My back hurts. More precisely, a muscle underneath my right shoulder blade has a large, stubborn knot that refuses to release and aches, the pain following of the line of my rib cage to the front of my body. I spent a chunk of my rapidly dwindling funds (when you get paid once a month, funds tend to dwindle near the end) for a massage. Although the massage was wonderful and allowed for the first pain free night of sleep I have had in approximately four months, the knot stubbornly remains, an unwelcome distraction from work, sleep and plain, old fashioned sitting around. J has tried to work it out over the past week, going so far as to pick up a mini massager from Brookstone. The massager is wonderful, even working out the knots leaves me close to tears, but I'm looking at the pain as an opportunity to practice my breathing and visualization techniques. I'm tempted to bring it into work and hand it to one of my coworkers when the pain gets bad.
The most irritating element of this particular knot is the fact that is not caused just by my current gestating state. It is stress, caused by my FIL's recent channeling the behavior and mentality of a five year old encased in a 60+ year old body.
I would like to say that I'm not seething over the incident any longer, but that would be a lie. I'm not interested in turning the other cheek, pretending that it never happened or just letting it go. I've never wanted to kick anyone's ass so badly in my life, which is saying something as I repress the desire to kick the behind-quarters of individuals known and unknown on routine basis. The temptation to go completely nuclear on not only J's father, but his entire family, is overwhelming.
My first test in maintaining some sort of reasonable attitude is coming on Saturday, the day of the baby shower. I'm dreading this, as I will be roundly outnumbered by J's family/friends and the contingent belonging to my mother. Out of the people I know personally, friend A lives overseas and was never going to be able to attend, B is attending a work related convention, C was forced to bow out earlier this week to play trophy wife (1) on a last minute work-disguised-as-social-function for her husband's boss and friend D has to supervise the tear-down and clean up of a school-related function and wants to take her child trick or treating in the afternoon. Upon learning about the last cancellation I had a mini-meltdown and have spent most of today trying to control my tears.
Rationally speaking, I know that this is an incredibly stupid thing to cry over, that the majority of the my friends are unable to attend my baby shower. I have no illusions that my decision to have a kid automatically puts me at the center of everyone else's universe. Most of my friends are friends because we share similar personality traits – such as a deep and abiding aversion to baby showers. That friend C would rather attend a baby shower then play trophy wife indicates the true awfulness of her upcoming afternoon. And to add a level of absurdity to my tears, friend D and I have a very cordial, but not close relationship, which would not exist if I her husband and I had not known each other from a very young age.
As the alien's due date grows closer, the conversations between J and myself on how to handle visitors after the alien's birth grow more contentious. No matter how many times and ways I attempt to communicate to J that I am not going to be up to handling twelve+ emotionally demanding and manipulative people descending on our small house at the same time, he does not understand and does not seem interested in trying. Repeated attempts to discuss the issue, links to metafilter threads and articles on the topic of handling visitors after bringing a new baby home, detailed explanations of the biological processes that occur in a woman's body after delivery and suggestions that he talk to coworkers and acquaintances who have recently had children all seem to have fallen on deaf ears. As far as J is concerned, his family's method of descending like a plague of locusts upon the hospital room of mother and child an hour after birth is perfectly acceptable. (2)
J feels he needs the help and support during the first few weeks, and wants that help and support to come in the form of his parents and family. I want and need to know that the needs of myself and our child overrule the whims of his family (and my own), even if it means that some family members end up with hurt feelings.
They already disapprove of some of my decisions. They don't understand why we are not coming to celebrate Christmas. They don't understand why I'm seeing midwives instead of an OB. They don't understand why I want to use a birthing center instead of a hospital. They don't understand why I would want the minimum number of interventions during labor. They don't like that I have said they should stay home while I'm in labor and that we will tell them when it is OK to visit. They don't like that they will have to drive 40 miles to visit us.
They will not like that they will not be permitted to visit without an explicit invitation. They will not like that they will be permitted only to stay a finite amount of time and will be expected (and asked) to leave if they exceed the time set. They will not like that they will not be permitted to hold the alien until hands are washed. And they will hate fact that I do not intend to go anywhere but the doctor's office until at least six weeks after the alien's arrival.
I. Don't. Care. that they will be uncomfortable.
(1) Playing trophy wife (or husband) is shorthand for any function in which the “trophy” is required to dress up and behave in a pleasant, vacuous manner to impress the boss and/or coworkers of the spouse.
(2) J's originally proposed solution to handling visitors was to suggest that I recuperate at his parents home for a couple of weeks, because their home is larger and it would be “more convenient for visitors”.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Roughness
Last night was rough, as a combination of back pain and restrained fury kept me from sleeping properly. I suspect the two elements that combined to keep me awake for most of the night and command that I rise a the obscene hour of 6:00 am on a Sunday morning are linked. Without the fury, I suspect the pain would be less unpleasant.
My in-laws came for brunch yesterday. My MIL bought some baby clothes from the St. Vincent DePaul thrift store and we spent a few minutes admiring the different items and showing off the crib before taking them to The Original Pancake House to eat. The restaurant was an easy decision, based on our one prior visit to the establishment (in spite of the waitress accidentally dropping my strawberry belgium waffle at my feet, shattering the plate and leaving a dot of whipped cream my sandals) and the sight of vehicles overflowing the lot every time we drove past.
The visit seemed to go smoothly. There was the inevitable fight over the check, but we are used to that. There was equally inevitable lecture over tithing to “the church”, something neither J nor myself are willing to do, as we believe that there non profit organizations out there with far better uses for our money.
Both of J's parents are involved in their diocese's current capital campaign. The amount of money my in-laws are donating over the next five years to the campaign is staggering (it would easily cover one year's worth of tuition, room and board at any state university) and is less than officials wanted J's parents to give. After dropping that small detail into the conversation, J's father told us a story of a recent phone conversation with a parishioner, which took place while the parishioner was going through a fast-food drive through. He voiced disapproval that the woman could afford a fast food meal but was not willing to give more than $50.00 a year to the campaign. The ridges in my tongue grew deeper.
There was a second argument back at the house because my FIL wanted to break into a space that “sounded” hollow in the basement foundation, over my objections. Too tired to continue listen to my FIL browbeat me over the fact that I had little desire to clean up a potential train wreck I finally agreed to allow J to cut into the section a little bit, just to establish whether it was hollow or not. It was not.
During the course visit, my MIL asked us what big items we needed for the alien. I explained that my mother was purchasing the stroller (a jogger style stroller, selected after some careful research which included stopping random strangers I saw pushing the candidate in the street and asking them what they liked about it) but that we still needed a car seat, bottles, clothing, a diaper bag and all sorts of miscellaneous things. They offered to purchase the car seat. A gracious and generous offer. I showed her the registry list so she could get an idea at the type of car seat we wanted.
The trouble began after my in-laws had left, as I was crashing on the couch, idly watching college football and trying to complete a novel and J was working on a side project with a friend. Our house phone rang.
The caller was my MIL, they were at Target looking at a jogger travel system and my FIL was debating whether to purchase the system, in spite of my previous, explicit explanation that my mother was purchasing the stroller. I calmly explained that the brand they were looking at was not the same stroller my mother was purchasing and thanked her for the call. Then I hung up the phone and announced to J “if they go ahead and do this, I will kill your father”.
To understand why this would cause back pain and a sleepless night, you must understand that my FIL has a very bad habit of undercutting other people's plans, charging full speed ahead and creating massive chaos without any consideration for anyone else's feelings. As example 1, I offer up the incident recounted four paragraphs up.
As example 2, I offer up an incident from several years ago, when my FIL went behind my back while I was out of the country and offered to purchase a new ragtop for J's convertible as a birthday gift, after I told his parents that I was saving up my money to surprise J with the top as a Christmas gift. J, unaware of the surprise I had been planning, accepted the gift. To say that I was infuriated would be an understatement. To me, the ragtop was not just a practical gift. As J and I had spent many happy hours in that car on various road trips, the presentation of the new top had a sentimental significance for me and I was proud of the fact that I could earn enough money to give him a gift I could not afford when we first started dating. While I never voiced to my FIL the affect this actions had on me, I could not hide my hurt feelings from J. And the gift was poisoned from that day until the day that J traded in the car.
However, those actions only affected me. This recent development gives my FIL an opportunity to act like super grandfather at the expense of my mother. I'm especially concerned that if they purchase this system, they will present it at the shower, which my mother is attending, leaving me to deal with the fallout of my mother's hurt feelings once the festivities are over.
My in-laws came for brunch yesterday. My MIL bought some baby clothes from the St. Vincent DePaul thrift store and we spent a few minutes admiring the different items and showing off the crib before taking them to The Original Pancake House to eat. The restaurant was an easy decision, based on our one prior visit to the establishment (in spite of the waitress accidentally dropping my strawberry belgium waffle at my feet, shattering the plate and leaving a dot of whipped cream my sandals) and the sight of vehicles overflowing the lot every time we drove past.
The visit seemed to go smoothly. There was the inevitable fight over the check, but we are used to that. There was equally inevitable lecture over tithing to “the church”, something neither J nor myself are willing to do, as we believe that there non profit organizations out there with far better uses for our money.
Both of J's parents are involved in their diocese's current capital campaign. The amount of money my in-laws are donating over the next five years to the campaign is staggering (it would easily cover one year's worth of tuition, room and board at any state university) and is less than officials wanted J's parents to give. After dropping that small detail into the conversation, J's father told us a story of a recent phone conversation with a parishioner, which took place while the parishioner was going through a fast-food drive through. He voiced disapproval that the woman could afford a fast food meal but was not willing to give more than $50.00 a year to the campaign. The ridges in my tongue grew deeper.
There was a second argument back at the house because my FIL wanted to break into a space that “sounded” hollow in the basement foundation, over my objections. Too tired to continue listen to my FIL browbeat me over the fact that I had little desire to clean up a potential train wreck I finally agreed to allow J to cut into the section a little bit, just to establish whether it was hollow or not. It was not.
During the course visit, my MIL asked us what big items we needed for the alien. I explained that my mother was purchasing the stroller (a jogger style stroller, selected after some careful research which included stopping random strangers I saw pushing the candidate in the street and asking them what they liked about it) but that we still needed a car seat, bottles, clothing, a diaper bag and all sorts of miscellaneous things. They offered to purchase the car seat. A gracious and generous offer. I showed her the registry list so she could get an idea at the type of car seat we wanted.
The trouble began after my in-laws had left, as I was crashing on the couch, idly watching college football and trying to complete a novel and J was working on a side project with a friend. Our house phone rang.
The caller was my MIL, they were at Target looking at a jogger travel system and my FIL was debating whether to purchase the system, in spite of my previous, explicit explanation that my mother was purchasing the stroller. I calmly explained that the brand they were looking at was not the same stroller my mother was purchasing and thanked her for the call. Then I hung up the phone and announced to J “if they go ahead and do this, I will kill your father”.
To understand why this would cause back pain and a sleepless night, you must understand that my FIL has a very bad habit of undercutting other people's plans, charging full speed ahead and creating massive chaos without any consideration for anyone else's feelings. As example 1, I offer up the incident recounted four paragraphs up.
As example 2, I offer up an incident from several years ago, when my FIL went behind my back while I was out of the country and offered to purchase a new ragtop for J's convertible as a birthday gift, after I told his parents that I was saving up my money to surprise J with the top as a Christmas gift. J, unaware of the surprise I had been planning, accepted the gift. To say that I was infuriated would be an understatement. To me, the ragtop was not just a practical gift. As J and I had spent many happy hours in that car on various road trips, the presentation of the new top had a sentimental significance for me and I was proud of the fact that I could earn enough money to give him a gift I could not afford when we first started dating. While I never voiced to my FIL the affect this actions had on me, I could not hide my hurt feelings from J. And the gift was poisoned from that day until the day that J traded in the car.
However, those actions only affected me. This recent development gives my FIL an opportunity to act like super grandfather at the expense of my mother. I'm especially concerned that if they purchase this system, they will present it at the shower, which my mother is attending, leaving me to deal with the fallout of my mother's hurt feelings once the festivities are over.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Minor Annoyances
Minor Annoyance 1: That I find more amusing then anything else – the more obviously and visibly pregnant I become, the less that people on the bus are willing to make eye contact with me. And the more ashamed they look when they see me coming.
My amusement was compounded this morning by the middle aged man who insisted on completely blocking the aisle precisely halfway between the front and the back of the bus, thus keeping passengers from reaching one of the several seats available at the back and the woman at the front of the bus who needed not only a support bar but three straps to keep her steady. I studied her, as I stood there in all my unbalanced “glory” wondering why she felt all three straps were necessary.
My musings were interrupted by the recent vacancy of a seat near the front, which J, noting that the extreme heat of the bus was making me progressively paler, blocked out so I could sit down. This maneuver was followed by one of the women, already sitting down, glaring at both of us. I imagine we must have been quite the distraction, the 7.5 month pregnant woman and her husband colluding to get her a seat so she does not pass out on the bus.
Minor Annoyance 2 & 3: Recent articles and comments in the New York Times
The New York Times has been running a series of articles entitled 21st Century Babies, on the increased use and suggested abuse of fertility treatments in the United States. The first article, The Gift of Life, and Its Price discusses the special risks involved in having twins.
Other writers, such as Julie at a little pregnant, have delved into the inaccuracies of the articles and the ignorance of some of the commentators. My irritation was how the article was framed.
I am a fraternal twin, naturally conceived. My brother and I were born a week before our actual due date. My mother did not know she was carrying twins until after my brother was born, when she continued labor. To say that all parties in the room were surprised would be an understatement. Aside from a lower birth weight (I was 4lbs, 4oz and had to stay in the hospital an extra week, since my brother was over 5lbs he was released with our mother) both of us were perfectly healthy.
According to the framing of the New York Times article, I should be down on my knees thanking the gods above that we were among the only 40% of twins born full term (seriously, a week short of full term as a twin is, for all intents and purposes, full term), healthy and without most of the
Statements such as “while most twins go home without serious complications, government statistics show that 60 percent of them are born prematurely. That increases their chances of death in the first few days of life, as well as other problems...” make me want to bang my head against something, because the subsequent problems described in the article are all issues that occur in pregnancy of singles as well.(1) The New York Times does not give any comparison analysis of how much higher the rates are between single and multiple pregnancies and, frankly, manages to make me feel like a freak of a nature.
Later this week I made the mistake of wading into the comments on an article about a woman who had a five year relationship with a priest, conceived a son who is now terminally ill and has spent over twenty years trying to get the father to own up to it financially. Except that the father is a Franciscan priest and has essentially hidden behind his order and weaseled out of any personal responsibility towards the child he conceived. Oh, and there is this little incident midway through the article when the woman learns that this same priest has been carrying on a sexual relationship with a young woman, that started when the woman was in high school. His punishment? He was sent to a treatment center for sex offenders and put in charge of teaching seminarians how to be celibate.
Naturally, a goodly number of comments put all the blame squarely on the woman, because of her mental health issues and three divorces, which point to her being unstable and irresponsible. Obviously she is a “loose” woman with questionable morals who is trying to persecute the priest, the order and the Catholic church. Unfortunately, I did not stop reading before hitting the inevitable “Catholic bashing” comments that always drives me insane.
So I say to self, “Self, you really must stop reading the article comments” and self agrees. Self will probably not follow this suggestion.
(1) Mr Cloth diaper and his wife, for example. A week after deflecting his attempts to assert his moral superiority, his wife went into labor and delivered their single daughter 8 weeks early. Mother, father and child are all fine.
My amusement was compounded this morning by the middle aged man who insisted on completely blocking the aisle precisely halfway between the front and the back of the bus, thus keeping passengers from reaching one of the several seats available at the back and the woman at the front of the bus who needed not only a support bar but three straps to keep her steady. I studied her, as I stood there in all my unbalanced “glory” wondering why she felt all three straps were necessary.
My musings were interrupted by the recent vacancy of a seat near the front, which J, noting that the extreme heat of the bus was making me progressively paler, blocked out so I could sit down. This maneuver was followed by one of the women, already sitting down, glaring at both of us. I imagine we must have been quite the distraction, the 7.5 month pregnant woman and her husband colluding to get her a seat so she does not pass out on the bus.
Minor Annoyance 2 & 3: Recent articles and comments in the New York Times
The New York Times has been running a series of articles entitled 21st Century Babies, on the increased use and suggested abuse of fertility treatments in the United States. The first article, The Gift of Life, and Its Price discusses the special risks involved in having twins.
Other writers, such as Julie at a little pregnant, have delved into the inaccuracies of the articles and the ignorance of some of the commentators. My irritation was how the article was framed.
I am a fraternal twin, naturally conceived. My brother and I were born a week before our actual due date. My mother did not know she was carrying twins until after my brother was born, when she continued labor. To say that all parties in the room were surprised would be an understatement. Aside from a lower birth weight (I was 4lbs, 4oz and had to stay in the hospital an extra week, since my brother was over 5lbs he was released with our mother) both of us were perfectly healthy.
According to the framing of the New York Times article, I should be down on my knees thanking the gods above that we were among the only 40% of twins born full term (seriously, a week short of full term as a twin is, for all intents and purposes, full term), healthy and without most of the
Statements such as “while most twins go home without serious complications, government statistics show that 60 percent of them are born prematurely. That increases their chances of death in the first few days of life, as well as other problems...” make me want to bang my head against something, because the subsequent problems described in the article are all issues that occur in pregnancy of singles as well.(1) The New York Times does not give any comparison analysis of how much higher the rates are between single and multiple pregnancies and, frankly, manages to make me feel like a freak of a nature.
Later this week I made the mistake of wading into the comments on an article about a woman who had a five year relationship with a priest, conceived a son who is now terminally ill and has spent over twenty years trying to get the father to own up to it financially. Except that the father is a Franciscan priest and has essentially hidden behind his order and weaseled out of any personal responsibility towards the child he conceived. Oh, and there is this little incident midway through the article when the woman learns that this same priest has been carrying on a sexual relationship with a young woman, that started when the woman was in high school. His punishment? He was sent to a treatment center for sex offenders and put in charge of teaching seminarians how to be celibate.
Naturally, a goodly number of comments put all the blame squarely on the woman, because of her mental health issues and three divorces, which point to her being unstable and irresponsible. Obviously she is a “loose” woman with questionable morals who is trying to persecute the priest, the order and the Catholic church. Unfortunately, I did not stop reading before hitting the inevitable “Catholic bashing” comments that always drives me insane.
So I say to self, “Self, you really must stop reading the article comments” and self agrees. Self will probably not follow this suggestion.
(1) Mr Cloth diaper and his wife, for example. A week after deflecting his attempts to assert his moral superiority, his wife went into labor and delivered their single daughter 8 weeks early. Mother, father and child are all fine.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Under Pressure
This past weekend my friend K admitted to two of us that she was feeling pressure to get pregnant. She is in a difficult position, with me 10 weeks 6 days (but who is counting?) from my due date, a second mutual friend about to embark on the long road of fertility treatments and M, who quietly announced to K and myself (after putting her foot firmly in her mouth over some comments about my food choices) that she was 5 weeks along and on her second attempt to have a baby. (1)
M and I were blunt in telling her that just because every woman she seemed to know right now was gestating, there was nothing wrong with her not wanting to have children, either right now or ever. I pointed out to K that my pregnancy was more an accident then anything else, that I had considered terminating, that the depression was bad enough to keep me from getting out of bed some mornings and would be a major factor . M reminded K about the horrors surrounding the end of her first pregnancy.
We both stressed that this was not something a woman did because her friends were doing it. This was something a woman did because she felt it was the correct decision for her. We were both brutally honest in discussing our feelings.
I hope it helps her.
(1) I ordered a salad with gorgonzola cheese and an iced tea. In an attempt to be funny, she asked me if I knew about the prohibition against pregnant women eating unpasteurized cheese and drinking caffeine. My response was not good natured and J, listening in on the exchange, politely told her where he thought the medical establishment could stick their food rules. M pulled me aside later and explained that she had been trying to be funny, recounting the ordeal of her first pregnancy, which ended in an abortion at 16 weeks when she learned the fetus tested with a 1/5 chance of Trisomy 21.
M and I were blunt in telling her that just because every woman she seemed to know right now was gestating, there was nothing wrong with her not wanting to have children, either right now or ever. I pointed out to K that my pregnancy was more an accident then anything else, that I had considered terminating, that the depression was bad enough to keep me from getting out of bed some mornings and would be a major factor . M reminded K about the horrors surrounding the end of her first pregnancy.
We both stressed that this was not something a woman did because her friends were doing it. This was something a woman did because she felt it was the correct decision for her. We were both brutally honest in discussing our feelings.
I hope it helps her.
(1) I ordered a salad with gorgonzola cheese and an iced tea. In an attempt to be funny, she asked me if I knew about the prohibition against pregnant women eating unpasteurized cheese and drinking caffeine. My response was not good natured and J, listening in on the exchange, politely told her where he thought the medical establishment could stick their food rules. M pulled me aside later and explained that she had been trying to be funny, recounting the ordeal of her first pregnancy, which ended in an abortion at 16 weeks when she learned the fetus tested with a 1/5 chance of Trisomy 21.
Friday, October 09, 2009
Because You're Weak
There is no way for me to adequately convey my irritation at my upcoming baby shower. On a purely rational level it is illogical and hypocritical of me to complain because a group of people want to get together and give me gifts. I should quit whining. I agree.
But as J succinctly put it, when I whined “why did I agree to this?”
“Because you're weak”.
On an emotional level, the fact that I agreed to participate in this charade in the purely mercenary hope of getting one or two necessary items leaves me wishing that someone had smacked me upside the head hard before I agreed to participate in such a venture, if only to rid me of the high delusion that I would receive anything useful out of this party. I'm getting a great deal of passive-aggressive pleasure out of the fact that we decided not to gender the alien before birth, as it will marginally decrease the atrociously gendered clothing and crib sets that may be coming my way. (1)
My first objection to this ritual, aside from the fact that I hate showers of all stripes on general principle, is that my input on the type of party I would like to have ended when I submitted my guest list to my MIL. I would have been happy, nay thrilled, to have gathered in a back room at Dino's, where the guests could munch on semi-stale popcorn, order garlic wings and cheese fries, and had themselves a beer and a good chat in between the opening of gifts and watching college football on the enormous, flat screen televisions. I could have eaten cheese fries and snuck sips of beer.
Instead it is being held at the same venue as my bridal shower and will be a semi-formal, catered lunch with soup or salad, a quiche of some sorts accompanied with coffee, iced tea or water, capped with a yellow cake with vanilla icing sporting storks, baby booties and Congratulations!, all in alternating blue and pink icing because J and I have the nerve to refuse to find out the alien's gender or theme the nursery.
I also have trouble understanding what is so entertaining about watching someone else open a pile of gifts in such a public fashion, as both the gift giver and the recipient. I enjoy giving gifts to other people, but I could care less if they open it in front of me or not. (2) I don't fake enthusiasm for bad gifts very well, my sense of humor is such that it takes a mammoth amount of self control to put off making fun of truly heinous items until the giver is two states over and to the left from where I am standing.
Then there is the growing panic that I am going to be forced to participate in shower games, specifically a popular and truly atrocious one called Let-Us-Humiliate-the-Guest-of-Honor-by-Guessing-How-Fat-She-Is-! which requires party guests to cut a piece of string into what they think is the circumference of the MTB waist. The strings are wrapped around the MTB and the winner is the individual with the most accurate string length.
Why the panic? Because the hosting duties have transferred from my normally sane (other than her heavy hand with the guilt trips) MIL to a sister-in-law, one of J's older (in their 40's) female cousins, my mother, J's sister and her two daughters, aged five and seven.
A five year old and a seven year old are co-hosting my baby shower. I know these little girls well. They are lovely, bright, outspoken (which I quietly encourage as much as possible) mostly well behaved children who would nonetheless thoroughly enjoy measuring their aunt's expanding waistline and would not understand, egged on by the older cousins who find such games amusing, why their aunt would be bothered by such entertainment. The shower is scheduled to last three hours. A lot can happen in a three hour period.
Over fifty women have been invited to my shower. Out of those fifty, thirty-five of the invitees are either friends or family of J's mother. My mother and I have a combined list of around twenty and I can think of at least three off hand from my list who will be unable to attend for one reason or another. I am completely outnumbered in the moral support department on this one. If I refuse to participate, then I shall be labeled as unreasonable and can hear, clearly, the voice of my mother instructing me to stop making a scene.
I am weak.
(1) I'm still reeling from the pink crib set that a neighbor dropped off at our house. There is pink and then there is pink. This is pink.
(2) I openly admit that I'm still a bit bitter that I was forced to open our wedding gifts in front of a mob instead of in the quiet of our home, just J and myself, with some soft music and a glass of wine as a way of winding down from a weekend of non-stop activity.
But as J succinctly put it, when I whined “why did I agree to this?”
“Because you're weak”.
On an emotional level, the fact that I agreed to participate in this charade in the purely mercenary hope of getting one or two necessary items leaves me wishing that someone had smacked me upside the head hard before I agreed to participate in such a venture, if only to rid me of the high delusion that I would receive anything useful out of this party. I'm getting a great deal of passive-aggressive pleasure out of the fact that we decided not to gender the alien before birth, as it will marginally decrease the atrociously gendered clothing and crib sets that may be coming my way. (1)
My first objection to this ritual, aside from the fact that I hate showers of all stripes on general principle, is that my input on the type of party I would like to have ended when I submitted my guest list to my MIL. I would have been happy, nay thrilled, to have gathered in a back room at Dino's, where the guests could munch on semi-stale popcorn, order garlic wings and cheese fries, and had themselves a beer and a good chat in between the opening of gifts and watching college football on the enormous, flat screen televisions. I could have eaten cheese fries and snuck sips of beer.
Instead it is being held at the same venue as my bridal shower and will be a semi-formal, catered lunch with soup or salad, a quiche of some sorts accompanied with coffee, iced tea or water, capped with a yellow cake with vanilla icing sporting storks, baby booties and Congratulations!, all in alternating blue and pink icing because J and I have the nerve to refuse to find out the alien's gender or theme the nursery.
I also have trouble understanding what is so entertaining about watching someone else open a pile of gifts in such a public fashion, as both the gift giver and the recipient. I enjoy giving gifts to other people, but I could care less if they open it in front of me or not. (2) I don't fake enthusiasm for bad gifts very well, my sense of humor is such that it takes a mammoth amount of self control to put off making fun of truly heinous items until the giver is two states over and to the left from where I am standing.
Then there is the growing panic that I am going to be forced to participate in shower games, specifically a popular and truly atrocious one called Let-Us-Humiliate-the-Guest-of-Honor-by-Guessing-How-Fat-She-Is-! which requires party guests to cut a piece of string into what they think is the circumference of the MTB waist. The strings are wrapped around the MTB and the winner is the individual with the most accurate string length.
Why the panic? Because the hosting duties have transferred from my normally sane (other than her heavy hand with the guilt trips) MIL to a sister-in-law, one of J's older (in their 40's) female cousins, my mother, J's sister and her two daughters, aged five and seven.
A five year old and a seven year old are co-hosting my baby shower. I know these little girls well. They are lovely, bright, outspoken (which I quietly encourage as much as possible) mostly well behaved children who would nonetheless thoroughly enjoy measuring their aunt's expanding waistline and would not understand, egged on by the older cousins who find such games amusing, why their aunt would be bothered by such entertainment. The shower is scheduled to last three hours. A lot can happen in a three hour period.
Over fifty women have been invited to my shower. Out of those fifty, thirty-five of the invitees are either friends or family of J's mother. My mother and I have a combined list of around twenty and I can think of at least three off hand from my list who will be unable to attend for one reason or another. I am completely outnumbered in the moral support department on this one. If I refuse to participate, then I shall be labeled as unreasonable and can hear, clearly, the voice of my mother instructing me to stop making a scene.
I am weak.
(1) I'm still reeling from the pink crib set that a neighbor dropped off at our house. There is pink and then there is pink. This is pink.
(2) I openly admit that I'm still a bit bitter that I was forced to open our wedding gifts in front of a mob instead of in the quiet of our home, just J and myself, with some soft music and a glass of wine as a way of winding down from a weekend of non-stop activity.
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
Ugh II
I rolled (almost literally, I'm getting rather round) out of bed at 5:40 AM Monday morning in order to reach a downtown lab for round 6001 of miscellaneous indignities that a pregnant woman is forced to suffer in the name of gestating a healthy alien.
Today was the much dreaded one hour glucose tolerance screen and third trimester CBC blood screen. As I'm pretty certain that I shall fail the one hour screen, because the gods hate me and want to see me suffer through repeated needle stabs over a three hour period, I put off the appointment for a week and a half before trundling off to the bus in the pre-dawn of a chilly fall day.
But first I had to eat something, as fasting before drinking 50 grams of sugar solution is generally considered a bad idea. At 100 grams (the amount I'll have to drink in a few weeks when I'll get stabbed repeatedly with needles over a three hour period) it is required. J was also up early and bought me breakfast – a travel mug of tea and a glazed cinnamon yeast pretzel doughnut. Apparently J did not get the memo in the form of me repeating, verbatim, multiple times, the midwife's breakfast instructions, which were “Eat protein and healthy carbs. Don't eat a doughnut”.
“I can't eat that”. J stared at me, looking slightly offended at the rejection of his customary morning tea and glazed offering.
“I'm trying to make you feel better. What's wrong with it?”
“The midwife specifically said no doughnuts. Go ahead and eat it”.
“Are you sure? Why not eat it later”.
“Fine, put it in a bag, I'll have after the appointment”.
“What do you want then? And at least try the tea, I didn't put that much sugar in it”.
“Toast with butter. Do we have protein bread?”(1)
“Its the Omega 3 bread”.
“That is fine”.
As J stalked back downstairs to make me toast, I took a couple of sips of tea and left the mug sitting on my dresser, as I could not tell how sweet it was. And left it there, where it is still sitting unless one of the cats knocked it over during a stroll across my dresser.
The waiting room of the downtown lab was empty when I stepped through the door a few minutes before 7:00 AM. One customer in the office behind the locked door, registering for blood work. Not another person to be seen or heard except for the phlebotomist.
The customer left suddenly. What I collected from the conversation was that she had a condition that was counter indicative of having her blood drawn and the phlebotomist had advised her to wait until the condition was resolved.
I was called in, registered, given 50 grams of a bland orange sucrose solution to drink in five minutes , instructed to avoid throwing it up and made to sit in the still empty waiting room for an hour. I passed the time listening to a podcast of “Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me” and watching white collar employees come and go
At the appointed time the phlebotomist called me back, took my blood in possibly the most painless fashion I have experienced in the past seven months and sent me on my way with the admonishment to eat something that did not contain much sugar, since the solution made me feel slightly woozy – a repeat the time my freshman year of college when I combined too many Oreo cookies with too much caffeine during finals week.
I was tired for the rest of the day, a result of the subsequent sugar crash, and ended up eating far too much sugar and carbs anyway, in a purely reactionary response to the fear that I will have to endure the three hour tolerance test, fail that and eat nothing but protein and leafy greens for ten weeks.
(1) During the height of my nausea, when I could not stand the smell of any meat or peanut butter and wanted crackers, tea and toast J started buying protein enriched bread in order to get something other than carbs and fat into me. My aversion to meat went away, I still can't bring myself to even smell peanut butter, which is another one of nature's jokes since peanut butter is a nutritional staple for many pregnant women. And we continued buying protein enriched breads because they were multigrain and tasted fairly decent, if a bit heavy.
Today was the much dreaded one hour glucose tolerance screen and third trimester CBC blood screen. As I'm pretty certain that I shall fail the one hour screen, because the gods hate me and want to see me suffer through repeated needle stabs over a three hour period, I put off the appointment for a week and a half before trundling off to the bus in the pre-dawn of a chilly fall day.
But first I had to eat something, as fasting before drinking 50 grams of sugar solution is generally considered a bad idea. At 100 grams (the amount I'll have to drink in a few weeks when I'll get stabbed repeatedly with needles over a three hour period) it is required. J was also up early and bought me breakfast – a travel mug of tea and a glazed cinnamon yeast pretzel doughnut. Apparently J did not get the memo in the form of me repeating, verbatim, multiple times, the midwife's breakfast instructions, which were “Eat protein and healthy carbs. Don't eat a doughnut”.
“I can't eat that”. J stared at me, looking slightly offended at the rejection of his customary morning tea and glazed offering.
“I'm trying to make you feel better. What's wrong with it?”
“The midwife specifically said no doughnuts. Go ahead and eat it”.
“Are you sure? Why not eat it later”.
“Fine, put it in a bag, I'll have after the appointment”.
“What do you want then? And at least try the tea, I didn't put that much sugar in it”.
“Toast with butter. Do we have protein bread?”(1)
“Its the Omega 3 bread”.
“That is fine”.
As J stalked back downstairs to make me toast, I took a couple of sips of tea and left the mug sitting on my dresser, as I could not tell how sweet it was. And left it there, where it is still sitting unless one of the cats knocked it over during a stroll across my dresser.
The waiting room of the downtown lab was empty when I stepped through the door a few minutes before 7:00 AM. One customer in the office behind the locked door, registering for blood work. Not another person to be seen or heard except for the phlebotomist.
The customer left suddenly. What I collected from the conversation was that she had a condition that was counter indicative of having her blood drawn and the phlebotomist had advised her to wait until the condition was resolved.
I was called in, registered, given 50 grams of a bland orange sucrose solution to drink in five minutes , instructed to avoid throwing it up and made to sit in the still empty waiting room for an hour. I passed the time listening to a podcast of “Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me” and watching white collar employees come and go
At the appointed time the phlebotomist called me back, took my blood in possibly the most painless fashion I have experienced in the past seven months and sent me on my way with the admonishment to eat something that did not contain much sugar, since the solution made me feel slightly woozy – a repeat the time my freshman year of college when I combined too many Oreo cookies with too much caffeine during finals week.
I was tired for the rest of the day, a result of the subsequent sugar crash, and ended up eating far too much sugar and carbs anyway, in a purely reactionary response to the fear that I will have to endure the three hour tolerance test, fail that and eat nothing but protein and leafy greens for ten weeks.
(1) During the height of my nausea, when I could not stand the smell of any meat or peanut butter and wanted crackers, tea and toast J started buying protein enriched bread in order to get something other than carbs and fat into me. My aversion to meat went away, I still can't bring myself to even smell peanut butter, which is another one of nature's jokes since peanut butter is a nutritional staple for many pregnant women. And we continued buying protein enriched breads because they were multigrain and tasted fairly decent, if a bit heavy.
Sunday, October 04, 2009
Pain
I'm in pain. Not just the ongoing emotional pain that I have endured for the past 28 weeks and is gradually increasing. Mainly because my physical discomfort is getting worse.
Many years ago I developed this weird little twitch in one of the muscles over the ribcage on my left side. It was not painful, just an annoyance that would routinely catch me off guard as I went about my day. As the twitch developed during the same time frame as my asthma, my doctor ordered an echo cardiogram along with several standard diagnostic tests for asthma, to rule out any issues with my heart.*
No heart issues. Just a twitch from the electrical impulses in the muscles going haywire. He offered to write a script for muscle relaxants and a painkiller, which I turned down because the twitching was neither often enough to warrant a muscle relaxant nor painful enough to warrant prescription drugs.
The twitch has evolved, must likely because of the expansion in the rib cage, into a constant, burning spasm that has driven my already depressed self into even more despair. Forgoing the bra is not an option (and didn't work). Wireless does not work. And sleeping in any other position other than on my back (which I'm not supposed to do) makes the pain worse, especially when I roll over and am awakened from a dead sleep by the searing burning sensation.
Other things that have not helped in recent weeks – the constant gloom and doom of my mother, who can not help herself from uttering at least once during every conversation that I might end up having a cesarean section. As if I exist on planet la-la land, where pregnancy complications never happen and every birth is done vaginally, without painkillers and produces powerful orgasms that instantaneously wipe out the memory of the pain of labor.
The edema is not encouraging either. I was prepared for foot and ankle swelling. I went out and purchased two pairs of shoes, a pair of Sanita clogs in blue faux snakeskin and a pair of Wolky Stage wedges in red patent leather, because I knew I would need room in my shoes for my feet. The shoes were embarrassingly and almost prohibitively expensive, a sum of money that I should be saving instead of dropping on shoes.
But the shoes work. They work so well that I don't notice when my feet are swelling until after I have removed the shoes and seen my toes nearly disappear into each other. The first time this happened was Friday night. My shrieks of horror provoked first concern, then annoyance in J, who offered the following solution to my problem: “don't look at them”.
There has been some hilarity. Men especially seem to like the clogs and I've collected quite a few compliments on their style in the week I have been wearing them. The highlight of this past week was the clerk at a local used media store, with whom I shared the following exchange:
Clerk: Nice shoes. Great color.
Me: Thanks. I'm not going to be able to see my feet in another month, so I decided to go with something a little bit obnoxious.
Clerk: (long pause) Won't be able to see your feet?
Me: I'm pregnant.
Clerk: (with relief) Oh. I thought you were going to have them amputated or something. Is that real snakeskin?
It is a better story in the telling then in print...
*This is probably an example of the type of testing overkill the right claims is driving up insurance costs. The doctor who ordered the tests was a personal friend of my both parents, had worked with both of them for years and was an excellent and instinctive diagnostician who knew in the office that I probably had asthma. Nonetheless he was not going to be on the hook to explain to my parents why he missed a potentially fatal heart defect.
Many years ago I developed this weird little twitch in one of the muscles over the ribcage on my left side. It was not painful, just an annoyance that would routinely catch me off guard as I went about my day. As the twitch developed during the same time frame as my asthma, my doctor ordered an echo cardiogram along with several standard diagnostic tests for asthma, to rule out any issues with my heart.*
No heart issues. Just a twitch from the electrical impulses in the muscles going haywire. He offered to write a script for muscle relaxants and a painkiller, which I turned down because the twitching was neither often enough to warrant a muscle relaxant nor painful enough to warrant prescription drugs.
The twitch has evolved, must likely because of the expansion in the rib cage, into a constant, burning spasm that has driven my already depressed self into even more despair. Forgoing the bra is not an option (and didn't work). Wireless does not work. And sleeping in any other position other than on my back (which I'm not supposed to do) makes the pain worse, especially when I roll over and am awakened from a dead sleep by the searing burning sensation.
Other things that have not helped in recent weeks – the constant gloom and doom of my mother, who can not help herself from uttering at least once during every conversation that I might end up having a cesarean section. As if I exist on planet la-la land, where pregnancy complications never happen and every birth is done vaginally, without painkillers and produces powerful orgasms that instantaneously wipe out the memory of the pain of labor.
The edema is not encouraging either. I was prepared for foot and ankle swelling. I went out and purchased two pairs of shoes, a pair of Sanita clogs in blue faux snakeskin and a pair of Wolky Stage wedges in red patent leather, because I knew I would need room in my shoes for my feet. The shoes were embarrassingly and almost prohibitively expensive, a sum of money that I should be saving instead of dropping on shoes.
But the shoes work. They work so well that I don't notice when my feet are swelling until after I have removed the shoes and seen my toes nearly disappear into each other. The first time this happened was Friday night. My shrieks of horror provoked first concern, then annoyance in J, who offered the following solution to my problem: “don't look at them”.
There has been some hilarity. Men especially seem to like the clogs and I've collected quite a few compliments on their style in the week I have been wearing them. The highlight of this past week was the clerk at a local used media store, with whom I shared the following exchange:
Clerk: Nice shoes. Great color.
Me: Thanks. I'm not going to be able to see my feet in another month, so I decided to go with something a little bit obnoxious.
Clerk: (long pause) Won't be able to see your feet?
Me: I'm pregnant.
Clerk: (with relief) Oh. I thought you were going to have them amputated or something. Is that real snakeskin?
It is a better story in the telling then in print...
*This is probably an example of the type of testing overkill the right claims is driving up insurance costs. The doctor who ordered the tests was a personal friend of my both parents, had worked with both of them for years and was an excellent and instinctive diagnostician who knew in the office that I probably had asthma. Nonetheless he was not going to be on the hook to explain to my parents why he missed a potentially fatal heart defect.
Saturday, October 03, 2009
Raise the Banner
J and I went to the Penguins season opener, one of only six games we will be attending this year. The Penguins like to add some ceremony to their season opener, which means video of the greatest plays from the previous season, smoke machines and formal introductions of the owners, executives, coaching staff and players.
This year the ceremonies took a little bit longer than usual, with an extended video narrated by Dennis Miller, the display of a really shiny trophy at center ice and the raising of some sort of banner. And fireworks.
I wanted to write a long post, rhapsodizing about what it means to be the fan of a championship sports team, especially a hockey team. About how accessible the Stanley Cup is to fans and how much effort teams put into making the fans feel like part of the fun.
But I decided to skip all that. Instead, I shall say - it was electric.
This year the ceremonies took a little bit longer than usual, with an extended video narrated by Dennis Miller, the display of a really shiny trophy at center ice and the raising of some sort of banner. And fireworks.
I wanted to write a long post, rhapsodizing about what it means to be the fan of a championship sports team, especially a hockey team. About how accessible the Stanley Cup is to fans and how much effort teams put into making the fans feel like part of the fun.
But I decided to skip all that. Instead, I shall say - it was electric.
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