Thursday, February 13, 2014

Third-trimester nausea: total scam

This last Monday, I missed birthing class to stay home and vomit.  Heather frowned on the choice, but I’d thrown up twice during Sunday’s make-up class and innumerable times throughout the day Monday, so I told her to screw off and go to class alone.

(Note: that’s just big talk.  I apologized profusely for abandoning her and suggested that she claim she had to be home with her poor, pregnant wife.  Bravely, she declined my suggestion, sitting through class and contraction practices alone, but it isn’t like I didn’t get sh*t for it.)

Third-Trimester Nutrition: Fail
I have the sense to know what I’m supposed to be eating to feed my growing fetus.  Lots of protein, says Midwife Amy, plus all the bright-colored produce.  It just doesn’t happen.  Whatever this morning sickness is, nothing that even approaches healthy food stays down.  A nice whole-wheat bagel and Greek yogurt?  Nope.  The yogurt (part of my protein plan) seems to be particularly repugnant to little Evie.  Probiotics! I say to her, and she’ll have none of it.  A blueberry doughnut, though?  Absolutely.

Coddling: Fail?
Heather remains disbelieving and disapproving of the foods that stick, which are almost invariably unhealthy.  I told her that I couldn’t be responsible for what her daughter rejected from the womb, and she said that I should learn to just swallow my vomit if it contained fruit or vegetables.  I was pleased to reply yesterday, after the topic and the yogurt came up, that I was at the seven-month mark, and she was now obligated to commence full-time coddling.  Bam.

Now, Heather is a fine person, and she’s a fine Valentine’s gift-giver.  She got me cupcakes and a pre-natal massage to go with my flowers.  You can’t do better than that.  However, coddling is not her strong suit.  She admits it, so hopefully I won’t get scolded for saying that.  It takes more patience than she has on call, and to be honest I’m conflicted over what to expect.  Is it a diva move to ask her if she’d help me put on my socks in the morning?  Maybe that’s too much to ask—mornings aren’t her strong suit, either—but I’ve gotten two good foot-rubs out of the deal so far…

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

Burrowing squirrels

Once upon a time, in eighth-grade Latin class, our teacher, Mrs. Looney (real name), was trying to tell us about the hardiness of the Spartans.  This was before we had Gerard Butler’s abs to do it for us.  She told us a story about some kid who, on his way to school, encountered a squirrel.  He started to play with it (which is maybe something squirrels tolerated in Spartan times), then realized he was running late.  The solution, of course, was for him to put the squirrel in the pocket of his smock/poncho/toga and continue on. 

I don’t know if the dude’s pockets had zippers or what, but apparently the squirrel was trapped and began to panic during the school day.  The kid sensed the animal’s panic, but didn’t want to interrupt class, so he just sat there, pretending nothing was happening.  If things weren’t dubious enough already, Mrs. Looney’s tale wound up with the squirrel eating through the poncho and then into the boy’s stomach, ultimately killing him.

The reason I mention this—aside from a sincere desire to share historical trivia with you—is that I now think of that squirrel every time the baby moves.  I imagine that there is a panicked squirrel kicking my ribs, or nosing my belly button, and that somehow he has been trapped there for seven months, growing ever more impatient.  Maybe when the time comes, it won’t be a dark-haired little girl but a wet, frazzled squirrel who emerges into the birthing tub.  I will earn millions selling my story (and video), and fundamentalists across the globe will declare it yet another sign that lesbians should not have children.

Tuesday, February 11, 2014

Prepping for birth: labor positions and baby positions

Pelvic-rock position, or, baby in a belly hammock
In last Monday's child-birthing class, we experimented with labor positions by visiting spots around the room with taped-up diagrams and attendant equipment.  In the side-lying station, we used doubled-up yoga mats and an array of pillows, while we used a scarf in the belly-lift area to see how it felt when my "labor coach" hoisted my bump towards the ceiling during a pretend contraction.  Turns out, not all that different-- but, then, these contractions are simulated by holding a bag of ice in your hand, and my reading suggests that labor might actually be more uncomfortable than that.