Thirteen Weeks and Thirty Six Years

The ultrasound and blood tests are complete. The hospital ignored my request for the quad screen and did the standard first trimester screening and took enough blood to fill seven vials. Naturally the tech had trouble finding the vein and spent several moments after sticking me moving the needle around, while it was in my arm. I closed my eyes, breathed very deeply and slowly and tried not to count the number of vials she will filling.*

I've decided, after a flush of irritation, not to push for the quad screen unless the midwives feel it is warranted. The ultrasound showed a healthy little alien with a fondness for moving it's hands and rolling over and over. The risk of Down's went from 1/150 to 1/1053 with the results of the blood tests. After weeks of saying to J, over and over, that whatever the outcome we will be OK, I have to start believing my own words.

Whatever the outcome, it will be OK. I said this to myself one morning, after dreaming about a labor that had gone wrong and that J and I were fighting over whose responsibility it was to raise the alien.

I'm amazed, maternity leave worries aside, at how supportive my employer and co-workers have been. One regularly asks me how I am feeling and passes on pieces of advice from his wife, a neonatal nurse. Others are planning on rotating out of their parking spots next winter, so I can ditch the bus and drive to work in late pregnancy without having to worry about finding a place to park. My supervisor tells me not to worry too much about work that I am missing for prenatal appointments – he knows I'll make it up.

I read about pregnancy, childbirth and child raising almost obsessively these days. Not about the mechanics, which I understand pretty well. I read about society's expectations of how pregnant women should behave. Irritating articles equating an occasional glass of wine during pregnancy and nursing with alcohol (and child) abuse. A compelling yet horrifying livejournal entry about an unassisted home birth, forwarded to me by a co-worker who was a friend of the writer. Compelling as the writer described the process of late labor vividly and beautifully. Horrifying as she hired an uncertified midwife who:

• Did next to nothing to assist in the birth
• Never checked to see if the writer was properly dilated for delivery
• Told the writer to reach into herself and check if the umbilical cord was wrapped around the baby's neck
• Mistook the sound of blood flowing through veins as a heartbeat on the doppler and told the writer she was going to deliver a twin

I found it very, very difficult to hold my judgement of the writer's choices. I've already has some backlash from a SIL over my decision to use certified nurse midwives instead of an OB. She had a considerable amount of trouble wrapping her head around the idea that doctors are not the only medical individuals qualified to deliver babies. And the fact that I intend to deliver in a birthing center confused her considerably.

But not knowing to check how far a laboring woman is dilating? An inability to tell the difference between a vein and a heartbeat? Really?

I turned thirty-six on Sunday. As far as birthdays go, it was not the most ideal day. J was sick and spent it sleeping. I spent it catching up on laundry, watching 80's movies on television and alternately feeling sorry for myself and telling myself to suck it up and be a grownup. J was sick, but friends left messages in my inbox and I received phone calls from both siblings, my parents and one friend living in Switzerland. The last was a special, completely unexpected and lovely treat.

*Seven and I have a lovely, streaky bruise on the inside of my right elbow to prove it.