Mumbling Madly

I wrote this for my prenatal yoga partner (we exchange addresses so that our Birth Story can be read out loud to the class after the birth). It’s pretty cut and dry but I know there are folks who are curious:

My water broke at 3am, early Saturday morning, November 14. Contractions began about 15 minutes later. My husband rushed around packing a suitcase, (At one day shy of 39 weeks this was suppose to be our big Getting Things Done weekend). After an hour of packing, putting the un-installed car seat in the trunk, texting our doula, and feeding the cat, my husband came back to bed with me. Together we timed contractions and tried to rest until 9am. At first they were about every 6-7 minutes apart at 40 seconds long. Then they narrowed down to every 4-5 minutes for 60 seconds. (We used the handy website, contractionmaster.com, to time contractions; I highly recommend it). At 9:30am they were a steady 3 minutes apart. I got up and changed clothes, ate yogurt, made my husband eat eggs, and prepared to leave. I noticed when I got up and moved around the contractions become more varying in their spacing—6 minutes apart and then 2 and then 3. As soon as I got back into bed they fell right back into a 3 minute pattern.

We arrived at the Swedish First Hill hospital around 10:30am. In the parking garage the rest of my water broke and I panicked a little bit on my way to the elevator. One look at me in triage and they whisked me off to a birthing suite where we met our doula, Shanon. The nurse read my Birth Plan which requested as little medical intervention as possible with a strong preference for natural childbirth. While she was checking my cervix I dilated from 0 to 3 centimeters.

At 11:30am I started Active Labor. To cope with the pain, I tried a little of everything: on my hands and knees, leaning over the birth ball or a stack of pillows, and using the Frog Pose in between contractions for rest. I was also in the tub for a short time. But the majority of my contractions were spent just sitting in a cross legged pose on the bed rocking back and forth in circles. Hot pads and pressure were placed on my back throughout my labor thanks to my husband and my doula. Keeping the room quiet, dark, and with minimal interruptions helped me keep focused and coping.

Vocally, I used humming and singing during Early Labor. This turned into Bees Breath and then moaning. Towards the end of Active Labor I found myself huffing and puffing to get through the discomfort. I also spent almost the entire labor with my eyes closed.

Three hours into Active Labor and I started inquiring about what an epidural ‘might look like.’ The first time I asked about it the doula encouraged me to keep up the good work and that I should try to get through a few more contractions. The second time I asked, the nurse and doula calmly explained the reality: I would be hooked up, probably take a nap, and that the whole process would slow down. The idea of slowing down really motivated me to bite the bullet and keep going. At 5:00pm the doctor checked me at 8 centimeters. I cried with relief. I had made great progress! With no apparent problems I decided to continue on my own without medical intervention.

When checking me for dilation, the doctor had noticed that baby was turned slightly. The nurse advised me to lie on my side with my right leg crossed over my left to encourage the baby to turn. Up until then I had completely avoided lying down in order to really feel gravity do its work. Lying down was very, very uncomfortable but incredibly effective. Very shortly afterward I started feeling the urge to push. Baby had turned and was on his way.

Pushing was challenging for me. But all that yoga paid off: I ended up using the squat bar almost the entire time. The doula managed to get the bed upright until it was practically a chair so that in between contractions I could let go of the squat bar and lean back. I also tried hands and knees again but always ended back in the squat position. Breathing became very hard to control; I had no idea how to manage the pushing urge, but slowly realized I just needed to roll with it. At one point I hung onto the bar for dear life and overheard myself roaring like a Bear.

After an hour of pushing, the baby’s head was visible, and after another 30 minutes he started to crown. My doctor was amazing and did perineal massage the entire time. The nurse coached me along and really helped get my breathing on track so I could really maximize my pushing. At 8:23pm, Baby Schlag was born, screaming his head off with one of his arms wrapped around his neck. (This might have explained why it took a little extra time to push him out). My doctor had me hold him on my chest while she repaired a second degree tear—a wonderful distraction. Baby weighed 7 pounds, 0.8 ounces, dark hair, with a slightly crooked nose from all that time spent in the birth canal.

One of the best things about a natural childbirth was getting to eat shortly after his birth: best hot turkey sandwich I’ve ever had.

I’ve reached the ‘end’ stage. Strangers are openly commenting on my physical state (which is so, so weird). A random adolescent girl watches me tussle with a cart at Safeway; I’m sweating with effort and she inquires, “Are you pregnant?” I’m not very nice to her. I don’t smile, I just say, “Yes.” And she says, “Well, congratulations…” I say, “Thanks.” Before her abusive mother hollers at her to ‘get over here now.’ I was such a jerk to this girl but I think I was just surprised. At the time, it felt almost as invasive as if a stranger asked, “Are you fat?” or “Is your nose a little hooked at the end?” Now, I know that people just feel excited being around an extremely pregnant woman. A gigantic man at Petco turned to Josh and I while we waited in line and said, “Congratulations.” Simple…before turning around and lumbering off to the parking lot. Today two black guys with umbrellas walked by me in Columbia City and one of them shouted, “You’re about to drop!”

It’s no wonder: I’ve reached the waddling part of pregnancy where the hips feel like their going to crack open if not careful. All ligaments are like loose rubber bands and the groin hums and sings with each step. I struggle up even the smallest of hills but continue my almost religious attention to prenatal yoga twice a week. After class a group of us huddle together and compare stats: Who is dilated, who has recently birthed, which doula someone recommends, and how impatient some of us are to get this birth over with. One by one my comrades lift off and leave Pregnancy Land to the new world, to Baby Planet. My dear friend, who had been pregnant with me since the beginning, since we were both 5 weeks along, left Pregnancy Land a whole 3 weeks early. I feel strangely betrayed…

I said good bye to my first round of little dance students yesterday. They’re all 3 with the exception of one 4 year old. We had not really discussed my pregnancy as a class before, and while I was explaining that I wouldn’t see them for a couple of months, one girl looked dismayed, “I am so sad you have a baby in your tummy.”

Post-Halloween blues combined with the time change have played havoc on most 3 year old psyches–as it has with mine. Similiar to the first trimester, I’m feeling less and less like myself. Of course, this is mostly due to my almost humorous physicality. My old self could certainly navigate around doorways without bumping her belly or soiling the front of her maternity shirt. The old self could give normal hugs and do dishes without standing sideways. A strange copper taste resonates in my mouth after eating, making food not as pleasurable as I had hoped. My lungs feel constricted and my ribs are sore. Often, I don’t answer phones because it takes too long to get up.

The old self also had no interest in watching an hour of “Birth Story” on TLC or reading countless birth stories in Ina May’s Birthing book. Lately, I consume birth stories like candy (which I eat to get rid of the copper taste). What once used to intimidate me has become a soulful addiction. If I can ingest a wide enough scope of birth examples then perhaps I can get a general IDEA of what my own labor and birth might be. I would rather go in over-read and extra knowledgeable with the hope that it might remove some of the fear. However, my doula is waiting for me to email her my birth plan…I don’t have it or know it yet. I have a list of things I’d like to avoid…but otherwise I’m trying to remain extremely flexible.

After getting up 2-5 times during the night, I get up at 5am and see Josh off to work…then I read the somewhat tedious “Atonement” for about 30 minutes before nodding off. Think about all the things I’m going to do with my nice long day: shower, vacuum, make stuff (turns out this is all idealizing). Wake myself up snoring anytime between 8 and 10am. Eat bran cereal for breakfast. Teach a dance class or two….maybe. (Depends on the day). If there is no dance class then I try to take a walk around the block but only make it halfway: Gravity has gone into full effect and Baby Schlag is resting soundly on my bladder. Limp home. Fold laundry and empty dishwasher…feel exhausted by so much activity. Lie down and sleep for 1-3 hours. 4:00 is reserved for TV time: Oprah mixed with Judge Judy. Cook dinner at 5, regardless of energy level. Dinner has included soups, meatballs, homemade pizza, comfort food with real ingredients and high in protein. As custom, I eat very very quickly and perhaps a bit more then usual. Find that I can’t move out of the horizontal position on the couch. Watch Food Network, a comedy from Netflix, or something easy and entertaining with the husband. Go to bed and start all over…

An alternative to the day would include a phone call from Sharon (due three days after me) or maybe a visit from new friend, Suzanne, down the street. She arrives on my porch with her one month old daughter wrapped up and hanging off her body in an ergo carrier. I’m envious that her baby has already come out. One by one my new pregnant friends are having their babies and I feel left behind. It’s as if I’m on an island and they’re being rescued before me. I make Suzanne feel Baby Schlag’s little heels, which are sharply protruding from the side of my stomach. (I think about how my dad has predicted the baby will have huge feet like both of us and realize that this might be very true). I give Suzanne some soup.

Hobbes shows up and starts meowing for wet food. The act of bending over to get her bowl seems too daunting for me so I wait for Josh to come home and do it. The same goes for a lot of stuff on the floor–too much work to retrieve so it sits there whether it’s a piece of mail or an insert from a magazine. The baby’s room is slowly shaping up but appears hollow and empty. We’re preparing for a life long guest. I’m not sure how this is all going to go down…

Triple Door last weekend. 8 months pregnant. Last time onstage until baby.

Josh consumes television and media in large ’same type’ trends. For a while it was all Xbox games…then it turned into Xbox movies and then anything he could find on Netflix On-Demand (a lot of crap, like all of the Die Hard movies in one night). Then he transitioned to cable after the digital switch opened the door to new channels. He started watching the World War II series by Ken Burns, (too bloody for me) and then the Frontline Series on PBS (really intense documentaries about everything from U.S. presidents to the financial crisis).

Lately, it’s been all about ultimate fighting–you know, the mixed martial arts matches that happened illegally on the street but have now gone mainstream. Specifically the really terrible reality show, The Ultimate Fighter:Heavyweights. That’s right: a whole bunch of testosterone heightened men with mixed martial arts backgrounds, live in a house and fight each other once a week in the ring (and sometimes in the house!) Now that ultimate fighting has been corralled, wiped down, and presented to consumers as a skilled sport, any joe blow with some skills is looking to get his foot in the door. Are you a boxer with a whole bunch of tattoos? (Tattoos are practically required to be an ultimate fighter!) Are you a jujitsu specialist who can also tackle someone to the floor in two seconds? Why don’t we put the boxer and the jujitsu specialist in the ring and let them duke it out! YES!

Usually around 10 o’clock I’m tired and cranky but don’t want to go to bed without Josh. Typically, I’ve finished watching something on the Food Network when Josh comes in and cheers, “It’s time for Ultimate Fighter!” And please note that it’s not always the reality show, there have been times when he has stayed up (sort of) until 2am watching Ultimate Fight Matches (recorded in high def straight out of the ultimate fighting capital: Las Vegas). I’ll stumble out into the living room and there’s Josh, curled up around Hobbes, fast asleep while two guys are pounding each other on screen. Occasionally, I’ll go to bed, but often I take the time to snuggle up with Josh and endure a little Ultimate Fighter: Heavyweights.

Two nights ago, we were both exhausted and getting ready for bed. Suddenly, Josh bounded into the bedroom and said, “Ultimate Fighter is on, and KIMBO is fighting!” Kimbo is an enormous, balding, black, bearded brawler from the streets, who has been a fan favorite for the whole season. He looks entirely different from any of the other pasty, tattooed, cauliflower-eared, fighters. We’ve become Kimbo fans. I got out of bed to watch Kimbo. Maybe it’s just because I think his name is kind of cool. “Kimbo Schlager,” I tried out (since we’re still far from coming up with the baby’s name). I looked around: “Kimbo Hobbes,” I said to my cat. She looked unamused. “Let’s name our next cat, Kimbo,” I babbled, obviously too tired to really be up and talking.

The fight was short and unsatisfying. For the first time ever, I was actually watching and rooting for an ultimate fighter. Kimbo scored a few swings and then ended up flat on the mat–a bad scene for a man whose skill is with his fists! “Nooo!” I shouted as Kimbo vainly tried to wrestle his way out of his opponent’s choke hold. It was too late for Kimbo. The enormous wrestler with the beer gut got him into a hold, briskly started pounding Kimbo in the head, and the fight was called. Josh and I went to bed.

I wondered if Josh and Baby Schlag would end up watching Ultimate Fighting championships together in the future since it seems such a BOY thing to enjoy. I mean, I might appreciate an underdog like Kimbo taking up the mat from time to time but I certainly would never watch Ultimate Fighter on my own. Give me King of Cakes on Food Network anytime–or a good cake decorating contest! Even better! Perhaps my occasional foray into watching this absurd show is future research on the tastes of my son. He’ll probably kinda like watching sports on TV, a handful of really bad action movies, combined with really terrible pay-per-view boxing matches. (This is of course when he’s old enough and has watched enough PBS educational shows to balance out the brain melt that cable will obviously give him). Or you never know, maybe he’ll be really into musicals…

Because Patrick Swayze died his movies are all over cable these days. The other night we ended up watching Ghost–which is actually a really great movie! When Woopie Goldburg channels her body and allows Patrick Swayze to have one last slow dance with Demi Moore I started crying. Josh was sitting on the couch and guffawed, “This is SO CHEESY….oh, oops, Mara, I didn’t notice you were crying. I’m sorry.” I was crying largely due to pregnancy induced hormones, but it was still pretty girly of me to be blubbering over “Unchained Melody.”

Chances are, Baby Schlag will hate the movie Ghost. And he might resent me taking him to PNB’s Nutcracker every year (which I hope to do). I can certainly expose him to some of the stuff I like, with the hope that perhaps he might actually like some of it. I can’t believe it: Gender assumptions are already happening and the little guy isn’t even born yet!

Baby is slowly running out room. I felt his feet for the first time–meaning, I could tell they were feet instead of something mysteriously unidentifiable. I poked and prodded the place where I felt his feet; I made Josh reach over me in the car to feel them and then I made my stomach muscles a little sore. “Stop poking him!” Josh protested the next day after I complained of soreness but continued the search for the mysterious feet.

Hiccups from baby also amuse me–except the night I was trying to sleep. For the first time, I felt genuine annoyance over something as cute as prenatal hiccups. So distracting! Can’t he tell I’m beyond tired? Birth and Delivery classes are coming up this Saturday…I expect we’ll be studying pain management techniques by holding ice cubes and chanting numbers. I think it will help both Josh and I but it will also be weird.

Up until recently, I was always able to lie on my back. In fact, I rejected the whole notion that pregnant women should only sleep on their left sides–bullshit, really. As the months wore on I found myself able to sleep on my back if my knees were bolstered and my back was stuffed with pillows. I created a mini-recliner in my bed. This worked really well. When lying on my side, my stomach kind of flops over and becomes really uncomfortable–despite the body pillow. (I tried naming the body pillow “Enrico” but Josh adamantly discouraged this). Two nights in a row, my beloved sleeping position has been compromised. When I lay on my back I can almost feel Baby Schlag sink back into my spine, wriggling in protest, no matter how many pillows I use. This is terrible. This makes sleeping really limited. This makes me want to throw a tiny temper tantrum.

Of course, sleeping has always been weird–it goes hand in hand with pregnancy. On any given night you might find me eating a bowl of cereal at 4am. Or you might find me reading a book to try and fall back to sleep at 5:30am. Expect several trips to the bathroom–usually at 12am, 3am, and 6am. I try snuggling Josh, but the body pillow is too bulky. He tries snuggling me and the body pillow is somehow tangled in his legs. I try and snuggle Josh without the pillow and my stomach lurches and protests. One night Josh could feel Baby Schlag kicking him in the back, protesting the side sleeping position we had found ourselves in.

With each week during the third trimester, it seems that something is taken away. My belly button’s good looks one week, my chin last week, next week I expect to lose something else…but dang, did sleeping my back really need to be taken away?

A few days ago, Josh told me about a co-worker whose cat was mauled by a pit bull in their neighborhood. The woman came home to find a note on her door. Apparently, her neighbor chased away the pit bull, rescued the cat, and took it to the vet. The note had the number of the vet but when the neighbor called the cat was in bad shape. She ended up putting the cat down. I was impressed with the quality of this woman’s neighbors and horrified by the story. I thought of my crotchety old kitty, Hobbes, and how sad it would be if she died. And then I recalled a few weeks ago when I somehow ended up watching ‘Animal Rescue:Miami’ on Animal Planet for hours and hours. Some woman called in to report someone dumping ‘boxes and boxes filled with cats’ out of a van. The visual image this conjured was both hilarious and terrifying. Tragically, a bunch of stray dogs stumbled onto the multiple boxes of cats and went nuts. One of the cats died, but in typical Animal Planet fashion, many of the cats survived and went up for adoption. I ended up balling the whole time, caught up in all the random stories of emaciated horses, puppy farms, and trapped crocodiles. Finally, I turned the TV off.

The day Josh told me the pit bull story was the same day I picked up my sister to help me paint the spare room/baby’s future room. It was also the third day of a string of nice sunny days. Our neighbors have taken it upon themselves to fix up a beat up old car on the sidewalk across the street. These self-proclaimed mechanics enjoy loud music and beer while tinkering with this car. After a full weekend of this, my nerves were shot and images of ditching this neighborhood for good danced in my head. I was complaining to my sister about this when I pulled up to the parking pad of my house. That’s when we noticed a pit bull standing on our back porch, ghostly and illuminated by our porch light. She was saggy and baggy, no collar, udders hanging down from her body, a look of expectation on her face. “What..?” I said. And my sister laughed at the audacity of it. The dog stared us down, not barking or wagging her tail, simply waiting by the door. While I dialed Josh’s cell phone number, the dog suddenly hopped down the porch stairs and disappeared down the alley way. She was casual and efficient, disappearing into the night as randomly as she came. By the time Josh came outside, she was completely gone. He roamed around with a flash light to make sure she hadn’t left behind a litter of puppies but found nothing.

With the pit bull mauling story fresh in my head, the entire scene really creeped me out. My sister ardently defended the mama pit bull but images of my cat stumbling outside at dusk into the waiting jaws of a dog on the back porch haunted me. “There was no aggression and we all know pit bulls have bad reputations,” Gina reminded me. The only comfort I took was the eerie feeling of camaraderie: this pit bull was pregnant or maybe just had her litter. I could vouch for that. Maybe she just went to the wrong back door, expectant and hopeful that her family was there. Perhaps she had been turned out, collar-less into the world, and all she needed was a hand out for her puppies. Or maybe she had been accidentally let out, wandered a long way from home, and instinctively sniffed out a house where someone else was pregnant too. At any rate, I half expect to see her every time I open the back door. But, as it stands, I haven’t seen the mama pit bull since…

It seems every pregnant woman I know has had a moment when they realize that they have gotten larger, which leads to the realization that, wow, they’re gonna get even bigger, and then freak out about it. I’m sure this is part of being ushered into the third trimester; the final stretch and the biggest you’re ever going to get.

The panic came when I realized I was having a very hard time walking. I was downtown, I was in over my head and I debated taking a cab back to my parked car. I had already done three hours of childcare, a meeting with one of my bosses, and then decided I needed to go to the Gap, Old Navy, and Pea in the Pod, because, well, I was already downtown and I needed pants. Oh, and a stop to the bank’s atm too. This was all in a time span of two hours because that’s all I paid for on my parking meter. Surprise! I just can’t move the way I used to. Walking was something I use to take for granted, I suppose. Suddenly I felt panic: how am I going to make it for the last few months? Images of me stranded on the side of the road and having to walk miles for gas and being unable to do so filled my head. Fantasies of having to (God Forbid) try and run my way out of situation and failing worried me. Thoughts of just trying to get around and being unable, simply unable, filled me with a sense of sinking doom. When Josh came home I started crying about my lack of mobility, the downtown experience, and how I needed pizza.

No surprise that Baby Schlag seemed to double in size over the last few days, as the trademark nausea, fatigue, and difficulty walking seemed to indicate. Josh gently reassured me but reminded me that, well, I had overdone it. “But you’re doing a really good job,” he said, which, while it sounds like pet behavior training, made me feel a lot better. For me it has been a lot harder to throw in the physical towel and roll over to the whims of my belly.

I had to laugh because I went to the doctor and had my first weight gain surprise: Woah! That’s a lot of pounds! When I complained about cramps my doctor offered to check the position of my cervix. I eagerly hopped up on the table, ready to go in 30 seconds flat. Everything checked out fine, which means all the discomfort is ‘within the realm of normal.’ I was actually dismayed, hoping that she would find a fixable problem instead of the usual, well, ailment of pregnancy. Why else would I eagerly hop up on the table for an internal exam?

Tis’ the time to turn my body over to the little guy, whether it’s comfortable or not.

With pregnancy comes a very delicate sense of fragility. It pops up when I drive over a large pothole and ‘oof’ I feel it in my whole body. Living in the city, one typically has to carry themselves with an air of toughness–especially if you’re a lady. You need to be able to get to your car at night after a late show and know that by mere stride and height that no one is going to mess with you. But now, I feel transparent and fragile. I don’t walk the same, I’m constantly navigating around the belly, and the Tough Girl feels exhausted. This fragility appears when strangers stare at me, when I catch myself longingly looking at the handicap parking spots, or when my hair dresser says crassly, “Yeah, this must be a new experience for you, carrying weight in your stomach. You’re built like me, after all: you typically carry weight in your butt and your thighs.”

While protecting this fragility, I find myself lapsing into the defensive whenever I’m in public. Asking me for change on the street? Expect me to be a little more hostile; Lately, I want to say, “Seriously? You’re going to bother ME?” I actually gave someone ‘the hand’ the other day while walking down Broadway and surprisingly, it totally worked.

A few weeks ago I was at 7-eleven making a bank deposit into our credit union account when suddenly I realized I HAD to use the restroom. The clerk with the turban on his head looked at me apprehensively when I asked, “Can I use your restroom?” He wouldn’t look at me and muttered, “Uh, no…well, no it’s not clean and well–” I cut him off, “I used your bank machine, I’m pregnant, and you’re not going to let me use your bathroom?” “The floor is very wet,” he started to say, “You might slip on it and–” I turned swiftly and walked away with a “Fine, whatever.” Maybe he had a point; perhaps the store’s bathroom was so embarrassingly disgusting the idea of a pregnant woman squatting over the toilet filled him with dread. But come on, this was a 7-eleven complete with a gas station–folks expect to be able to use their bathrooms. Interestingly enough, the bathroom I ended up using after being rejected by 7-eleven was a nasty, public park toilet by the arboretum that was missing its seat. Did that matter? Hell, no…

I’d love to say that I am able to feel less fragile at home, but unless Josh is around, I tend to feel nervous. The neighborhood has been scattered with bad activity–most of it north of us–but plenty of it disconcerting. Josh has been taking random overnight trips for work. I honor these trips–with the understanding that they will dwindle and die after the baby shows up for a while. Today a solicitor banged on my door twice and both times I hid. Normally, I wouldn’t care but I felt really bothered by the fact that the same person took the time to stop by twice and that he dared interrupt my nap. I was unable to fall back into my restful state so I made meatballs instead–which disappointingly led to lower back pain and foot soreness. (Aww, I can’t make meatballs without feeling the uncomforts of pregnancy?)

Baby Schlag is slowly running out of room and I can feel him trying to flip around with the same ease he used to. Instead he sloooowly rolls over, a foot flails out, and then he is very quiet. Occasionally I can sense his fists punching and sometimes little fingers tickling. Sometimes I try and try to make him move but he is very resistant. Is he sleeping? Is he being stubborn? Is he preoccupied with something inside the womb? “You’re like your dad already,” I say, dismayed. “Impossible to wake up once you’ve passed out.”

Nervously, I pull my friends closer. I try to go out and socialize. I’m blabbing to anyone in my prenatal yoga classes that look my way. I’m collecting emails and birth stories, quizzing women who are further along, have had children, who’ve been there. Pregnancy is the ultimate rationalization for things like my recent addiction to Columbia City Bakery’s Sicilian Prune Bars, sleeping in the middle of the bed, and reading whole works of Fiction in one weekend. I cheated and found myself snarfing down a bunch of soft brie cheese recently. This is a no-no because it is unpasteurized, but who cares…it tasted delicious. I’ve been listening to classical music day in and day out. Originally it was to block out all the bass in my neighborhood, but I find that when I’m home alone I don’t like a quiet house (and it reminds me of my parent’s home). Recently, I stumbled across the hideous VH1 reality tv show, Daisy of Love, and started watching the reruns. It’s the lowest of the low, a reality show of truly horrible proportions filled with fake breasts, teary confessionals, and total idiots. However, it merely fuels my recent sense of overindulgence. My sister-in-law gave me a fancy Dove chocolate bar along with two cute little onsies. The second she left I found myself eating the entire thing in three bites. Guilty pleasures don’t seem so guilty any more…