was invisible to me as I pushed; she was just an encouraging voice from somewhere behind us, telling me I was doing well. A few pushes later, I felt her put pressure on my perineum and she told me the baby was crowning. One more push and he was out, after 20 minutes of pushing, total. As Eloisa capped him, sucked out his nose and mouth and put him on my chest, he cried for a second, but opened his eyes and looked around, quickly calmed, I'd like to think, by the gentle way he was introduced to the non-womb world. Winni burst in, having been slowed down by the snowy roads, missing the birth by only a few minutes. It was 6:08am, less than 4 hours after the first signs of labor.

 
I never felt the urge to expel the placenta, so Winni and Eloisa helped me out of the tub and encouraged me to bear down. What followed the delivery of the placenta was the only hitch of the entire birth, and included a significant amount of blood, some deceptively-named massage that was more uncomfortable than anything preceding it and a shot or two in the leg that, combined with expert handling by my midwives, stopped the bleeding in short order. I needed two stitches -- understandable, as a baby had practically flown from my nether regions -- the discomfort of which were so minimal and lessened even more by a conversation with Winni about local music, food and friends-in-common that I couldn't imagine having in a hospital, with a busy OB-GYN. While she worked on me, it was revealed that a certain someone had scored perfect apgars (genius), weighed eight pounds, one ounce and was 21 inches tall. 

We hung out for awhile in the big, fluffy bed. We got pooped on repeatedly before wising up and busting out the diapers. We nursed somewhat awkwardly. We called around and sent photos from our phones. Winni brought me some delicious tea and we chatted about What the Heck Fest while Eloisa's daughters woke up for the day and padded around the birth center in their jammies, giggling and peeking in the door to see our new baby. We got the then-unnamed but future-George dressed, and headed out about noon, into the gorgeous, clean, snowy day. My mom met us at home with veggie burgers, milkshakes and waffle fries and as we cuddled up in our own bed on our son's first day in the world, I was so grateful for the way we were able to welcome him home.