You're Still Here? Well then ...

Feel free to join in on Rain's first year of life, and possibly the last of mine:
http://diaperwrath.blogspot.com/

The End

To all those who have kindly (or was it the curiosity of watching a car wreck?) read this blog and kept up with Rain Annalise's (formerly Baby Dowdel's) entry into the world, thank you. I hope I haven't frightened away anyone considering becoming a parent, because hey, at least we can all be crazy together. For those of you who are already parents: you are the unsung heroes of the world. May God bless you and keep you from losing your minds! To Tim: What an adventure, no? You put up with far too much, but I wouldn't have it any other way (*wink*).

And, finally, to Rain:
After I went to my doctor to find out if I was pregnant (at least, that's what I thought I was doing), I was shaking. I was excited and surprised, because somehow I knew you were there. I sat in a small restaurant and ate alone. I knew, I knew, I knew, but still I thought, "I'm not pregnant. God knows I'd be a terrible mother, so He won't put some poor kid in my care." But, I knew. I also knew I wouldn't tell anyone, not even your daddy, because you were a whisper, a secret in my heart. There are many things I will explain to you later about why I thought I'd be a terrible mom, but someday you'll be old enough to read and understand this: one day, before anyone knew you were here, before I ever had a chance to be your mom, before we ever shared a good or bad day together, you and I were alone in a restaurant sharing a secret, and I was in love for the second time in my life.

The Beginning

The rolled her into the room on top of a simple cart. A package of diapers, a package of wipes, a few blankets, an eye dropper, alcohol pads, and a nasal aspirator--that's all she came with.

With unending shock, I realized that the rest of her needs, from food to love, would be up to Tim & I.

TVLG (Part 3.7): Loose Ends

Lying alone in my bed after the delivery, it was almost like nothing had happened. The lights were dimmed and everything was quiet. The only evidences of the delivery were an IV and my shaking legs, an effect of the epidural. The baby was in another wing, though it was hard to believe she was really there. Just like my first sonogram, I knew the baby was real (the picture was hard to deny), but my reality would not accept that changes were imminent.

When Tim finally returned, I said, "Can you believe we had a baby?" Nope, he couldn't either. The doctor (or was it the nurse? I was still under the influence, mind you) came in to ask if we'd like the baby to have her first of two Hepatitis B shots here in the hospital.

My reality ran away screaming, "Changes are here--run! Every self-centered creature for herself!" I thought, "I don't even know what Hepatitis is! How should I know if a baby needs a Hepatitis B shot or not? Why don't you just ask her paren--oh." All I could say was, "What do most people do?" Right then I knew the baby was better off staying with the nursing staff for the next 18 years than coming home with me.

After an hour, they moved us to a new room. A damage control nurse came in to tell me what parts of me would be unrecognizable for a time, what parts would never be the same, and what parts could go either way. She left, Tim fell asleep, and again I was alone with my thoughts. I wondered if the baby was scared. She was in a new world with strangers--did she wonder what happened to me? Did she care?

I fell asleep without even trying. I woke up, eyes wide. It had been five hours since we'd seen the baby. It was time for a face-to-face meeting.

TVLG (Part3.6): Loose Ends

Love at first sight. That's what some moms feel when they see their new babies. My mom said she felt an instant love for each of her children the moment the nurses handed one of us over. My mom is a great mom. She's the kind of woman who says at any family meal or holiday, "This is what makes me happiest: all my children together." My mom, and mothers like her, are Hallmark cards waiting to happen. Mothers like this probably wanted to be mothers since they were children, so in a way, motherhood is like a life-long dream come true.

When my baby was born, they held her up for me to see. My reaction was less than motherly. I mean, they hold up this bloody, blue (no oxygen to make her pink yet), writhing, slimy, dark being and say, "What do you think?" What do I think? It looks like I had an affair with Jabba the Hut! Not only did the baby (it was a baby, right?) not look like Tim or me, she (it was a she, right?) didn't look like anyone I knew!

To be completely honest--and I realize I'm loosing my chance at Mother of the Year for this, I was disappointed. In my pathetic defense, I was exhausted, hungry (I wasn't allowed to eat all day), sleepy, and drugged. On top of that, they were busy sewing me up (see? I left out some scary details as to not overly terrify MTBs). The kid was out and apparently healthy, and that's all I cared about. I could learn to love a baby Hut, couldn't I? The nurses took her away and cleaned her while I stared at Tim. I was shocked more than anything, and Tim looked surprised, too. We had a baby now, for crying out loud. A baby!

A minute later, they brought the baby to me. She was all cleaned up and in a soft blanket. She actually looked like a baby, and not only that, she was a pretty baby. As I joked with Tim later, "They can go ahead and keep the other baby that came out, and I'll keep this one." They quickly took her away again to be tested and observed for several hours in the nursery, due to some of the labor complications. She was gone. The room cleared, and Tim went to show the baby to my family on the way to the nursery.

I was alone in the room. It was only me & my thoughts ... and it didn't take long for one or the other to become troubled.

TVLG (Part 3.5): Loose Ends

Jeff Foxworthy did a funny routine about parenting a few years ago. One joke he told, I didn't truly appreciate until the day of my delivery. He asked the audience why anyone would want to film a delivery when it looks like "a wet St. Bernard trying to get in through the cat door."

Yes, it does. When I woke up from my nap, I knew it was time. I felt the baby sort of hanging low on me, and I didn't need the doctor to tell me to get ready to push. I told the nurse, she checked me, and it was on. They moved around equipment, turned on lights, and a few new faces appeared. I told my mom to leave for her own good, but she wanted to help. So, Tim posted himself on one side of the bed, my mom posted herself on the other, and we got down to business.

Delivering a baby feels exactly like, well, pooping. The difference is, you push through pain as a fan club watches. Every time a contraction would come, the head nurse would count to ten as I pushed with all I had. We did two more sets, rested, and waited for the next contraction to start all over again. We tried several positions to make the most of the contractions, but the most effective one was a shameless number I'll call "The Frog," but I digress.

After an hour and a half or so, the doctor came in. She told me that if the baby wasn't out in another hour, we'd have to consider--wait for it--options. I'm sorry, madam, but after all the pushing I did? No, there will be no options here. We're pushing this kid out!

"Would you like to see a mirror?" the doctor asked. "We find it helps a lot of moms to push harder."

I sat there, frowning. "OK, but if it grosses me out, will you put it away?"

They put a standing mirror near the foot of my bed, and three things happened.
1. I was shocked, because I didn't recognize myself. What was all that??
2. I was disheartened, because the outline of the head they were showing me couldn't fit through a doorway, let alone my body.
3. My competitive nature kicked in, and I actually pushed harder.

Before I knew it, "Keep going!" and "You're almost there!" filled the room. When even Tim cheered (and he's not the cheering type), "You have it! Keep going," I knew I was a breath away from finishing. At 2:05 a.m., just in time for her due date, the baby did it.

Release. That's all I felt. It was like birthing a big, squirmy squid. There was cheering, and someone asked, "Can you see her?"

"No," I gasped. Someone held her up, and they laughed. The baby had one look on her face that everyone agreed said, "WHO AUTHORIZED THAT?"

She's going to be like me then, I thought. Yikes.

The Very Long Goodbye (Part 3.4): Loose Ends

Today marks my 95th (can you believe it??) entry on this blog. Entry 100 will be my last, so have no fear, the long goodbye will eventually be a goodbye. Now, onto the show ...

While my regular doctor was off buying eggs to make potato salad for his Memorial Day barbecue, my new doctor was popping in and out of my room to check my progress. This wasn't hard to do, seeing as how I had gotten to 7 cm dilation and stalled. Faced with the image of my baby doing the breaststroke in her own pooh, I opted for the epidural, figuring I'd have the energy to finish dilating and push.

Besdies, I had a pleasant bias towards anesthesiologists since my sister and others had told me how wonderful they and their bags of magic tricks were. I pictured a jovial man with a steady hand and James Earl Jones-ish voice coming to rescue me. The man who briskly walked into the room a half hour later was just like James Earl Jones--when he was Darth Vader. His greeting to me was a sigh, a frown, and an, "Everyone clear the room but him [meaning Tim]."

Why he couldn't have just turned to my mother (the only other person in the room) and said, "I'm sorry, ma'am, you'll have to leave for a few minutes now," I don't know. I knew at that moment that the guy wanted to get in and out of the room as fast as possible, and if that meant I'd have to experience extra pain in the process, oh well. Later, I found out he was late for his shift and was irate, but that information neither then or now means much to me. There's no excuse for being a jerk.

Anyway, he told me to sit on the edge of the bed, hunch over, and drop my shoulders. A contraction hit right then, but he wouldn't let Tim come near me to help, though we hadn't started the epidural at all. All he said was, "Don't move!" and continued prepping my back for the needle. Even the nurse who was with him had the sense to know he was being unnecessarily rude. She kept trying to encourage me and soften the commands he gave, but it was clear he was out of line.

He said "Pinch!" as he poked me with needles (though he never said, "When I say, 'pinch,' that means I'm going to give you a shot"), so the nurse tried to preempt him by warning me gently each time. He kept bending my back forward until I finally gasped, "I can't breathe!" Another contraction hit, followed by a "Don't move!" I thought to myself that it would have been better to have struggled without the epidural. He stuck the needle in, and for the first time during the entire labor I said, "It hurts!" Something felt very wrong. I must've been right, because Mr. Needles said, "That's not going to work. I don't like that." He pulled the needle out to START OVER. I wanted to cry. He did it again, and asked, "Do you feel anything?" I whimpered, "Yes." That wasn't the right answer. He let out a testy sigh, and the nurse helped me onto my back again. After a minute, he said, "Are you having any contractions?"

"Why don't you check the monitor, idiot?" I wanted to say. Instead, I said the truth: "I don't feel any."

"See?" he said, to the nurse, "She doesn't even know if she's having them." With that smug comment, he packed up his gear and left. I determined that even if my back broke in half from the pain, I wouldn't admit it for fear he'd come back.

After five minutes, the doctor came in to check on me. She said, "Take a nap. When you wake up, there will be work to do." A nap? During labor? Sweet!

I rested for almost 45 minutes. When I woke up, I didn't have to be told that the baby was making her way to the Outs.

The Long Goodbye (Part 3.3): Loose Ends

Here's the thing about delivering a baby in a hospital: the staff already have in mind how they want your pregnancy to go. There is wiggle room (where people try their bests to accommodate your birthing plan), but not much. Because my water broke before my contractions started, the staff began to follow it's own timetable. But like I've said before, every pregnancy is different, and I wanted to do things at my own pace, not on someone else's timetable. As I neared deadlines along the timetable, ironically, I started to hear the word "options" a lot. "Options" actually translates to "we have no or few choices." For example, in the first hours of labor, I was dilating too slow by the timetable's standards, so the doctor said, "We're going to give you more Pitocin to get your contractions to be more effective--closer together and stronger. As we get closer to 18 hours, we're going to have to talk about options." Read: we'll do a C-section.

From the color of my amniotic fluid, the doctor could tell that the baby had pooped in utero. This, as you might have guessed, wasn't a good thing. Now the word "infection" starts creeping up, and they tell me some special staff will be in the room when the baby is born. I was nervous, because my whole natural-birth plan was seeming more and more unrealistic. The fact was, the longer I was in labor the longer the baby would be swimming in her own pooh. The bad thing was, as they're telling me all this, I was not in my right mind. Seriously. The pain of the contractions had become, how shall I say it, consuming.

If you are an MTB, are considering becoming pregnant, or are encouraging your wife to get to baby-making, go ahead and stop reading now. Live in Sweet Oblivion. The following blow-by-blow account of my delivery is coming, so make a U-turn for your own good.

I knew labor would be painful; everybody said so. But, I had no idea how the back-splitting pressure would make me lose reason. I couldn't do anything but be terrified, anticipating the next contraction. My baby was facing sideways and up for most of the labor, which is not the optimal position (facing down is). This caused lower back pain stronger than any puny cramps I'd ever had in my life. The people in the room became statues to me. They were present, but my mind and body were fighting a battle no one could help me with. I refused to cry out, though I probably should have. I tried birthing position after position to relieve the pressure, but nothing did more than distract me for a minute. I was biting on a wet rag, clawing at Tim's shirt. My mother, who I had told hours before to leave for her own sake, stood by my side. I could tell she wished she could take the pain away, and she gently suggested I take an epidural. But I was paranoid that it would affect the baby, even though I'd been assured it wouldn't. After 15 hours of labor, I had only dilated to 7cm. The contractions were mostly in my lower back, and I tensed every time one happened, trying to bear it. Unfortunately, because I became so rigid, the baby couldn't move down the birth canal. The nurses encouraged me to relax, but I couldn't. I was worn out, and worse, I kept imagining the baby sitting in filthy fluid.

That settled it. I asked for an epidural. I was disappointed, but I knew I was exhausted, and I hadn't even started pushing yet. Just the thought of the upcoming relief made me calm down.

People make epidurals sound like an angel's touch. If somebody had told me what was involved with getting one, I may have gone ahead and had my baby in my car ...

The Long Goodbye (Part 3.2): Loose Ends

When one graduates from college, has a birthday, or buys a new car, one expects a certain (humble) amount of fanfare from friends and family. When one rushes into the maternity floor of a hospital to, I don't know, CREATE A NEW LIFE, the fanfare amounts to, "May we please see your ID and insurance card? Thank you. If you would just fill out this short form ..." So on and so forth, until they direct you to your room. For Tim & I, it was pretty much like checking into the Holiday Inn. We got to our room (which, by the way, was the exact same room our instructor had shown us during our childbirth class--weird), and pretty much stared at each other after that. I hated to sound petty, but I kept thinking, "Isn't someone going to come check on us? I know it's Memorial Day weekend and all, but ..." Let it be known that the whole time I was still leaking fluid.

Note to American 15-year-olds who are playing with pregnancy: I leaked amniotic (look it up) fluid for 3/4 of my labor, and afterwards leaked KID. Be wise.

The nurse came in, had me change into a revealing number, and placed monitors on my belly: one for the baby's heartbeat and one for my contractions. Tim & I were alone for the next two hours (cut to scene: my mom at home shouting, "Hurry, Ralph! Feed the dog, and let's go!"), and though the contractions were uncomfortable, they were manageable in a quiet setting. MTBs, heed this sage advice: weeks before your delivery, inform your entire family about how many people (if any) you want in your delivery room and when. This isn't enough, either. You have to make it clear who you want in the room when you deliver, because if you don't, as you will soon see, you'll have a delivery room like mine: all I needed was a monkey to have the complete circus ...

Now, I had taken the liberty of posting on our family website the hospital's policy regarding visitors during labor. Nobody read it. So, before you know it, my brothers are in the room playing Scrabble, my brother-in-law is reading the newspaper, and everyone else is munching on doughnuts (by the way, at the time I was only allowed ice chips). I'm not kidding. I love them all, but as my contractions grew stronger, my patience for such shenanigans dried up. To be fair, if you're not the MTB or the breathing coach, labor is pretty boring, but that doesn't mean the future mommy is in any mood to play.

The last straw was when people started giving a play-by-play of my contractions monitor: "Here comes another one ... whoa ... that one's worse than the last one ... wow, they're getting closer together ..." I looked at Tim, and sent him this message via eye-piercing stare, "HONEY, don't you remember when I told you things like this would happen, and you would have to be Mr. Tough Guy? Don't you remember you've got to be hardcore now? Don't you??" Tim nodded (eye messages are efficient), and left the room. A minute later, a nurse came in and cleared the room, saying it was time for visitors to wait in the lobby. My amiable family left, and I sent Tim another eye-mail: "Nice technique. Passive-aggressive, yes, but effective ..."

Do not be fooled, though. This was not a decisive victory for Peace & Quiet, because two members of my family, which shall remain nameless, insisted on trying to gain entrance into the delivery room anyway to the point that one nurse asked with genuine concern, "Is (s)he OK?" By OK she meant "is (s)he one grape short of a fruit salad" not "does (s)he find this situation too stressful." Now, I realize that eagerness and genuine concern played into their motives, but for the love of all that's good, couldn't we have shown a bit more restraint that day, Family?

No. The answer is no. My sister, a true soldier, sat in the waiting room the entire time I was in labor. After spending the day with the more eager members of my family, here is a sampling of the conversations she said took place:

Eager Family Member #1: "If labor lasts more than 15 hours after a mother's water breaks, the baby will be mentally retarded."
EFM #2: "What?!? Does the doctor know that?"
EFM #1: "The doctor doesn't know what he's doing."
EFM #2: "Well, let's go tell him!"

*Sigh*

Meanwhile, back at the delivery room ...

The Long Goodbye (Part 3.1): Loose Ends

So.


Let us rewind to Friday, May 25th, shall we?

I went to my doctor's appointment as usual. I figured since the baby was due Sunday, May 27th, the visit would be my last. At the end of my checkup, however, the doctor said, "Well, it looks like it may be another week before this baby comes."

Drats! I really didn't want to spend another week bemoaning all the things that could go wrong (yes, I had been reading more literature on lost pregnancies and the like). After a minute, I consoled myself that now, at least, I'd have time to buy last-minute baby items. Plus, my parents wanted to attend my cousin's wedding (a 10-hr round-trip) on Saturday, but had debated going because of the baby. Now they could go without guilt.

That night, I went shopping which has a way of making me feel better. I walked around for quite a while in the baby section thinking about all of the preparations Tim & I had made. For crying out loud, we had a birthing plan. A birthing plan is basically a wish list of things parents can make for their doctors & nurses (ex: "Please do not offer pain medication unless specifically begged--er--asked for"). Apparently, only new moms/dads do this, because most experienced parents know that nothing is off the table when it comes to labor. In my mind, I had worked out what I hoped would happen: my contractions would start, I'd stay home to work through them, and at the last possible minute, head to the hospital. I wanted to be in a familiar area for as long as I could. My water would probably break at the hospital, like all of my mom's pregnancies had. My pregnancy books and magazines all said that the Hollywood version of labor (where a woman's water breaks and she calmly informs her husband that, "It's time") was unlikely, and in fact, some women have to have their amniotic sacs broken artificially at the hospital. Now I had another week to wonder where and when it would happen, and if I'd be alone when it did.

I didn't sleep well that night. I was uncomfortable, but that was nothing new. I felt unreasonably alert, and decided that when Tim woke up, I'd tell him I felt strange. At 6:40ish, I thought to myself how in an hour my parents would be picking up a rental car and heading out of town. I sat up.

*Gush*

People, I mean GUSH. Fluid started pouring everywhere, and all I could think to do was say, "Uh ... uh ... UH, UHH, UGHH!" I beat Tim with my hand and begged for towels. Though I knew what was happening, my mind sort of split in two. My logical half said, "Well, looks like the baby's coming." The unreasonable half thought, "Perhaps I've just wet myself. My, I hope Tim brings the blue towels, since those are a bit worn anyway ..." These two halves of my brain never reunited until two days later, but that's jumping ahead ...

Tim jumped out of bed, and in twenty minutes, we were on our way to the hospital. Hollywood, it turns out, wasn't too far from the truth (minus the dramatic music).

On the drive there, I asked Tim if he'd remembered to bring my pregnancy book. "No," he admitted sheepishly. What about the iPod, you know, for soothing music? No. The extra pillows? No. Anything on the list left on your desk for two weeks entitled, "Bring to the Hospital"? Nope.

I knew then we were looking at a long day.

Baby Dowdel

I want to thank everyone who has read along with this blog and supported us during these past several months and especially over the last four days. Our baby girl came into the world on Sunday, May 27th at 2:05 a.m. Rain Annalise was right on time for her due date and weighed 8 lbs., 15 oz. and was 20 in. long.

Liza will finish her goodbye soon.

Thanks again,
Tim

The Long Goodbye (Part 3): Loose Ends

I had preliminary pains for about 12 hours yesterday, so I must write quickly! Tim will post news of the baby when she(?) arrives, so if you'd like to know, check in later ("later" means tonight or in two weeks, whenever Baby Dowdel decides to make an entrance). Where shall I begin?

Physically: this past week has been plain uncomfortable, even for hardy Grandma Dowdel. I think I've managed (read: didn't cry over) the pain, but I've learned there's one thing that's tough to do without: sleep. I've been too uncomfortable to sleep well, and that brings out the demon in me faster than a camel can spit. I change positions every couple of hours, and I've run poor Tim into the ground. More on Tim later.

Emotionally: I've had a couple of tear fests, but nothing I'm horribly ashamed of. This morning's was a bit much, mainly because I was caught by surprise. I was reading the last few chapters of my parenting book (reviewing the signs of false labor), and I came upon a section about what to do if a baby dies in utero, during delivery, or shortly after. I immediately thought, "Now, there is NO reason for me to read this section. It will only upset me, and it serves me no purpose to continue." Two pages later, the tears were flowing and I could not stop myself from reading. I could not imagine the deep sorrow of coming home from the hospital to a nursery all ready for a baby and ... no baby. I mean, every toy, every blanket, the crib--everything has been carefully chosen by you or a loved one for your son or daughter, a piece of your thoughts went into every item, and yet--OK, OK, I'm stopping myself now. I should have done that earlier today. I felt so bad then that I couldn't even read the rest of the information, which was probably a good thing. Tim's going to end up taking all of my books and magazines away, I can tell.

Speaking of Tim: I'm going to go ahead and give a shout out to my husband. Throughout my pregnancy, and especially this past week, Tim has been textbook supportive. He always asks the question any MTB loves to hear: "What do you want?" He's Johnny-on-the spot taking care of heavy lifting, dishes, taking out the trash, etc. He's taken my sometimes unreasonable rantings with a she-didn't-really-mean-it attitude, and God bless you, Honey, 'cause I didn't! I'm sorry for the times I've been bad; I was under duress, I was raised by wolves, I forgot my meds, it was my twin sister--ya gotta believe me!

Freebies: OK, for those MTBs looking for useful things or those out there who are shopping for a baby shower gift, let me go ahead and give you my best list:
THE BEST PREGNANCY STUFF
1. Snoogle
This body pillow took a beating, and I love it more because of it. Unfortunately, I'll have to break the seam on it to shove more stuffing into it (Mr. Snoogle has a rough life), but it'll be worth it.
2. Bella Band
At $25 a pop, this band of elastic cloth seemed over-priced. Now I say, "Worth every penny!" It's super easy to use, saves you money (you don't have to buy as many pregnancy pants), and smooths out body shapes. Love it!
3. Parenting classes
Yes, I mocked them plenty of times, but the thing is, I learned a lot from them. People assume MTBs know how to breastfeed, give a baby a bath, and handle emergency care. Um, no.
4. What to Expect When You're Expecting
Whatever parenting book you chose, just get one. There will be times when you'll have a question you're too embarrassed (or forgetful) to ask your doctor. A quick reference will reassure you, so that you don't have to call your doctor after-hours for the ninth time.
5. Parents or Parenting Magazine
Caution: Subscribe to ONE or possibly TWO magazines, but no more! I made the mistake of ordering too many mags the minute I found out I was pregnant, and it became a beat-down trying to read them all.
6. Babycenter.com
This site has a lot of good info and whatnot, but the coolest thing is the weekly email. It sends you an illustration of how the child will grow in the next week and what changes you can most likely expect with your own body. This was a great way for Tim to keep up with what was going on, and I'll admit, I looked forward to that email every week (reminded me I was making progress).
7. Bra extenders
Seriously: what's the point of buying a bunch of over-sized bras that you'll only use for a few months? You might as well save the cash for nursing bras and camis later (which are also pricey, by the way), if you choose to breastfeed. Instead, buy some latch extenders at a fabric place ($2), and use the extra cash for a nice massage.
8. Beauty treatment
Doesn't matter which one you do (pedicure, manicure, pregnancy massage), at some point, do one. It's nice to be taken care of, especially during the final trimester.
9. Consumer Reports online subscription
Face it: when it comes to buying the safest, most cost-effective baby gear, few people besides Super Nanny can make the right choice. Get advice from other parents, but always remember that gadgets and safety knowledge change. I think most parents are better off getting unbiased opinions. Warning: baby stuff is often upgraded, so a product that got rave reviews a year ago may not be available today.
10. Clear, over the door, hanging shoe organizer
I read a great tip in a magazine that new moms should use a plastic shoe organizer as a simple way to see and access small baby items (socks, pacifiers, creams, teethers, etc.). I set one up, and I can already tell it's going to save me time and effort.

I received a bunch of other cool gifts for the baby, but I can't honestly say how much I'll use them because I obviously have no baby to test them on. So, the above list is mainly for mamas. Hope y'all find it useful.

Time to rest. Will chat more in a bit ("The Long Goodbye (Part 3): Loose Ends, Part 2").

P.S. Feel free to mention whatever products you think an MTB would love.

The Long Goodbye (Part 2): The Name Game

Finding a name for Baby Dowdel has taught me a few things about my husband and myself. First, it's accurate to say that we're both kind of slackers. We made no big t0-do about finding a name quickly, and we held on to the hope that somehow the name would fall from the sky. We decided early on (once we saw how bad we were at the naming thing) that Tim would come up with a name if we had a girl, and I would chose a name it we had a boy.

Of course, because two of the sonograms were so unclear about the sex of the baby, our plan didn't make much difference. We asked for suggestions on this blog, and we got some good ones (we did select one as a middle name, by the way). All I wanted was a name that wasn't overly trendy, difficult to spell, or clearly belonged to a stripper. Tim just wanted a name.

I began writing down names that I'd always admired, particularly from literature. Unfortunately, this meant most of the male names I came up with were, outside of Elizabethan England, a bit girly. To add to the dilemma, coming up with a meaningful name nowadays is almost pointless, since most people could care less what a name means; they're more interested in how it sounds. Bummer.

Now that we have a name (which Tim is guarding with his life), here are the modest pieces of advice I can offer for those of you faced with a similar task (even if you're naming a new pup):
1. Keep the name to yourself until it's in print. Someone will definitely hate the name enough to tell you so, so you might as well keep it a secret until the damage is permanent.
2. Avoid trendy names, or at least give the kid a semi-traditional middle name. This way when he applies for a job later, he won't have to have "Cosmo" on his application if he doesn't want to.
3. Ignore baby-naming books. Just pick words or names that you like or mean something to you. Staring at a list of names, at least for me, made things harder (too many good choices on the menu, you know?).

According to the last sonogram, we're having a girl. Yet, in the back of my mind, I've toyed with a boy's name as well. I'll tell you why, and then you can tell me I'm making too much of this:

The entire time I've been pregnant, people have freely told me what they believed the sex of the baby was. The interesting thing is, the people who have told me consistently, without hesitation, that I'm having a boy fall into a strange category. I guess I'd call them the Innocents.

For example, when no one was there to influence her answer, I asked my 3-year-old niece if she thought I was having a boy or girl. She instantly answered, "Boy," and continued playing with a toy. Weeks later, I asked a five-year-old at my church the same thing. He gave the same answer with the same factual tone that my niece did. The most spiritual women I know, my grandmother and mother, both contended from the beginning that I would have a boy.

The other day, I was studying at a local coffee shop. A man sitting next to me asked what I was studying. This began a twenty or thirty-minute conversation about everything from college to travel and religion. He was such a nice man and very open and earnest. He talked passionately about children and education, and at one point, with palatable regret, he told me he wished he hadn't let college tear apart his love for books (his major was English). From any other stranger, I would've written off his emotion as insincere, but his eyes were all truth. He was the most open person I've met in a while, and he had this sort of innocence about him. As I was leaving, he wished me well, and for no reason at all, he said, "I think you're having a boy," then bashfully added, "but it could be a girl."

I left with this thought: sure, it's possible I could have a boy. But, there is an alternative. The very first time my doctor heard the baby's heartbeat, he said, "That's a boy." Even after the second sonogram, where it seemed more likely that I would have a girl, when my doctor heard the heartbeat again, he said, "So we decided you were having a girl, huh?" He seemed unsure. Now I think this: Baby Dowdel will be special. Every baby is special, but Baby Dowdel will be puzzling, I guess. She may be a girl physically, but her heart may be different than what most people stereotype as feminine. Perhaps she will be very brave, a straight-shooter, or someone quick to defend the defenseless. Sure, she may be stubborn or even reckless, but she could also be a leader, the kind of person you want to believe in. If Baby Dowdel turns out to be male, well then, I guess he has the last laugh.

So, what name did we decide on? Here are the hints Tim will let me part with:
1. The baby's initials pay homage to one of Tim's loves: computers.
2. People always ask us, "Is the name found in the Bible?" The answer is yes, but beware of assumptions.
3. The name has been said by everyone in America, and more than once.

Bonus: I dropped a hint in today's blog entry.

Have I told anyone the name, though Tim has guarded it well? Yes. I was babysitting a girl recently who I've known since she was a baby. She is five now. She looked at me and said, "You have a baby in there?" and pointed to my belly. I said, "Yes." She asked if it was a boy or girl. I said, "Probably a girl." She asked what the baby's name was. She looked so honest and innocent, so I told her. She nodded, and that was that.

The Long Goodbye (Part 1)

Today I had a doctor's appointment. The nurse scheduled me for one next Friday as well, though we both know the baby may be here by then. This reminded me of something I've been mulling over the last two weeks.

I began this blog about 5 months ago at the suggestion of a friend. I agreed because I thought it was a reasonable way to let family and friends know how the pregnancy was going, if they cared to know (sending daily emails with the subject line, "Read this NOW! Precious baby info inside!" was Plan B).

What has surprised me most is that some people actually care enough to read this. Don't get me wrong, I know lots of good people, but still, I thought, "People have babies all the time. Why would anyone want to read about one baby's journey to the Outside?" I figured I'd print out the entire thing, and someday, when Baby Dowdel is old enough, tell her what becoming a mom was really like for me. That way, I don't gloss over the hard times or forget the good ones.

Now that I know that several people (yes, I do read all comments), even some outside of my family, have been gracious enough to listen to my raves and rants, I feel like I owe you all a decent farewell. This blog was dedicated to pregnancy, and that it shall be. But before I go, I'd like to say goodbye in three parts, beginning today. I will be as honest as I can, so today I offer "Part 1: What I've Learned."

Sure, at this point I could make a bulleted list, but let's make this more spicy, shall we? Take this short quiz, and we'll tally up the points at the end.

True or False?
1. Women are pregnant for 9 months, which equals 36 weeks.
2. Babies begin sleeping "through the night" (you know, 8 hours or so) around 2-3 months of age.
3. 80% of parents install car seats incorrectly.
4. One perk of the pregnancy period is that women do not have to purchase sanitary napkins anymore.
5. Because baby stores are specialized and have years of experience, they are the best places to find out what's safest to give to your baby.
6. Never microwave milk in a bottle.
7. Don't take bottles out of the grasp of babies who fall asleep with them.
8. You can tell by the way a woman carries her baby (if the belly is low or high) if she's having a boy or girl.
9. Prenatal care is critical for healthy children; that's why everyone has access to the best.
10. The last few weeks of pregnancy are filled with excitement for moms; watch them glow!

I could go on with all the things I've learned, but I digress. So, how do you think you did? Let's find out: NOT ALL OF THE FOLLOWING COMMENTS ARE ENDORSED BY THE PEDIATRIC COMMUNITY. THEY ARE MOSTLY THE RESULTS OF DIRECT OBSERVATION, WHICH AT TIMES, MAY HAVE BEEN SEVERELY HAMPERED DUE TO LACK OF SLEEP. ALL JUDGMENTS ARE FINAL.

1. False. Women are pregnant for 40 weeks, if not longer. The 9-month ruse is a way to convince women to make babies, similar to the way paying for a shirt that's $19.99 sounds better than one for $20.
2. False. Most babies won't sleep through the night (by my definition, 8 uninterrupted hours) until they're 6 months to a year old (or older!). At 2 months, babies may "sleep through the night," if you define a night as 5 hours long.
3. True, so suck it up and get professional help.
4. False. I could delve into the unsightly details, but why? I need other women to get pregnant under false pretenses like I did; it's only fair.
5. False. "B" isn't for baby, it's for "Business." That's what these companies are interested in, so remember that as you and your significant other tour nursery displays. If you want to shop safe, check with a consumer organization and other parents.
6. True. Though I've seen this done all the time, experts say it's a no-no. Microwaves cook unevenly, which means you can burn your kid with a hot spot you didn't know was there.
7. False. Not only is this a choking hazard, dentists hate the fact that milk or sugary juices sit in kids' mouths for hours. This creates a breeding ground for germs and cavities.
8. False. Nobody, and I mean nobody has shown me any accuracy with this or any other method. All women and babies are different, and you're lucky if your doctor gets the sex of the baby right!
9. False. This is kind of a downer, but I've noticed it throughout my pregnancy. Because of my husband's medical insurance, I've had access to great prenatal vitamins, monthly and now weekly prenatal visits, and childcare classes. Because of friends and family, we have new clothes and toys for the baby, gizmos to make parenting a little easier, and a great support system. Every now and then, though, I remember that a lot of women, most women in fact, don't have half of these things. Around the world and in America, women either don't get decent prenatal care at all or get whatever they can squeeze from their medical insurance companies. I feel the most pity for women who work hard (as well as their spouses) but still don't make enough to pay for healthcare (and make too much to receive it for free!). Prenatal care is such a basic need; you would think both Democrats and Republicans would've figured out a way to give it gratis to everyone years ago.
10. False. Remember, kids: every woman is different. I get the, "You must be so excited!" line all the time. The truth is, I'm numb. I'm probably excited, scared, nervous, impatient, happy--a lot of things. Because I am, I've gone to a numb sort of state, where I can't pick out any one feeling to focus on. I felt the exact same way the weeks leading up to my wedding. It was not until the honeymoon that I was able to feel peaceful, happy, or anything at all. To that point, I was just overwhelmed. Hard to explain, but it's the truth.

See you tomorrow for, "Part 2: The Name Game."

The 8th Sense

One of my greatest fears about being a mother is this: that the kid will get injured on my watch. I know, I know: all kids get hurt from time to time, even when parents are freakishly cautious. But, I would so rather it happen (since it's going to, anyway) on Tim's watch. Selfish? Yes. Ashamed? No!

So, a few weeks ago, I was at my mother's house visiting. My brother, his wife, and his son Isaiah (in October, he'll be 2) were also there. My nephew happily swept the carpets while I chatted with my brother (he likes brooms, for whatever reason). After a while, my nephew moved into the kitchen to spruce up the floors in there, as well. I could still see him from my position in the living room, so I wasn't worried. Besides, my brother and his wife had already put child-safety covers on all the electrical outlets and given my mother cabinet locks to install.

After a few minutes, though, I said, "I can't see Isaiah from here anymore."

My brother responded, "Don't worry about it. He's probably sweeping in the laundry room."

After a second's thought, I said, "Yeah, maybe. I'm just saying I can't see him anymore, so don't blame me if something happens to that kid."

My brother laughed, saying I was overly paranoid (which I am). He said words which now for him and I are immortal: "Isaiah's fine. I HAVE AN EIGHTH SENSE ABOUT THESE THINGS."

"OK," I said. My sister-in-law, I think, became uncomfortable with this assessment, so she took a step towards the kitchen. My brother didn't want her to get up (she was 9 months pregnant at the time), so he reluctantly went to the kitchen himself.

As soon as he walked in, I heard him say, "Oh." He followed it with a sort-of, "Uh." From his tone, I knew Isaiah wasn't just sweeping the floor anymore. "Can you come here for a minute?" my brother called to his wife. I told her not to get up (she was ordered to bed rest by her doctor, too, by the way), and I asked Tim to go instead.

Tim went, and I heard him say, "Ohhhh." Tim's not the dramatic sort, so to hear him sound puzzled was discomforting. As I came to find out, there was Isaiah on the floor, looking like the poster child for Poison Control. He was sitting in a pool of blue glass cleaner, with an almost-empty bottle nearby. When I walked in, my brother was already wiping him off while Tim searched for the number to Poison Control. I opened Isaiah's mouth and smelled for signs of ingestion. I remembered that my brother had commented a few days before that Isaiah hardly ever put anything into his mouth besides food; for some reason, he seemed to be able to tell the difference between food and non-food items. I hoped my brother was right. Isaiah was smiling and clearly happy with the attention. We changed his clothes, and while Tim conferred with a poison specialist, we asked the obvious question, "How did this happen?"

Turns out my mom needed a drill to install the cabinet locks and had been meaning to ask one of us to put them in for her. She put them in a drawer somewhere, and couldn't remember where she put them. In her defense, she had some medical problems at the time and had simply forgotten to take care of it. In her guilt, she searched the house top to bottom for the locks while we treated Isaiah, though I'm not sure how that helped at the time (sort of like buying a home security system the day after you've been robbed). She felt terrible, but so did the rest of us for being lax.

The good news is that Isaiah is fine. He never drank any of it. He just wanted to splash around in it, I suppose. The better news is that we all learned a little about trusting our "eighth sense." Enough time has passed now that I can tease my brother about his now-famous quote, but in the back of my mind, I wonder if I'll do the same sort of thing ...

Twelve Days of Delivery

I have twelve days left until my delivery date ... (*ahem*) ...

Twelve Days of Delivery

On the first day 'til delivery,
Pregnancy gave to me:
A tight pain in my belly!

On the second day 'til delivery,
Pregnancy gave to me:
Two more doctor's visits ...
And a tight pain in my belly!

On the third day 'til delivery,
Pregnancy gave to me:
Three-hour sleep cycles ...
And a tight pain in my belly!

On the fourth day 'til delivery,
Pregnancy gave to me:
Four pants that still fit ...
And a tight pain in my belly!

On the fifth day 'til delivery,
Pregnancy gave to me:
Five more (MORE!) pounds ...
And a tight pain in my belly!

On the sixth day 'til delivery,
Pregnancy gave to me:
Six random headaches ...
And a tight pain in my belly!

On the seventh day 'til delivery,
Pregnancy gave to me:
Seven times a day I'm hungry ...
And a tight pain in my belly!

On the eighth day 'til delivery,
Pregnancy gave to me:
Eight hundred things to do ("Where's the baby book??)
And a tight pain in my belly!

On the ninth day 'til delivery,
Pregnancy gave to me:
Nine months of choices to doubt ...
And a tight pain in my belly!

On the tenth day 'til delivery,
Pregnancy gave to me:
Ten daily trips to the bathroom ...
And a tight pain in my belly!

On the eleventh day 'til delivery,
Pregnancy gave to me:
Eleven bottles still left to sterilize ...
And a tight pain in my belly!

On the twelfth day 'til delivery,
Pregnancy gave to me:
Twelve days that could turn to twenty ...
And a tight pain in my belly!

Happy Mother's Day

Even mobsters pause to give moms their dues today, so I, too, say, "Happy Mother's Day!" May all good moms everywhere be showered with love and gifts from their families. May they have long lives and have at least one child that doesn't tarnish the family name! Flowers, candy, warm feelings all around, blah, blah, blah--back to me and mine.

So sorry! But, it's hard not to be a bit self-involved right now. Yesterday morning and late last night I had a session of contraction attacks. Kids, hold on to my hands, because scary things are afoot. Will update more in a bit, when my tummy stops tightening. Breathe, 1-2-3, breathe, 1-2-3 ...

Stretching My Limits

For my mother's birthday a few weeks ago, we thought it would be cute to send her a special e-card. The idea was that we would photograph each of her grandchildren (who all live in different parts of the country) holding up a part of a sign that read in whole, "Happy Birthday, Grandma! We'll Always Love You" (hey, Ma has a lot of grandchildren, OK?). We'd thought it would be funny if the next screen was just a picture of my bare pregnant belly with a sticky note on it that read, "Love, The Grandchildren." Well, my mom is a very traditional-type mama, so she was all in tears when she saw all her beloved grandchildren's photos together. She loved it (note: feel free to rip off this idea for your own ma; especially if you've been naughty this year).

I thought the whole project went nicely--until last Friday. My sister and her family came to visit, and I picked them up from the airport. After the initial hugs and whatnot, one of the first things she said to me was, "You know that card you sent Mom for her birthday? Well, where were your mommy marks?"

"What's a 'mommy mark'?" I said.

"A stretch mark. Where are the stretch marks on your belly? I didn't see any."

Honestly, this was the first time I had ever thought about stretch marks seriously. I had never seen a stretch mark (think about it: how often does that come up at a party?), so I hadn't bothered looking for them. Now, I was on high alert.

"Well, Mom doesn't have stretch marks, so who knows if I'll get them?" I said.

"Mom has stretch marks, and so do I. So does (our sister-in-law) and (our sister)."

What?! So the next time I was in front of a computer, we (by that point, I had alerted Tim to the situation) looked up images of stretch marks. I have no idea if the images were worst-case scenario-type images or average shots of stretch marks, but I was horrified. Even Tim looked a bit disconcerted (which is hard for him, since emotion isn't one of his favorite activities). All I could think was, "Is this genetic? Is it permanent? Do they hurt? Where's my tummy lotion!!"

I went home and lathered my belly with cream as Tim gently pointed out, "I think you're scaring yourself and are going to make them come because now you're focused on it."

Could I bring about my own demise from panic? But, how could I not panic when, according to the Internet, stretch marks can appear on thighs, bottoms, and breasts, too? Half of pregnant women get them, and genetics seem to play a part. So, I officially hit the PANIC button.

B-Day Before D-Day

Today be me birthday, mates! Arr! Don't know why special occassions make me want to talk like a pirate, but there you have it. What will Baby Dowdel and I do for out big day? The exact same thing we always do, but without guilt! I give myself permission to take a long nap, smack dab in the the middle of the day, without one, "I should really finish that load of laundry" or "I should get a head start on marinating the chicken." No, siree! I'm going to go take a shower right now and consider that my work for the day. I shall have a good day today, says I!

Pampers Someday, Pampering Today (Part 2)

If you've never had a facial (and you're a female), I recommend getting one before you do the whole pregnancy-thing. That way, nothing will weird you out. After my massage at the spa, I was directed to a "relaxing room" where I was to await my next consultant.

Because I hadn't eaten lunch (remember, I had to leave home in a hurry) and it was already 1:00, I was happy to find a basket of fruit & nut bars sitting on a side table. As soon as I grabbed one, a consultant called my name. She immediately had me get on a cushy table in another floral-fragrant room. She covered my eyes with some cooling eye-mask thing, and turned on a bright lamp. She inspected my face. I mean, she checked out every pore. With the direct light and all, it reminded me of going to the dentist. I felt like I should offer apologies, too. Maybe, "Sorry, I've never had a facial" or "Is the moisturizer I'm using any good? I should be paying more for one, shouldn't I?"?

For the next half hour, she scrubbed, rubbed, massaged, and moisturized my head/neck. At every step, I kept thinking that she couldn't possibly add another layer, but she did. She spread something warm on my hands and lower arms, wrapped them in plastic, and put what felt like oven mitts on them. She said she would let me rest and then left the room. I tried to visualize what I must've looked like at this point. I had a towel wrapped around my hair, a mask covered my eyes, a layer of beauty-stuff coated my face, mitts hid my arms, and a sheet covered the rest of me--Tim could've tripped over me and still not known who I was.

Then there was the matter of the fruit & nut bar. I was starving, and all I could think about was the bar in my purse. Worse, I knew I was too coated in slick stuff to attempt to safely get up and grab the bar (plus, the mitts were electric and plugged into the wall). Even though Enya-type music played, it took ten minutes for me to stop scheming of ways to get the bar and relax. I waited. I think I was expected to fall asleep, but I was too paranoid to do that in a strange place (what if one of the candles tipped over? My oiled-up skin would light like a match!). When the lady finally returned, I was firmly between the real and dream worlds. May I have more of your heady rose water, please?

After some more floral water and my beloved fruit bar, I was led to the lunch area. I had a tasty chicken salad sandwich with cranberry juice, which brought me back to my senses. Soon a consultant came for me: manicure time.

I've never had a manicure, either. If you haven't figured it out by now, I'm not the girly-type. I'm a bit practical, so jewelry, having a plethora of shoes, and weekly manicures aren't really my thing. Don't get me wrong, I'm just as big on skin care products and quality lipstick as the next gal, but I don't do the whole beauty regimen thing.

The manicure went well. Sure, I eyed the poor woman like, "What are doing to my hands? Is this part necessary?" but overall, I felt it was a positive experience.

By the time Tim picked me up, I looked, smelled, and felt like a flower fairy. The spa still owes me a pedicure and makeup session, but we're scheduling that later. Like I said, I'm not big on the whole beauty regimen thing, but it's nice to have someone else fuss over you. I imagine after the baby is born, there will be days where I long for someone to pamper me. I'll remember the soothing massage and cooling eye pack, and what do you think I'm going to start asking for, my dear Tim?

Pampers Someday, Pampering Today (Part 1)

With all the physical changes, I've had my share of body image troubles these past few months. So, when my husband bought me a mother-to-be spa package for Christmas, I was a bit concerned. I gushed over his thoughtfulness (because it was very thoughtful), and I commented about how wonderful I'm sure it would be (the Elizabeth Arden spas have an excellent reputation). As I scanned the list of included services--pregnancy massage, manicure, pedicure, facial, makeup--I tried not to cringe. For those of you who remember my baby shower paranoia, it's easy to understand how the idea of strangers touching and focusing their attention on me would (what's the word?) FREAK me out. At the time, I told myself, "I've got five more months to go; that's plenty of time to get used to the idea."

From then on, once a month or so, Tim would politely ask, "So, when are you going to schedule your spa day?" My prepared answer each time was, "As soon as I take care of ____, I'm so on it. It's really important that I take care of _____ this weekend, but after _____, I'll schedule an appointment."

That worked until two weeks ago, when I finally had to make my appointment. Tim planned to drive me to the spa but ended up coming home too late to take me. The drive was about 45 minutes long, and ten minutes from my destination, I realized I had forgotten the gift certificate (no, I didn't do it on purpose!). I didn't want to turn around and go home, because the spa would've charged me a late fee. I called Tim about 5 times to beg him to pick up the certificate, but I couldn't get a hold of him. The spa decided to check me in anyways, because they said my certificate was probably still in the system. After a few minutes, Tim showed up (his phone needed to be recharged, so he couldn't call me earlier)and fixed the situation.

At this point, I figured I had all the signs I needed that I shouldn't have come to the spa. But, I thought about how much Tim wanted it for me, so I dutifully lay down for my massage. I've only had a massage 2 other times in my life: the day before my wedding and two days after a major car accident. Obviously, it takes a traumatic event before I'll consider letting a stranger touch me. Both of those massages resulted in total muscle relaxation, but the journey there was painful. I mean, I made ridiculous faces the whole time because it felt like they were pinching me. I know they had to "work out" knots in my back, but it made my eyes bulge to endure it.

The masseuse at the spa was soft-spoken, and with the candles and all, it felt more like I was going to get my palm read than my back worked on. She told me, "Today's massage is like a Swedish massage." I'd never had a Swedish massage, so I didn't know if she was warning me or trying to assure me. So, I gripped the pregnancy pillow and prepared for pain.

Pain never came. It was all feel-good touchiness. I was warm and happy. She kept layering on lotion and oil stuff, and I never protested. I even forgot about my belly being so huge. When the massage was over, I reluctantly got up. I was given a glass of water (with some kind of floral essence voodoo-thing mixed in) and sent to the next consultant. There was little I wouldn't have agreed to by then, I think. Which was good, because the next part of my treatment required a move up on the weird scale.

Girl Yes, Pink No

We had a doctor's appointment on Friday. Tim brought his video camera. He hoped we would have another sonogram, though they hadn't told me when my next (and final) one would be. When the nurse saw Tim all ready and expectant, she must have felt pity. She moved us to a room with a sonogram machine. I had an exam, and the results were:
- The baby looked healthy, thank God.
- The baby's weight was about 6 lbs, but there's more to come I'm sure ...
- We saw hair on the head!
- The baby's head is pointed downward (good news), but not quite facing the right direction yet (plenty of time for that, though).
- And finally ...

Baby Dowdel is a girl!

Safety First! Sanity Second! UPDATE

Today, my brother & I went to another Safe Kids event to have car seats installed. My sister is in California this month (she left her car with me), so I decided to take her car & car seat in to be inspected (my niece is three, so she's been using this seat for a while now). My brother, whose daughter was born yesterday, took his car in to be inspected as well. He has two children now, so he had two car seats.

My sister's car was inspected first. I'll cut to the chase: the car seat had been installed incorrectly. My brother-in-law is a smart guy (a bit geeky, but smart) and a good father, so I know he'll be highly offended to learn the seat wasn't secure. The police officer who installed the seat used all the belts I wouldn't have, so I can say I wouldn't have done much better than my brother-in-law. But the seat is in correctly now, and isn't that what matters? I get the feeling that won't soothe anyone's ego ...

As for my brother: to his credit, he had installed his son's car seat almost perfectly. The consultant adjusted it a bit, but my brother had done a pretty decent job. The consultant installed the infant car seat as well. After the consultant left, I said, "Did you learn anything new?"

"Well, yeah," my brother said, "but I think I could've done this by myself."

"Really?" I said. "So you think you wasted your time today?"

"No," he said. "It's good to be confident about it. At least now I don't have any doubts."

I reminded him of one thing, though. One day, when his son was old enough to be forward-facing in his car seat (which my brother had installed), we (my sister-in-law and my nephew) drove to a store. At one point, I turned around from my front passenger seat to offer my nephew a snack.

I said, "I think we should stop the car." My sister-in-law asked why.

"Um," I said, "go ahead and park, and I'll tell you." She parked and turned around in her seat.

There was her son, smiling and giggling--but in a car seat completely laying sidways on the back seat.

As I related the story to my brother, he laughed. But, he pointed out, he had learned from those mistakes and took steps to get it right. By letting someone help him install his daughter's seat today, I would say I agree with him.

Riding Around

Every MTB and every baby is different, so my experiences thus far may be completely different than moms before me and moms after. For me, pregnancy has been like riding one of those motorcycles that have a little seat attached to its side. I know at all times that another person is with me, though I haven't figured out who's driving. I'm not physically able to do some of the fancy tricks I did when I had a dirt bike, but the co-riding thing is OK, too.

There are times when the baby and I are alone, and I stare at my stomach. My eyebrows bunch together, because I still don't know what to make of her/him. I woke up the other day, looked around at all the new shelves, furniture, and baby blankets and thought, "I can NOT believe this is happening." I wasn't terrified or mad, just surprised. Tim says he remembers when, during the first two years we were married, I would suddenly look at him and say, "I can't believe we're married. I really can't believe it." Again, not mad or sad, just amazed. Maybe I take a long time to adjust to new ideas?

The other day the baby and I were eating lunch alone at a cafe. Halfway during the meal, they played a piece of music over the speakers that made me stop. It was beautiful--sad and familiar. It rolled all of my troubled thoughts together and pressed down on me. I knew I'd heard the piece before, but I couldn't remember where. I asked the staff about it, but they didn't know, either. Later that evening, I went home and took a nap. When I awoke, I remembered. I quickly found the song on iTunes and downloaded it.

The baby and I listened to the piece ("The Last Man" from The Fountain soundtrack) from beginning to end while I closed my eyes. I cried. I actually cried. That never happens. I patted my belly, and it was like the baby understood. (S)he didn't kick, but just listened, too, like, "It is sad, Mom. It's OK to cry." Afterwards, I wiped my eyes. We were both better.

Yesterday, I felt nostalgic. I wished the baby could've grown up like I did, in a time when fashion was hideous, but people were optimistic and a bit naive: the 80s. Yep, I began downloading Michael Jackson songs (pre-weirdo era). The baby and I danced and jammed to "Smooth Criminal", "Beat It", and "Billie Jean". You should have seen us go! I did all the shoulder work, and the baby did some nice rolling action. All in all, a good day.

Tim told me two days ago, "I thought pregnancy would be a lot ... harder."

"What do you mean?" I said. "Did you think it would be harder for me or you?"

"Both," he said. He explained that he thought there would be more outward signs of pregnancy. I guess he figured I'd have cravings, swell up, and be weeping all day. He had prepared himself mentally to be abused verbally and to take it with grace, as a good FTB should.

The truth is, most of what is happening to me is mental. Like I said, every pregnancy is different, so I can't speak for anyone else. Tim can't see or hear my thoughts. I pray a lot just to be strong and not let fear (of being a bad mom, of losing the baby, of losing my marriage) overtake me. Tim tells me every day that things will work out. He hugs me and says things like, "I think your belly is cute," even though I know it's HUGE. But, I appreciate that he senses that although I'm not too different outwardly, there are things going on elsewhere.

So, if you know an MTB, especially if she doesn't have a partner, give her encouragement. Pregnancy is lonely and public all at the same time. A few kind words may remind her that driving with a sidecar can work out, and she may end up going somewhere nice she never thought she could.

The Last Laugh

Today my sister-in-law had her baby. She had an 8 lb, 2 oz girl. Her son, born in 2005, weighed 10 lbs. My sister-in-law (my brother's wife) is a petite thing who looks like she shouldn't carry a heavy purse, let alone a 10 lb kid. For the past four months, she has looked like she swallowed a basketball. From behind, she didn't even look pregnant. The baby was perfectly centered, so much so that my sister-in-law had the hardest time finding clothes that fit. Her tummy stuck out, and every maternity shirt she wore ended up having that Pooh Bear look to it. I gave her one of my Bella Bands, and for once that poor woman didn't have to worry about her belly showing. Point is, my sister-in-law is a true soldier. Congratulations to my brother and his wife--but especially his wife!

Many months ago, my brother told me they had finally come up with a name for their child. Note to future parents: if you have a name that is dear to your heart, don't tell anyone. The best thing you can do is guard it until it's printed on your baby's birth certificate. If you don't, the following may happen to you:

As I was saying, they had decided on a first/middle name: Destiny Niveah. I promptly said, "The middle name is nice, but the first name? Sounds like a stripper's." My brother was appalled. "No, really," I said. "Destiny, Bambi, Candy--they're all stripper names."

My brother tried to brush my comments off, but then I got on a roll. "If you name your kid Destiny, instead of sewing her booties, I'll buy her glass high-heels." I laughed. "Yeah, and on her birthdays I'll give her money--in ones!" Basically, I beat the joy right out of my brother. I'm (slightly) ashamed of myself now, but really, I was only trying to ensure my niece wouldn't get stuck with a name that limits her future employment opportunities to places with a happy hour. Hahaha--OK, I'll stop now.

Anyway, after a few weeks, it came to my ears that my brother and sister-in-law had decided on a new name. Friends and family would find out at the baby shower. When I finally heard the new name, I smiled. Because it's a nice name? No. It is a nice name, but that's not what made me smile. Is it because the name is unique? Well, it's uncommon but not unheard of.

I smiled because my brother, of all the available names in the known world, chose to name his daughter after the only girl in school who ever got on my nerves.

I know when I've been beat.

There Was an Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe

Sometimes I wonder how many kids Tim & I will end up having. When I was a teenager, I thought, "Three. Three sounds like a good number." Like most kids that age, I gave no thought to factors that would affect my numbers. What if I couldn't bear children? What if I didn't have the financial means to take care of more than two? What if my husband only wanted one? What if I had twins on my third pregnancy? What if I couldn't emotionally handle more than one?

My mother had five children. I am the middle child. I have two older sisters and two younger brothers. One thing I always hoped for was to have children that were as tightly knit as my brothers and sisters are. Do we fight sometimes? Yep. Do we get in each other's business? Daily. But my siblings are funny, passionate people. It's like a support network of crazy people. We manage our own, and even when we're furious at each other, we'd trample anyone who would try to break the network. I know--it sounds like a cult.

I guess what I'm saying is, I think someday I'd like to have more children. I want Baby Dowdel to have all the advantages I did: sibling support & protection. Even the hard things were still good. I didn't always get what I wanted as a kid (like my own music player), because I had to share. I didn't get to lock myself away from the world for a day to have a pity party, because, well, there was someone in every room. I couldn't get too haughty, either, because siblings have a way of regulating the pecking order.

I see the obvious benefits of having one child, too. A parent can devote so much more time, money, and attention caring for one child than eight. Population control: can't beat it.

But.

I like that I have an instant Gallup-type poll at my disposal. If I relay an incident from my life to my family, I get immediate, honest responses (notice I didn't have to ask for feedback). Not the kind responses coworkers or gentle friends might give (you know, where they actually care about how you react?). My family will tell it like it is. There's something comforting about having at least one person in the world who can say, smiling and without pause, "Wow, why'd you act so stupid?" It's a reminder that I'm not above criticism. Critical love: it's a precious part of our mob mentality.

Welcome to the network, Baby Dowdel!

Former Bedfellows

Me: "Sleep, where have you been? I waited all night for you, and you never showed up."
Sleep: "Sorry."
Me: "That's all you have to say? I've always fallen asleep faster than anyone you've known, so show a little respect."
Sleep: "OK, OK. It's just that things are complicated right now, and I've been trying to avoid it, but ... Fine, here it is: I'm leaving, and I won't be back for a while."
Me: "Whoa, whoa, slow down. There's no reason to talk crazy here. Why don't we both just calm down and talk this over a nice cup of tea?"
Sleep: "You know I don't do caffeine."
Me: "Sorry. We haven't been spending much time together, and you know I can't think clearly without you."
Sleep: "Face it, Dowdel. With your sore back, cramping, pelvic discomfort, and constant need to visit the toilet all night, how do you expect us to spend quality time anyway?"
Me: "Oh, Sleep, Buddy, let's be fair--"
Sleep: "Don't 'Sleep Buddy' me! I did what I could, OK? Every time I got us going in a sweet REM cycle, you know who started kicking us like a legion of showgirls!"
Me: "Oh, don't bring the baby into this!"
Sleep: "(S)he's kicking right now, isn't (s)he?"
Me: "Not exactly ... more like nudging, or gently tapping ..."
Sleep: "Oh, please! I'm leaving tonight, and that's all there is to it. Look, you knew this was going to happen. We've hardly spent any time together lately, and it's time for me to move on. There are so many others who need me right now: truckers, college kids finished with exams, Martha Stewart."
Me: "But, but, but--"
Sleep: "Don't worry; this isn't 'goodbye' forever. I'll be back, and we can be best friends, just like we were before."
Me: "Really?"
Sleep: "Sure. For now, though, you may want to stock up on DVDs--late night TV isn't the most quality stuff, you know?"
Me: "Yeah. Thanks for sticking around as long as you did, by the way. It means a lot to me."
Sleep: "No problem, old friend. Good night."
Me: "Very funny."
Sleep: "Sorry, couldn't help it."

Safety First! Sanity Second!

It doesn't matter if you graduated from high school with honors, did your undergrad in physics, and breezed through some engineering masters: if you’ve never put together a car seat, prepare to look like a monkey.

In fact, 80% of parents (this is a fact, now) who believe they’ve installed a car seat correctly are delusional. Don’t be ashamed. I, too, only had a vague understanding of how car seats should be installed: “You put it in the backseat, loop a seat belt around it somehow, and yeah, it works out.”

Apparently, that’s not good enough. I tried to help install my nephew’s car seat a year ago, and that was a fiasco. The seat came with only a hint of instructions. No matter what we tried, it was more than wobbly and clearly not safe enough for a sheet of paper to ride in.

Before ye young ones turn up ye noses and guffaw, know this: this is not one of those tasks that you can do strictly by following the instructions. There are variables involved, people! Is your car old? It may not have the safest anchors for a new car seat. Is your backseat at a steep angle? If your car seat doesn’t have an adjustment foot, you’re going to need large foam noodles or blankets to place the seat at the right angle. Do you know what angle the car seat should rest at, anyway? That would be 45 degrees. Think you want to hang a cute mobile from the car seat’s handle to entertain baby? That’s considered a hazard during an accident.

The list of what I did not know prior to becoming pregnant could go on and on. Point is, putting in a car seat can be irritating. Mainly, because you know it’s important to do it right. You can screw up a lot of things as a new parent that aren't life-threatening, like a diaper change, but installing the car seat isn’t one of those things.

My answer? Forget trying to be a know-it-all. Don’t let your partner attempt to be a Mr. or Mrs. Fix-it-all, either. Drink a big glass of your own pride, and do what I did: contact your local police/fire station or http://www.usa.safekids.org/. You can set up an appointment or go to one of their car seat inspection events, and they will install your car seat for you (or check the job you’ve done). They will teach you how to do it correctly.

I had my car seat installed yesterday, and let me just say, I could’ve figured out how to do it myself ... but my kid would’ve been five by then.

Sucking it In & Up

I finally had to do the walk of shame this week. I've been taking a language class at a local university for the past few weeks, and so far, it's been fun. The only thing is, on the first day of class I knew I'd have to do the walk of shame at some point. See, the desks in the classroom are the kind that have a small tabletop (enough for writing space) attached to a chair. I was hoping for long tables with movable chairs at each table, but no luck. When I sat down that first day, the table part of my desk was less than 1/4" from my belly. I told myself it was plenty of room, even though I had to readjust in my seat every 10 minutes to stay comfortable.

Worse, the students in my class fall into two categories: married older people with no kids yet, or single young people who are practically kids themselves. I stick out, literally.

On Tuesday, it finally happened. I had to squeeeeeze into my desk. I knew I would have to do that eventually, but we only had three more classes left, and I thought I had time--you know how it goes. I was so uncomfortable, but did I complain? Nope. I didn't want to call any attention to myself or look like I wanted special treatment. The baby kicked against the table like, "Hey, lady! It's tight in here as it is!" The price for my stupidity was that I got to squirm in my seat for a full hour. I couldn't breathe normally, let alone use the correct past tense Japanese verb for "to eat."

By the time our five-minute break finally came, I had reached my threshold. I immediately got up and asked to have the only free-standing chair in the classroom. I think the teacher and several of the students wondered why I hadn't asked for it before. Two of them moved a new chair and small table to my spot. Instant relief.

That night, I parked too close to a gas pump at the station. Normally, I'd just squeeze out of my door, but, yeah, after one attempt ... Then there was the bathroom stall incident ... Point is, what moms have been telling me must be true: by the time I come home from the hospital with a baby, all sense of shame and modesty will be gone. The events leading up to the pregnancy (outgrowing clothes, loss of body functions, and squeezing into formerly spacious areas) and the delivery itself (our parenting instructor reminded us it's not uncommon for women to defecate during labor--*cringe*) make it hard for one to hold her head up high, you know? Even though the doctors and nurses have seen it all before, it will be my first time. If only I could lie there exposed and unashamed as easily as the baby will as (s)he makes her/his way into the world!

Time to suck it up, folks.

Sigh

When I started this blog, I committed to keeping it 100% about pregnancy and nothing else. I feel I would be remiss, though, not to address the events at Virginia Tech yesterday. Mainly, someday I will send my baby out into the world, just like the parents of the students who died yesterday. And though my child may grow up to be a good citizen, a person to admire, I can not protect him/her from those who have violence in their hearts. What a waste. I will never understand how a person can plot murder--take the time to obtain weapons and develop a plan--but not put half that effort into seeking therapy, confiding in a friend, or contemplating what his actions will do to his legacy, his family, other families, and his soul. Who or what is so important that murder is the only option? Did a girl break your heart? Guess what? There are other girls out there. Did a professor fail you? Study more, or take your case to the Board. Point is, there are always options. The only person who can't see options is the person who's already decided what he wants to do. How sad.

There is something selfish about a person who can kill strangers. It's like saying, "MY pain is more important than anything YOU and your family will endure. Look at ME and how much I hurt!" The shooter at Virginia Tech will at least have his motive explained somehow, but the victims? They have died for no cause, no wrong they've done. In the end, no matter what someone did that made the shooter feel justified in his actions, no matter how terrible the initial offense was, the shooter was the biggest jerk of all. He killed innocent people, caused pain to those who caused him no wrong. He deserves no pity, because he gave none.

I guess I can teach my baby this: never give others (people or things) control of your happiness, because the day they decide to take it away, you will have a hole that you won't know how to fill.

World Keeps Spinin'

With the baby showers, constant attention, baby clothes, toys, and all other things baby, it's easy for MTBs to make their babies the center of their lives. I don't spite them for it, because in a way, it's natural.

I've tried my best not to bore people with baby chatter. This blog lets me get out what I want to say about my pregnancy, and let it go. Without this funnel for my banter, friends and coworkers would be ducking behind tables whispering, "Hide! The Baby Lady's coming!" Rightfully, so--who wants to hear about back aches, pelvic troubles, and acid reflux, anyway? I did tell you about my acid reflux, didn't I? Because if I haven't, let me just say--hey, where are you going?!?

No, really, this blog is therapeutic for me. As I was saying, it's easy to make a baby the center of the universe, except this: the world keeps spinning along, whether a MTB notices or not. This is why it's so upsetting for her when IT happens. Forty weeks is a long time, so we shouldn't be surprised when Life sneaks in. IT is an event, usually a traumatic one, that happens during a pregnancy, the one that makes a woman think, "Can't you all see I'm pregnant, and can't deal with this at the moment?"

Maybe IT is something as common as having to move to a new place. Maybe IT is not so mundane. The stress of having to deal with a spouse losing a job, a close friend passing away, or a car accident that threatens financial ruin reminds a mother that the baby may be the center of her universe but not the universe. The worst kind of event IT could be, in my opinion? Family. Family can make you wish you witnessed a mob hit, just so you could live solo in the witness protection program. The closer your family is, the more likely they are to cause drama.

They wait until a MTB is nice and round (completely incapable of dealing with stress and physically unable to smack others back in line) to say things like, "Your mother and I have decided to get a divorce," "Grandpa has a mistress," "Your sister got a DUI, and this one's going to court," and "Remember how I promised I'd never gamble again? Well, last Friday, I noticed you left your checkbook on the kitchen counter ..."

The sad part is, I know there's some of you out there saying, "You think that's bad? You wouldn't believe what my (fill in relative here) did! He/she (outrageous action here), and then had the nerve to (salt-in-wound action)! I didn't think I'd EVER speak to (relative's name) again, but I was forced to make nice at the very next (lame family occasion)."

When that day comes, when IT knocks on your door, future MTBs remember: Grandma Dowdel warned you.

Cue "Pomp and Circumstance"

We graduated! Yesterday was our last Childbirth class--woo-hoo! We have a one-session baby class (can't even remember what it's for) in a few weeks, but we're finished with all our long-term classes. We're qualified (loosely) to be parents! We celebrated with cupcakes.

The last day of class was spent (1) practicing positions that will help with labor pains, and (2) discussing C-sections. If any of you are planning on having a baby soon, please stop reading the rest of this. Go find a happy story about moms and babies and how much they love each other (I recommend Love You Forever, Guess How Much I Love You?, The Runaway Bunny, and anything with a puppy on the cover). The rest of you, hold on to your lunches.

Our instructor decided to show us a video of an actual C-section. The docs in the video put up a curtain to block the area between the mother's chest and her abdomen. The video said this was to prevent any sort of infection. Uh-huh. Why did they have to strap the mother's arms down, then? It's because they know if that woman glimpses the scalpel, she's going to punch the nurse in the face and make for the door. They need that curtain up to protect them, not the baby.

So, the doctor makes a cut through the skin and fat layer, about 4-6 inches above the pubic area (which will only heal down to about 2-3 inches later). Enter blood. I was all done at this point, but I couldn't look away. With his hands, the doctor opens the cut, pushes aside the abdominal muscles, and cuts the uterus. I looked away just as more liquids were pouring out. When I finally looked back, two sets of hands were scooping out the baby and pulling its head through the hole.

"No, no, no," I said, shaking my head. A guy next to us in the room looked at me like, "I'm with you on this, and I'm not even having the baby!"

Some doctors, according to the narrator, pull the uterus out to give it a good once over (before slapping it back in). I didn't keep watching to see if that's what went down with that poor woman.

Removing the baby took less than 10 minutes, during which the mother was awake but drugged. She didn't feel pain, they claimed, but did feel "pulling and tugging" motions. The mom would eventually feel pain, obviously, but they didn't talk about that. Afterwards, the doctors spent 45 minutes sewing or stapling the mom back together.

Our instructor reminded us that although C-sections are major surgeries, they are relatively safe. She handed out a fact sheet with extra information for us to read at home. I glanced at the paper, and here are a few points that, and this is my opinion, temper the statement she just made:

*Women have 5-7 times the risk of DEATH with C-sections.
*Twice as many women require rehospitalization after a C-section as women having a normal vaginal birth.

*1-2 babies per 100 will be cut during surgery.

*Babies born after elective C-section are 4 times as likely to develop persistent pulmonary hypertension.

*1 in 10 women report difficulties with normal activities 2 months after birth; 1 in 14 report the same thing 6 months after birth.

And, finally:

*Women who have C-sections are less likely to decide to become pregnant again.

You don't say?

Update: Kansas

Obviously, I wasn't blown away by a tornado. Thankfully, most of the tornado-like winds and hail stayed a few miles north of us.

Unfortunately, two people lost their lives last night. The first was a police officer who's car slid off the road. His death was honorable, as he was only out serving the community.

The second death occurred when a man in a lumber yard tried to continue to unload lumber rather than seek shelter. He died when the lumber pile fell on top of him.

Yes, it's tragic that someone would be tempted to do anything besides seek shelter while a tornado lurked about. Very tragic. I don't know why anyone would think of such a thing ...
(*blush*)

We're Not in Kansas Anymore ...

... but, we might as well be! Tonight tornadoes and baseball-sized hail pounded North Texas. My pregnant sister-in-law hid in a closet with her toddler son. Tim was at work, and Baby Dowdel and I sat on our sofa, devising what our next move should be.

I had 10 minutes to decide what to do: take measures to protect our new car (we've only had it for 8 months) and risk a tornado popping up, or stay at home and take cover. We have no covered parking, and baseball-sized hail can kill a person.

I so wanted to take my car to a nearby gas station, car wash, or anything with a roof. I went to the bedroom and looked for something that might protect the car. The nearest tornado was 10-15 miles from me, and at that moment, it was only sprinkling where I was. I had time to move the car if I acted quickly. Did I mention the car is NEW?

And yet ...

I looked down at my belly, and there was Baby Dowdel, quietly awaiting my decision. Perhaps (s)he was pacing the floor, too?

"But the possibility of getting hail on the car is much greater than a tornado getting us!" I wanted to argue.

Baby Dowdel didn't try to convince me otherwise; (s)he just sat there.

"I don't even know if our insurance covers hail! Oh, I get it. You think I'm being materialistic. You think we'll go out there, get caught in the storm, slide off the road, meet a tornado, or get hurt by the hail, huh? Well, well ..."

No answer.

I had a quick vision of what Tim would say if I left and was injured in any way. "Didn't you think about you and the baby?" he'd say. "You did all that for the car?"

Yeah, at that point, I'd probably feel shame, I thought. So, BD and I decided to stay in. We plopped in front of the TV to watch the radar, gathered my cell phone and home phone, said a prayer, and cuddled together on the couch.

Pimp My Crib

Today the UPS man delivered our latest project: the baby's crib. The box had a hole in it the size of both of my fists, and the delivery guy said, "Yeah, the hole's pretty big, but I don't think the crib's been damaged. It looks like it happened on the underside ..." Unless he had Superman X-ray-like vision, I'm not sure how he could have known that, but I chose to let it go for the moment.

When Tim got home, he was eager to begin the project. I don't care how computer geeky a man is, something in most men gives them the urge to every once in a while say, "Don't you worry about this here project, little lady. Once I get my tool belt on and find my tool box, whoo-wee we're in business!" Never mind that it may only get used once every four months, a man needs a tool box.

Anyway, Tim worked quietly for an hour or so putting the crib together while I made no attempt to help him. My pelvis was hurting, so I felt no desire to be an assistant. I waited for something to go wrong (missing pieces, damaged pieces, frustration, etc.), because we purchased the crib online without ever getting to see it in person. But, nothing ever did. Finally, Tim said, "Come see."

The crib was perfect. It looked sturdy, modern, but above all, it said to me, "Yes, you are having a baby, and this is where he/she will be." The crib is such an imposing piece of furniture; it can't be ignored like most of the baby gear we have. It says in no uncertain terms that someone is moving in.

Naturally, I didn't sleep at all last night. I kept waking up, paranoid, thinking, "Why isn't the baby moving? Is everything OK?!?" Something about seeing the crib in place made me desperate. It's almost like what happens after someone sends out formal invitations to a wedding and buys a dress. There's an unspoken commitment that the event will take place and lives will be changed. I thought, as I rocked myself, "I can't let anything happen to this baby. People are expecting a baby, and I've got to deliver one! Yes, baby, precious baby ..."

This morning I was better. We had a doctor's appointment, and everything turned out fine. The doc said my pelvic pain is probably my ligaments under strain and will only bother me more as I get bigger. So, as most of my doc's diagnoses have been lately, the answer came down to, "It's all part of the package."

Oh, well. At least now I can start pimpin' my kid's digs out: comfy mattress, soft sheets, and designer bedding I've had my eye on. By the time I'm done, I'll probably sleep in the crib myself and let the kid nap with Tim.

Commander in Chief

(Again, on an unrelated matter: I need cable. Daytime TV is a punishment for those who don't have cable. Soap operas are not my thing, so I'm forced to have court TV shows on (I need background noise). A female plaintiff on one of these shows just said, "I sign-DED the apartment lease." I thought, "She should go to jail just for murdering the English language." But a moment later, when the judge asked the defendant why he never helped pay rent for an apartment he shared with the woman, the defendant answered, "I was under the influence that the money was in our joint account." Considering his glazed eyes, I believe he was "under the influence.")

Yesterday, for the second time in three years, I cancelled a class. I'm the duty-loving sort, so I never skip out on a class if I can help it (the last time I did was due to a car accident). I didn't go to church last night, either. Why? Because there's a new sheriff in town. Hail to Baby Dowdel, Commander in Chief!

For two days, I've felt like I've had a football-type injury. My inner thigh feels like I've pulled it out of place. I tried rubbing the muscles, but the pain seems to be coming from my pelvis (the bone) or looseness in the joints. I called my doc, and the nurse told me to lay down for the rest of the day and take a pain reliever. So, I cancelled my class and stayed in the rest of the night.

Baby Dowdel's reaction to us staying home? He/she kicked joyfully and rolled around in my belly. Not exactly the penitent actions I had hoped for, but it's hard to tell the big cheese what to do when you're only the maidservant.