Tuesday, July 23, 2013

Segue

from here
I had a dream last night (possibly prompted by the news that Kate was in labour) that I had my baby. She had very blonde hair and strange blue eyes (with very blonde eyelashes) and a large, heart-shaped head, and she was a little too grown-up for a newborn (she opened a door for me while carrying a teddy, for example). I felt weirded out by her. I decided she looked like Meryl Streep. Then I noticed she was a boy. And for the whole time she/he looked at me with an expression that asked, Are you still going to love me even if I’m odd? And I was thinking, I don't know! Am I? I want to! It’s left me feeling a little freaked out about what’s to come.

Speaking of the baby*, I went swimming again this morning after a longish break. Though she’s (hes?) still moving around a lot, bub seems to be spending a lot of time in a posterior position, and so I thought 30 minutes of forward-tummy time might encourage her to rethink this proclivity. I shouldn’t really say I went swimming; though I did manage to freestyle my way up and down the pool more times than I expected to be able to, I spent most of the time in the water with my head and arms resting on a kickboard, kicking my way along. There was a point where I closed my eyes for a minute or so and realised, upon opening them, that though I was still kicking I hadn’t actually moved forward at all. It was lovely.

Speaking of swimming, I’ve completely given up on caring about what I wear now. At the pool I’ve been cruising along with the ostrichy attitude of “If I can’t see my bikini line, neither can anyone else.” As for my non-swimming time, comfort now trumps all else. I’m fairly convinced that my maternity jeans were trying to strangle me, so they’ve been put away for post-baby days. Now I have just one set of pants and one skirt with soft, elastic-y waists that I can wear all day without feeling as though my life is at risk, and I will therefore wear one or the other every day and everywhere until this baby comes, despite the fact that the pants are daggy (very daggy) and I have no shoes to match the skirt besides my ugboots. As for tops, none of the warm ones are long enough to cover my whole belly, so I spend most of my time with a few centimetres of skin showing above my soft, elastic-y waistbands. If it’s a special occasion, I may make the effort to yank my top down semi-regularly (and I'll wear the skirt).

Even when not pregnant I don’t think too much about what I wear, although I generally do change my outfit from day to day (or week to week, depending on how much food Moses wipes on me). I must say, though, that I’m particularly enjoying this new level of BITE ME when it comes to fashion.

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* I’m sorry, I know it feels as though that’s all I’ve been doing here lately. A few weeks ago my midwife asked me if I’d started obsessing about baby things yet. I told her I hadn’t and wondered what she meant. That night I started obsessing about baby things. It will pass. I think it will pass. I hope it will pass.

Thursday, July 18, 2013

Busy



Nesting? I’m not entirely sure what that even is, but I can’t really talk about it right now because I have this weird compulsion (and, just as bizarrely, the energy to match) to sort baby clothes into size-specific, labelled drawers and boxes, and to go through Mo’s too-small and too-big clothes and sort them into size-specific and labelled boxes, and to wash the last of the baby wraps and cloths and bedding and fold them and make them their own special cubby hole in the side of the spare room wardrobe now cleared out for baby things, and to sort through all of my clothes and ruthlessly bag all of the things I haven’t worn for the last few years to give away, and to sort through Alan’s clothes (even though, after he watched the zeal with which I tore neglected skirts off coat hangers and threw them into the ‘to go to op shop’ bag, he won’t actually let me near his side of the wardrobe, so I can’t actually act on the urge), and to sort through all of the toys we have and give away anything that Mo’s never actually played with, and to vacuum floors and remove dust from shelves I’ve never noticed before and scrub toilets and clean marks off walls and attack the spider webs on the outside of our house with a broom. Sorry! I’m sure it’ll soon pass; maybe we can chat more about this “nesting” thing next week?

Thursday, July 11, 2013

Birth


Not long before Moses was born, we had a couple of friends (who were also a couple) over for dinner. Just before they left, the guy, who was prone to bouts of social awkwardness particularly during prayer (I’m not sure if he’d already confessed to this, or if we found out in conversation afterwards), asked if he could pray for us. After a few introductory thanks and requests, he started asking God that my upcoming labour would give me a deeper understanding of the curse and sin, which, after he’d kept on this track for a little longer, left me suppressing giggles, and made his wife, upon our “Amen”s, pat him on the arm and say, “Honey, if you’re going to pray for labour and birth, you just ask that it would be safe and that it would be quick. That’s all.”

I thought nothing more of what he’d said, but as I paced the floors of our small apartment during my increasingly full-on contractions, I found myself remembering his prayer, wondering about Genesis 3, and then reminding myself that now was not the time for theology and holy crap these things are really starting to ramp up. I repeated this cycle about a squillion times before forgetting about the prayer and instead chanting, “The epidural is God’s gift to women!” over and over in my head as I walked throughout the duration of each contraction. I had no intention of heading to hospital early to find out if this was indeed true, but it was the mantra my brain decided to use to pass the time.

I’ve been given a book this time that suggests some better “affirmations” to get me through contractions would be, “Yes. I am power of birth” or “Soften away, meet the mystery,” both of which feel as uncomfortable to me as my epidural one. This same book also uses the word “tightenings” rather than “contractions” and suggests that a mother can ask her twins (with her mind) to kindly arrange themselves in positions that are conducive to a natural birth, AND THEY WILL. I remember during Mo’s pregnancy I read a book that mentioned that birth felt like opening up like a flower (there were pictures of a lotus flower opening, to stress the point), and that many women didn’t feel any pain at all during labour, as long as they weren’t fearful and embraced it all. After Mo’s birth, I felt duped: birth felt nothing like opening up like a flower (there were more expletives thrown in when I shared this discovery with people this in the days that followed). I was angry that a crazy lady would lie to innocent women like that. Perhaps I should read fewer birth books written by hippies. 

It’s strange going in to birth for the second time, having a better idea of what’s to come. In some ways it’s nice to know what I’m in for; in other ways, it’s scarier. A few days after Moses was born, my grandfather called to wish us a happy wedding anniversary (Alan and I, in our dazed state, had completely forgotten about it). Towards the end of the conversation, after offering a range of baby advice that I quickly shunted into the ‘Extremely Unhelpful’ basket of my brain for immediate disposal, Grandad made a comment about us having a second child. I told him everything was all too fresh to even be thinking about that, and then the following exchange took place:

Him: A woman forgets the pains of labour as soon as they’re over.

Me: That is not true.

Him: It is true! It’s in the Bible!*
Me: The Bible was written by men.

Him: The Bible is the inspired word of God!!

Me: Grandad. I gave birth a few days ago. I can assure you, I HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN IT.

(He left it there, maybe deciding that it was probably the sleep deprivation talking but he should go and pray immediately about my heretical views on Scripture just in case.)

My labour and birth with Moses was an extremely positive and empowering experience; it was exactly what I’d always wanted, and shorter than I’d expected. I still feel proud of my body and what I now know it’s/Im capable of. But as the due date for this baby draws nearer and the books fall back on euphemisms, I’ve realised that even now, almost three years later, though details have faded and my memory is mush, I still haven’t forgotten how hard labour and birthing is**. I remember there being moments last time when I wondered how much longer I’d be able to cope with the relentlessness of the contractions. There were moments when I had to remind myself that there was no other way for the pain to be over other than to find strength enough to march straight through it. There was vomit and poo and blood. There was a flood of relief when Mo’s body finally slipped out, and a time of me thinking, “Hooray! It’s done!” before realising, with some surprise, that it had all been in order to produce a baby, and where was he, and was he okay? (And was he actually a he?)

I can’t wait to meet this little girl. I’m looking forward to her birth for that reason, knowing that all that comes beforehand is unavoidable, and that it will be tough, but it will be doable, and it will end. I’m going to keep imagining the moment when this baby and I see each other for the first time. And I’m going to stop reading hippy books.



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* My grandfather is a Biblical literalist, which means he takes John 16:21 as a statement of fact from Jesus, rather than an analogy. But, like most, the analogy has its limits; the memories of labour and birth tend to come flooding back rather quickly once you hand your newborn to your husband and try to pee for the first time post-birth, for example.

** Or can be - it seems some women actually dont feel pain (one woman quoted in a birth book likened contractions to orgasms). Frankly, I don’t want to hear their smug stories.