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.

More Skoolin'

On an unrelated matter: today I heard someone on TV say (referring to gifts), "That was all I bought-TED her." English translation: "That was all I bought her." This is the second time this week I've heard someone butcher a verb or pronounce the latter part of a past-tense verb as if it were a second word! Someone call the grammar police (http://spogg.org/)! OK, I'm done now. I guess I'll have to talk-ED about this again later ...

So, Tim & I have only one more Childbirth class to attend. Our last class was a little disheartening. The instructor showed us a pain chart that basically ranged from -10 to 10. She told the mothers to decide how much pain we thought we could bear during delivery (without discussing it with our spouses). Our partners were also to decide how much pain they thought we could bear. If you could not bear any pain at all, you would choose -10. If you were neutral, and didn't know if you would need an epidural or not, you were a zero. If you think you could bear all pain without medicine at any point, you were a 10. I thought I was a 6 or 7. The first person the instructor called was Tim. Tim said, "She's a zero ... or -3."

I wanted to smack him. Out of the 8 couples in our class, exactly half wanted an epidural and rated themselves -5. The other half wanted to try a natural birth, though none of us claimed to be an 8 or above.

Our instructor handed all the men a handful of ice in a napkin. She told them to grip it, without rest, for a minute and a half. The wives were told to encourage them using the different methods we'd learned in class. Tim was great. He didn't complain, and he let me joke with him while we tried to pass the time. He made it look easy.

Then it was my turn. To my dismay, within 10 seconds I was saying, "Can't do it. Can't do it! I'm gonna drop it. Too cold! Too cold!!" I apologized to Tim for my pathetic endurance. I felt bad that I was going to let my "team" down.

But I held on! I groaned like I was in labor, but I held on. Soon my palm went numb, and it was much easier after that. See, kids? When Life is hard and you don't think you can hold on, just remember to find something that will numb the pain--wait, that didn't come out right ...

Join the PPP (Parents Promoting Prevention)!

Before I get hate mail, please understand I'm not trying to mock other parents' safety precautions. OK, that's a lie, but at least understand that I don't want hate mail.


So, today I was scanning a child catalog that my sister gave me. Among the typical potty-training gear and stroller items, I found a section that made me guffaw: the safety & preventative measures category.

Honestly, they must make this section for a special (by that I mean paranoid) group of people: first-time parents, over-involved grandparents, fire marshall inspectors' families, and conspiracy-theory types. I understand that parents shouldn't give children knives and nails to play with. I also understand that covering electrical outlets, tying up dangling cords, and securing bulky furniture to a wall is a good idea, but do we really need kid house helmets? You think I'm kidding? Check out page 12!

Should I be amazed that civilization has managed to last for thousands of years without a single one of the safety devices I saw today? How have we lived so long without toddler UPF 50+ sun-blocking beachwear in coordinating colors? How?

Here's just a sampling of the items many catalogs claim are "must haves":

- Safety bumpers on tubs, tables, and fireplace mantles
- Automatic toy sanitizers
- Window guards
- Cord covers
- TV button guards (seals away the TV buttons so you can only use the remote)
- Toilet locks
- Cabinet, drawer, & door locks
- Stove knob guards & oven door locks
- Oven splatter guards
- Computer button guard
- Shopping cart germ guard

If that's not enough, you can go all the way, folks! Buy a "play yard," which basically amounts to a zoo pen for kids! Put 'em in lock down like they do at San Quentin, I say.

I think if most of us take an honest evaluation of the way we grew up, we can probably conclude that (1) accidents will happen, no matter what precautions our parents took, and (2) most of the accidents were learning experiences. So, as parents I say take safety precautions in moderation. Alternatively, go all the way with it and put junior in an extra-large hamster ball.

Happy Birthday, Daddy Dowdel!

This weekend is Tim's birthday. He woke up this morning and told me he had a dream. Tim likes vanilla shakes and khakis; dreams feel like an unnecessary frill to Life, more like a task, to him. I was surprised when he said he had a dream, and a long, clear dream at that.

He dreamt the baby was born, and he delivered it. Was the baby all clean right after delivery, like in the movies, I wanted to know. No, Tim explained, the baby was slimy, yucky, and a tinge blue.

Figures.

Afterwards, though, was the baby OK?

Yes, Tim said. He was very happy because the baby was beautiful.

I smiled. I realized this gateway into Tim's subconscious may give the answer to our ultimate question. "Well," I wanted to know, "was it a boy or a girl?"

"I forgot to check."

The Hip Bone's Connected to the ...

No, this won't be an overbearing anatomy lesson, but I feel compelled to explain the shape and vibe of my eight-weeks-and-counting pregnancy body. MTBs (and silly teenage girls with older boyfriends) need to know the truth. I think I'll provide the facts as they are, with a pinch of how I see them, yes?

1. I can't breathe.
1a. Everything below my ribs is compressed, which means my breaths are short and uneven. My childbirth instructor says when the baby "drops" (AKA "lightening"), I'll finally be able to breathe better ... but that does mean my delivery is coming soon. I guess that's good news. I think.

2. Grandma has better eyesight than me.
2a. My vision is blurry from time to time. I can't seem to focus as well as I used to, eyeglasses or not. Today, I woke up, and for the first hour, I saw halos around everything because of my left eye. Benefit: my round silhouette is much less startling in the mirror.

3. What's that glare? Oh, yes, it's my hair!
3a. True. Perhaps it's my daily prenatal vitamin with DHA, but my hair is extra shiny & smooth of late. My doc says many women find this to be true so continue taking the pills long after pregnancy. Not a bad idea ...

4. I dream about sleep.
4a. Forget about exotic places, I dream about sleep. Most of my dreams these past few weeks feature my bed, a bed, or house with a bed in it. I don't think we need to purchase a dream interpretation book for this one.

5. It's a rockin' party, and I'm not invited.
5a. Baby Dowdel kicks, turns, and pretty much has the ultimate college party every day: it goes all night long, the cops never come, and food/drink are on tap all night.

6. I should buy stock in Charmin.
6a. I go to the bathroom almost every hour to urinate (yet, I struggle to "perform" when the nurse needs a sample). I rush in there, because I feel like I'm going to pop. Once seated, hardly anything comes out--argh!

7. Memo from Brain: "I've enjoyed our time together, but I will be on leave for the next 9 months."
7a. Is it carelessness or forgetfulness? Either way, I'm having trouble remembering things. Sometimes I do the same thing twice (like pay a bill) because I forget that I've already done it. I want to say something else about this topic, but I can't quite recall ...

8. I need more body glue.
8a. It's true! My left hip, 1-4 times a day (on random days) sort of slips out from under me. I lose my balance, and it hurts for a moment. I read somewhere that hormones may be causing my pelvis to loosen up in preparation for an easier delivery. Codswallop? I don't know.

9. Every week, something else in my wardrobe won't fit.
9a. Really.

10. The baby card rocks!
10a. If I don't like something, someone, or some place, I just pull the baby card. Don't like a restaurant? "Honey, I don't think the baby's going to like that right now." Want to change the subject? "I don't want the baby to overhear and get upset; do you mind?" Feel like going home early? "The baby's tired. I'm going to call it a night." See? Think of all the potential! "The baby would like cookie dough ice cream if you don't mind ..."

There you have it: truth in less than 600 words, but 400 calories.

Thou Hast Humbled Me

After I've been taught a Life lesson, I feel like I should retell it with the language of the King James Version of the Bible. A few good knowest, thine, thou, and beholds is enough to drive the lesson home for me. Don't worry, I said I should feel like I should tell it that way, but I won't actually do it (mostly).

So, yesterdayeth (OK, that was a bit much) started out with much potential. I had in mind a list of several projects I wanted to complete, and I'm a gal who likes to complete projects. At 7:30, the baby was already kicking, but I could tell I hadn't slept well all night, so I figured I'd stay in bed until I had. At 8:00, my mom called. She needed me to pick her up from work and get blood work done at her doctor's office. I got up, got dressed, and was out of the door in an hour.

Symptom 1: Tired. Very tired.

The appointment, which was planned as a ten-minute thing (so I had decided to eat breakfast afterwards), took over an hour.

Symptom 2: Hungry. Very hungry.

My eyes were dry, and I wanted to sleep. This was difficult to accomplish since a) I hardly fit in a standard chair anymore, and b) a rowdy toddler was banging on doors, pushing magazines aside, and yelling (while her mother repeated, "Don't do that, please. Please don't do that. I'd like you not to do that.").

After the appointment, my mom generously took me to breakfast. I went home, and instead of taking a nap so I could feel better, I prepped my materials for a class I would teach that night. I tried to start many of the projects I had planned earlier, but no effort lasted beyond ten minutes. I could not think straight, but I refused to keep trying. Before I realized it, it was time for class.

Symptom 3: Bitter. Very bitter.

The class went well. I was hungry after, so I decided to eat by myself at a fast-food joint. I was sleepy, but not too tired to reflect on some things (reflect = stew). Mainly, I was thinking about my mom's appointment. It hadn't gone particularly well. Mom's been stressed over a situation lately, and her stress levels are bringing her some unwanted side effects. I was annoyed (not at Mom) that the situation had gotten so complex and destructive.

Symptom 4: Irritable. Very irritable.

After dinner, I went to church. I felt better for a while, until I got home. As I sat in front of my laptop (again, trying to accomplish at least one project), I suddenly felt as irritable and tired as I had all morning. I was trying to print something important (will discuss in a later post), and my husband's new security software was not letting me connect to our networked printer. We tried one idea after another, but it would not let me print. We changed settings, attempted to turn off the security software, and restarted the computers, but nothing worked. At one point, the Help menu suggested that if I installed the software on my computer as well (paying for another license, of course), the printer would work.

Symptom 5: Angry. Very angry.

The rest of the story, in brief, goes like this:

***

I satteth upon my sofa and was bitter in my soul. Timothy, whom I loveth, spoke thus: "Perhaps if thou wouldest let me touch thoust laptop for but a few moments, or if I may installeth software into it ..." The man grasped for the laptop, and something, which today causeth my soul to sorrow, happeneth. I took hold of his chin tightly and said, "Verily I say unto you, that thou art aggravating me severely!" Twas an aggressive act. Twas shamefull. Timothy, whom I loveth, did not return anger for anger. He left me be, though he only wished to help. A short time passed. I wept bitterly. I asked for forgiveness and have been much silent since.

***

The point is, and I will not address this again, is that I let my last-trimester pregnancy symptoms take hold of me. I refused to listen to my body and go back to sleep when I should have. I refused to go to bed early that night, rather than struggle to finish projects which could have waited one more day. I refused to see the warning signs all day long that my anger levels were steadily rising unchecked. For that, I am truly sorry.

That's Messed Up

In the past 2 weeks, two incidents covered in the news have troubled me the most. The first occurred about a week ago. A woman was gunned down at a college campus by her ex-boyfriend even though she had a restraining order on him. Today, another woman--pregnant, no less--was shot point-blank by an unnamed man in a CNN building in Atlanta. Clearly, since he chose to drag her by the hair prior to killing her, this was some kind of domestic case.

According to the American Pregnancy Association, 240,000 pregnant women are subject to domestic violence every year in the United States. The fact is, pregnancy in itself is a risk factor. Pregnant women are at twice the risk of being battered. Think about it: teenage moms, distant partners, doctor's bills, extramarital affairs, unwanted pregnancies, stress--it's all a concoction for violence. Look no further than the Laci Peterson case.

The Unborn Victims of Violence Act (signed in '04) helps prosecute those who harm children in utero (abortion is specifically exempted from this law), but the sad truth is, it can't prevent the attacks in the first place. No only that, some of these men commit suicide after killing the mothers, so how can justice ever be done by society?

Prevention is the goal here. Encouraging all teen moms to have abortions isn't going to do it, because that only gives one party (the male) a say in the situation. Free health care alone won't do it, because we all know people who have had more than their share of children that they make no effort to care for.

I think everyone who has a baby in the works, regardless if they want to remain a couple or not, should be required by law to:
1. Take a paternity test.
2. Be required to attend weekly parenting classes with counseling.
3. Receive free or low-cost prenatal health care and benefits until the child is at least five.
4. Be connected with adoption services immediately to be informed of their choices.

The idea is for people to take baby-making seriously. If couples were required to attend parenting classes, if they were forced to see the gravity of the situation, perhaps they would refrain from bringing multiple children into the world (a major cause for stress). If men knew that mothers were required to attend prenatal appointments (where signs of abuse would be looked for), perhaps they would think twice. If child support was automatically garnished from people's wages, we would all be less careless. "Baby Moses" locations (places where you can leave an unwanted baby, no questions asked) should be publicized everywhere, but that isn't enough. Crimes against mothers should be punished severely. Prevention is critical. Successfully prosecuting a perpetrator of violence against a pregnant woman is commendable, but wouldn't true success be if we prevented the violence in the first place?