24 WEEKS

How the hell did we get here? 24 weeks into this second pregnancy! I can't believe it. We are very close to the third trimester and then I will seriously have to sit down and confront the fact that this baby boy is going to have to come out of my body one way or another. As it stands now, my fear is that I will be sliced and diced or that I will huff and puff and then my uterus will rupture, which will put a huge damper on the post-birth party plans, since I may end up having to have an emergency hysterectomy.

Wow, look at me being all positive and gooey about the birth of my son.

I have paperwork from my doctor that I am supposed to fill out indicating that I would like to try to have a vaginal birth, even though my first pregnancy ended in a C-section. I can't fill it out. I am too scared. I really would love to have a vaginal birth for lots of reasons I can't explain, and some that I can, such as shorter recovery time, more natural, safer in some respects, and less drama. Or so I tell myself. But, because I had Sadie in the very recent past and she was born via C-section, there are added risks, such as the aforementioned ruptured uterus. And, if my uterus ruptured, the real danger could be to the baby. If all I was confronting was the potential loss of my uterus, I might be game for that, since I don't imagine I will birth any more children. But, the thought of jeopardizing Meatball's health because I want to chase the elusive dream of a vaginal birth sounds kind of Mommie Dearest to me.

I keep thinking that science will come up with a third alternative between now and February 2, 2011. I mean, what the hell is going on in all those labs across the country? Isn't someone figuring out an alternative to vaginal and C-section births? Isn't there a think tank somewhere devising a way for a woman to get an 8ish lbs baby out of her body with out any unpleasantness such as ruptures, espisiotomies, stitches, blood loss, and other capital R risks?

Someone should start a 5K to raise money for this cause.

In the meantime, I think it might be a good use of my time to (1) stop perusing my friends' friends on facebook looking for a boy's name and to (2) start thinking of a way to embrace the birth experience EVEN IF I have a C-section. The farthest I have gotten with this is finding some very cute flannel pajamas at Garnet Hill to lounge in for the 5 days in the hospital after the C-section. I have some vague ideas about how to make the operation itself more palatable, including NOT having it at 3:00 a.m. after 25 hours of labor and maybe having more support in there. Jeff was amazing when Sadie was born, but I won't lie, I was a freaking handful that morning-- screaming that I was going to get up off the table to see my baby and being admonished by the anesthesiologist that I had to wait until my uterus was BACK IN MY BODY before I could leave. It's a lot for Jeff to handle, while also obeying my commands to check on the baby, and bring the baby to me, and be sure they don't mix up our baby with someone else's and to be sure they don't sew me up with extra surgical instruments left inside my womb.

Is it wrong to invite your therapist to come to your C-section? I'm just saying, I should get something out of this long-term and EXPENSIVE relationship and he's a freaking medical doctor.

Also, do they have to strap my arms down like I am being crucified? I am Catholic; having restrained arms has very somber connotations for me.

Yes, this is going to be a major test of my ability to let go, to trust, to surrender, to focus on the positives and to embrace all the wonderful narcotics given to post-birth mothers.

What's In A Name?

Jeff and I are working on finding the perfect name for little Meatball. Both Jeff and I are honing our lists and using our veto power to hone the other's list. We are not ready to make any disclosures, but I can share some names that ended up on the cutting room floor, even though they may have been one-time favorites for one of us:

Owen (I like this name, but it reminds Jeff of Danny DeVito's character in "Throw Mama From the Train".)

Griffin (Jeff is very smitten with this name, but I haven't come around yet. It sounds like a family name that doesn't belong to our family.)

Christopher (I love this name, but recognize it could complicate the whole interreligious nature of the marriage, considering the proximity to Christ and Jeff's proximity to his Jewish roots.)

Haden (I love this name, but Jeff finds it a little feminine. It was freshly vetoed this afternoon.)

Simon (I was actually lukewarm on this name due to some vague memories about a Saturday Night Live Skit involving Mike Meyers playing some naked British baby, so it wasn't a huge loss when Jeff gave it the old heave ho.)

Zander/Xander (I love this name, but Jeff, without explanation, declined to consider. Perhaps this is for the best since we really need to narrow down, not keep adding to the list.)

Jasper (This is the heartbreaker for me. I love this name and can picture a little cherub running around our house terrorizing us while wearing his monogrammed onsie. Jeff won't budge. Last I heard him say, "Jasper has the word 'ass" in it." I took that as a veto.)

This weekend we also got a chance to see how Sadie would react to having a little brother around. We visited our friends who have a 4-month old baby boy, and while I or Jeff was holding him, Sadie expressed her displeasure. Loudly. At first I tried to tell myself she was mad because she wanted to hold the baby herself, but she made it clear that she didn't want me or Jeff to hold any baby except for her. She also went on a bit of a sleeping strike this weekend, and I wondered if that was related. Our little Sadie seems to be deep in the throes of working on her attachment issues and object permanency, which is a lot of fun, until she starts shrieking in my ear as soon as she gets wind of the notion I might be leaving her side. On Sunday, I took a little quiet time alone in the bedroom while Sadie and Jeff were playing downstairs. Jeff said that as soon as she could hear my voice (talking on the phone) she was very upset that she could hear me, but that I was not with her.

And, the moral of that story is that I need to talk more quietly when I am on the phone.

A Good Word About Hormones

Pregnancy hormones take the heat for lots of zany shit that pregnant ladies do. I am here to say something really nice about hormones, besides the fact that they are responsible for creating my children: Look at the sheen on my hair? Granted, by the time I step out the door, I look like a street urchin in less than 30 minutes, but the hair and nails are growing really fast and that's pretty fun.

Speaking of hair, I am getting that mid-pregnancy itch to do something drastic with my hair. Last time that didn't end well when I ended up with 3-inch long bangs that made me look like 12-year-old, Dawson's Creek reject. I made an appointment with the busiest stylist in Chicago: I called on Friday (October 8th) and the next available appointment is December 4th. That should be long enough for me to come to my senses and not go through the request to have the stylist turn my hair into the do that Anne Romano, of One Day At A Time fame, sported, complete with a red dye job.

Please, someone talk me out of this!

Guess Who's Going to Get an Ultrasound?

No one will be suprised that a full 48 hours after my little fender bender I have been gripped by a terrible fear that something is wrong with Meatball. It seemed like he started moving less and less and my back was starting to hurt. My mind was doing what it does so very well: obsess about horrible things happening. It's annoying enough that my back genuinely does hurt, but I suppose that could be because I spend a lot of time carrying around a healthy 14-month old or I spend ALL DAY carrying around this freaking breasts, which are NOT SMALL and petite. (These breasts are brought to you by the letter DOUBLE D and growing.)

So, I finally broke down and called the doctor to ask if she could fit me in for an ultrasound or heartbeat check or something diagnositic and reassuring so I don't have to go insane this weekend. They are going to fit me this afternoon.

Don't you know that the minute I made the appointment and surrendered to just going to the doctor to get more information Mr. Meatballs started his Cirque Du Soleil routine? I am pretty sure he's using my womb to hone a new move he'll patent when he's about 12.

I am still going to the doctor. It can't hurt to get a little more information and to hear the beat, beat, beat of Meatball's little ticker.

A Dream Is Born

Today marks the day that my vision for Meatball's nursery came into full focus. All my obsessions were not for naught. I have found a theme I love that matches the room color perfectly so Jeff and I don't have to try to squeeze "Paint Nursery" onto our already-debilitatingly-long to-do list. It's whimsical. It's masculine enough, without being macho or too mature for a little baby boy. It's retro. It's functional. It's perfect, just like our Meatball.

It's the sock monkey.

OH MY GOD, have I ever been so excited? The color scheme is a muted brick red, off white, and brown. The crib will be a dark wood. The decorative rug will be off white as will the chair and ottoman, where Jeff and I may end up sleeping many a night come this winter. I found a sock monkey memory board and some vintage prints, along with a valance depicting happy, dancing sock monkeys.

I can't wait to order the bedding. I am so happy I found it for less than the cost of a human organ. It's been a hell of a week, complete with a fender bender while driving out to Hanover Park (ever heard of it? Right. Me neither), which is not the most relaxing thing to come to pass during this pregnancy. Jeff's been out of town and I have been unable to sleep because of the snoring and the obsessing and the back aches.

I deserve this. I deserve happy sock monkeys dancing around my son's room. Jeff deserves a wife who has a son who has a room decorated with a sock monkey theme, and Sadie deserves a brother/nextdoor neighbor with a room festooned with sock monkeys.

EVERYBODY WINS when the Sock Monkey takes center stage.

Dear Kids

Dear Sadie and Meatball,

I love you fiercely, and I would do almost anything for you, especially now that you are too young to have formed any malicious intent or do much damage morally or ethically. But, you gotta understand that when you suffer from non-stop diarrhea for 5 days, it *may* wear on your mother.

Just a little.

I don't mean to gag when I step into your room, and it's nothing personal when I burst into tears at the site of your diaper's leaking content. It's really not.

You see, every now and then, things happen in the human body that are allegedly natural and probably quite beautiful and majestic, but sometimes the smell of all that majesty makes me weak in my knees and curls my historically straight-as-a-board hair. So, please drink your Pedialyte, even though you hate the taste and eat your probiotic yogurt or keep the smelling salts really close to your changing tables because during the next round I may faint and will need some delicious smelling uguents to rouse me up.

Wish I was kidding.

Don't hate me because I detest the smell of shit.

Love you two little birds!

Mom

File under: "Great Ideas"

In the back of my mind I spend a lot of time trying to figure out to how avoid any post-partum blues come this February. After Sadie, I had some dark moments where I was swimming in despair unable to get over the disappointment and trauma of having a C-section, as well as the lack of sleep and the loss of control over every single goddamned thing in my life. And that was in sunny and beautiful August. I am trying to picture myself with a second C-section scar lounging around looking for my Narco come February, which is the dead-ass of winter in Chicago, when the sun shines for about 13 minutes a week. How is it possible that I will not have any dark thoughts or despair. As anyone who has endured the enormous post-partum hormonal shifts knows, the darkness has nothing to do with how much I love and adore and want my children. The despair is like a shadow that runs tandem to all the love and joy and exploration of the new relationships forming in my family.

But, man, February. Who the hell isn't depressed in February? Sure, I love Groundhog day as much as any full-blooded American lady, but February is sort of icy and dismal. I am having trouble picturing me putting my two kids in Gortex snowsuits, strapping them into some double stroller contraption and strolling through the gray and frozen streets. Is that type of thing even approved by the Surgeon General? And, exercise really helps me smooth out some of the edgier aspects of my personality so being laid up for a minimum of 6 weeks after major abdominal surgery really gets in the way of a good cardio session.

So, I am looking for physically less demanding ways to keep the mood aloft during the first few months of Meatball's life. The one thing I believe absolutely about my own parenting is that my children deserve a happy mother and it's not their job to make me happy.

So here's my latest survival plan for February 2011:

1. Get lots of sleep. How hard will it be with an 18 month old and a newborn?

2. Eat right. There's so many fresh fruits and vegetables around in the upper Mid-West during February. Summer squash and watermelon salad? No problem.

3. Juicy couture. Yes. I have been making fun of Juicy velour sweatsuits since the first time I laid eyes on them many years ago. I have yet to take a flight without seeing at least 4 women decked out in Juicy sweatsuits ready for some serious lounging on that very taxing 2-hour flight to Dallas. Maybe I should stop scorning and invest in a nice, soft, butt-enhancing sweat suit in a nice bright color. I can be the velour Sue Sylvester during my convalescence.

All kidding aside, I did stumble upon a great idea for bumping up my endorphins during the precarious post-partum weeks. Lady Gaga. She's going to be in concert on February 28, 2011 in Chicago. That's about 3-4 weeks after Meatball goes live. I have seized on this idea as a great way to (1) get out of the house, (2) enjoy a moment of popular culture, (3) something to look forward to that will remind me of the well-rounded woman that I am, and (4) put me into the stream of younger culture, balancing out weeks of sleep-deprivation, breast pumps and my Juicy couture.

I can't decide if this is a brilliant idea born of my hearty human spirit or a disasterous idea for someone who is post-partum to go to the United Center for a spectacle of this magnitude. I think I better sleep on it before I pony up the money for a concert ticket. And, excuse me, when did concert tickets go up to 5,000.00 per seat? Good lord, how do teenagers afford to go to concerts? You have to selll an egg or an ovary to afford them these days. I guess that's because the last big show I went to was Sting in 1999.

Post-partum depression or no, I gotta get out more.