Let The Wild Rumpus Start

Naomi was generously gifted with a big treasury of children's literature a few days ago (as a consolation for having lost forever the undiluted love and devotion of her parents), and it includes Where the Wild Things Are, a book I remember but that she has never read before. We read it together TWO times only, and since then she has been going around saying "I'll eat you all up!" and, more hilariously, "Let the wild rumpus start!" Seems like a good name for the "how it all went down" post that has been long forthcoming. So here it is.

In the interest of full disclosure, I wrote the complaint post about waiting for the ol' mucuous plug the day before the fourth of July, but then didn't post it until the day after. So right about the time I was posting it (can't remember now if it was before or after), the newly named "Red Curtain" actually did descend (thanks to M.T. for that), and gave me a genuinely giddy thrill. I had been having contractions that seemed more like the real thing to me since the night before, but they were not so strong as to keep me awake all night, so I had a decent amount of sleep. I called in sick to work, hoping that would validate my hopes, and hung around the house wearing an old sundress that was not maternity wear, but still fit over my belly, somehow. A picture of that would liven up the story; alas, no such picture exists.

Taking the day off was a good plan, not only because my contractions were getting stronger and more frequent, but also because all the preparations I had made for having the baby had kind of all worn off- that is, the clean bathroom and kitchen were no longer clean, the sheets needed a wash, etc. So it was housework and contractions for most of the day. We had been timing the contractions on and off during the day, and in the late afternoon, it started to look like things were standardizing a bit. Jim went to get Naomi at daycare, and I called my midwife, who said that six or seven minutes apart really wasn't that different from five minutes apart, and that I should plan to go into the hospital at 8:30 that night for a check. She said that if I was progressing, I could just stay and make things happen, and if I wasn't progressing, they would give me something to help me sleep through the night. As a person who is fairly committed to natural childbirth, I am embarrassed at how delighted I felt at the prospect of getting some morphine. It sounded great!

Our friend and designated toddler caregiver headed over to our house while I fed Naomi her dinner. I had a nice big contraction while trying to eat my PB&J, and Naomi said, "Mommy, why are you making that mad face?" Heh. I managed to keep the really hearty moaning in check until she got into bed. Then, it was all moaning all the time. Like every three minutes. Youch. Naomi went to bed at 7:30. Our friend arrived around the same time.

Jim and I left for the hospital just before 8:00 pm. I should mention that our garage door had broken the day before, though not completely (now it is completely broken), and Jim had figured out he could get the thing to close by pushing the button and then manually forcing it past the sticking point. So as we left for the hospital, there was a bit of slapstick as I attempted to follow his pantomime for when I should push the button again as he tried to force the thing down, his fingers with a spare grip on the tiny ridges of the door. Super duper absurd. I finally threw the button thingy at him, and he managed to get the door closed enough, and we departed. The drive to the hospital was very much like the drive to the hospital in movies or tv shows that feature a birth, except that we did not get pulled over. I was yelling away in the front seat, Jim was patting my leg and gritting his teeth. Exciting! And despite being in what was probably the transition phase of labor, I still managed to backseat drive on where we should park.

I should back up a bit and explain that the single most effective pain management technique during the last marathon go-round was being in the tub. I sat in there for a long time, and felt pretty good about it. When we toured the birthing center for this one, I was instantly smitten by the big giant whirlpool tub in each birthing room. Awesome. So during our trip to the hospital (which I felt fairly certain was going to be the real trip, not just a check and morphine shot trip), I sustained myself by imagining how much better I was going to feel once I got into that giant tub.

Just as we were arriving at the check-in desk, a woman who had been sitting in the waiting area got up and strode to the desk, effectively cutting us off from the attention of the receptionist. Then I had a contraction, and the companions of the woman made some significant throat clearing noises, she backed off, and the receptionist said some inane thing about me looking uncomfortable, but that she would get us back there as soon as the contraction was over. She told us to go to room 605, which I only remember because when we got to 605, the sheets were all in a big pile, and there was a guy mopping. The mopping guy said, "You're probably going to be in 606, because that one is clean." Hooray- I didn't have to wait for the guy to finish mopping.

I knew they had to strap the monitors on me for a while when I first got there, but I was very discouraged when the nurse (who had absolutely no sense of urgency whatsoever) told me that it would have to be for half an hour before I could get in the tub. Woe! She tried to get a urine sample from me, but despite following all advice on staying hydrated, it was not happening. As she hooked me up, she started explaining all that she would have to do to get the tub ready (fill it up, run it to get the jets all cleaned, drain and wipe down, refill). I felt more and more discouraged. Somehow the goal had switched for me, from having a baby to getting into the giant tub. And this nurse did not want me to reach my goal.

The gown was on, the monitors were strapped on, and it was time for the exam/assault. The nurse seemed flummoxed when she reached her entire arm up somewhere near my esophagus and then admitted that she was "having trouble" finding my cervix. Ow, I said, over and over. The last time I remember looking at the clock, it was quarter to nine, and I am pretty sure I said something to Jim about how I still had fifteen minutes to go on my "strip" (monitoring) before they would let me into the tub. Things started to whirl around a little. Some other nurse started poking me in the wrist, saying she was starting an IV. I remember asking why I needed an IV, and she said something about their protocol, and getting pitocin after the delivery. News to me. Someone said something about making sure my midwife was on her way, and then there was some banter about who else was available (no one!). The nurse said to let her know if I was feeling pushy. I was feeling pushy! But the nurse seemed not to believe me. Everything felt like total chaos. I decided to keep my eyes closed for a while.

Then I heard the voice of my midwife. She said, "I know you had to push a long time the last time, and I just want you to know, it's not going to be like that this time." Someone said something about seeing hair (yikes), and my midwife said if I wanted to push, I could. Someone made the usual offer of reaching down to touch her head, which I politely refused. So I pushed. About three times, I think. And then, there was the baby. Just like that! We got to the hospital at 8:15 or so, and Muriel was born at 9:03. Huzzah!

That's it for the birth story. Sorry for any details that seem too detailed. Life with Muriel in our family has been really pleasant so far, so, more on that another time...

4th of July

It's funny to try to figure out how to explain the Fourth of July to a two year old, since I am not inclined to raise her believing that our country is superior to all others for reasons both earned and pre-ordained by God. Which reminds me, can someone explain the bumper sticker I have seen on a few different cars lately, that has a swoop of stars and stripes, and says "Power of Pride"? I have so many questions about the meaning of this slogan, I don't even know where to start. So if it is in fact the name of a drum corps or something, please tell me that so I can just let it go. But back to Independence Day. We talked about how it is like a birthday celebration for our country, the USA. Naomi, who likes to hear us talk, apparently, then asked what the name of some other countries are. Hee.

Where I am going with this is a general question of whether you are starting down a certain path if you focus on how you celebrate something and leave until later the question of why you are celebrating. Because a lot of Fourth of July activities are super fun, and talking about them in advance (and even learning about them when you are too young to stay up late enough to take part in them) is part of the fun, too. I don't know why we have parades on the Fourth of July, but we do. I am not sure what the apple pie thing is about, but yum, I made one! (It was ugly but tasted good.)

Anyway, yesterday was an amazingly beautiful day, and we went north one exurb to Kirkland for breakfast and the Fourth of July parade. We have a library book about a Fourth of July parade, so I knew Naomi would be into it, but seriously, it was like she had been waiting her whole life to be an appreciative spectator of a Fourth of July parade. She clapped and shouted hooray and waved.

The first part of the parade is the Children's Parade, wherein Kirkland's forty thousand children (seriously, it went on and on and on) pass by on their scooters and bikes and Barbie Power Wheels Corvettes, all decorated up with sparkly red, white, and blue doodads. Naomi kept saying, "Hooray for the children!" Ha!

Despite my problematic relationship with patriotism, I still cried outright when the World War II former POWs went by. Damn!

All the veterans got a lot of applause. After the veterans came a bunch of corvettes, each carrying a member of the Little League Championship team from like 1982, or something. Which means a bunch of 39 year old guys, riding above a blown up photo of themselves, age twelve. Weird. Coming as they did right after the WWII POWs, they didn't get quite as good a reception. There was some gigantic military vehicle (a Striker?) covered with signs that said "Support our Troops- and their Mission." Remember the sucker's choice? Sheesh.

My favorite parts of the parade? The retirement home group was awesome, with a couple of Rascal scooters and a fully ambulatory Statue of Liberty impersonator leading the way, and the retirement home bus (complete with shaded windows) following behind, clearly packed with residents, bringing up the rear. Yea!

And shortly after them- the DeLorean club. Hee!

Naomi's favorite was all the marching bands. She loves her some marching bands! The inner band geek in me is, well, geeked. Happy Birthday, USA. Thanks for letting us assemble peacefully, bedecked in patriotic colors.

Mucous Plug? Or Bloody Show?

I begin this entry with a disclaimer that I know I am extremely
fortunate to be right on the verge of having a most likely healthy and
wonderful baby. Indeed, I am lucky. Please know that I know it, and forgive
the subsequent complaining. That said, the ninth month (or, as I am just
now entering it, the tenth month) of pregnancy is a virtual playground
of delights. Profuse sweating in strange, unmentionable places. Joint
pain in joints I normally never give a thought to. Irrational fears
about all kinds of things. Weird, unprecedented facial acne. Swollen
fingers. Grouchiness. When I read through this list, I realize I really don't
have it so bad. But it's funny that this magical time should be
dominated by me looking out for the sign of labor with two name options, both
of which are pretty gross. So I'm opening up the phones for a "Rename
the Bloody Show" contest- if you can think of a more pleasant and
auspicious name for the mucuos plug, I want to hear it.

The other interesting thing about being this pregnant is the weird
quality of becoming community property. People at work who normally never
speak to me, and often, in fact, completely random strangers will ask me
when I'm due and make other related comments to me. (Fortunately,
there has been no touching.) When my grouchiness is flaring up, I don't so
much like this. I know I am not super interesting on my own merits, but
now that I'm procreating, I'm good enough to chat with? When I am
feeling less grouchy, I know that's what lies beneath even the clumsy smart
ass comments ("Oh, that black dress is really slimming, ha ha!") is a
real excitement and joy at the prospect of a new life. People can't
seem to help themselves. So I hope I can focus on that part of it, and
less on the grouchy part of it. But really, I'm ready to just let the new
life out, to go back to being me, or at least, to having the baby on
the outside so that well-meaning strangers can speak directly to her
instead of me. Come on out, kiddo!