The Teeth-Brushing Test

A while back, I got on a mailing list for the catalogues publishers send out to advertise books for first-year reading programs. I get the sense that they really push these books hard because if they can get a school to assign a title for a whole incoming cohort of freshmen, it's a sale of 500 books (or in the case of a big school, 5,000) rather than a paltry one-class set of 25. The catalogues are really nice, with lots of descriptions and excerpts and blurbs, and they make it super-easy to get a ton of exam copies. Also, the books are targeted for a general audience, and lots of them are bestsellers in fiction and non-fiction, so they make for interesting reading.

And who doesn't love free books? Strangely, I find myself drawn more to non-fiction than fiction when reading the catalogues. In the past year, I've ordered books about teaching/teachers/schools, food experiments (a year of living on a local food diet, along with some Michael Pollan), the culture of medicine, essays by famous and non-famous people on their personal beliefs, memoirs of living with illness, and other assorted topics. I've read some of them through, and it's odd, but even though the non-fiction attracts me most when I read about it (in the catalogue), it never quite feels the same as reading fiction.

When I'm working my way through a novel, each section I read feels like a segment of highway on a long road trip, and with the best books, I feel like I'm in good company. I always loved driving long distances with one or two good friends, having the opportunity to talk and eat road-trip food and discover local curiosities. Even when I don't like parts of a novel, reading it still feels like miles are passing by--if it's slow, it's like being in construction or on a detour, where I wonder if the time is worthwhile, but I'm still hoping that the trip will ultimately pay off.

Reading non-fiction, apart from a few memoirs that stand out as exceptions, feels more like research. I don't know why, since lots of the non-fiction I've been reading is elegantly crafted and pleasant to read. But somehow, when I'm finished, I mostly remember an argument or two, and when I'm reading, I feel as if I'm on a search for something, and I'd just prefer to find it as efficiently as possible. I don't feel drawn back into a non-fiction book every night the way I do with a novel, and non-fiction rarely calls out to me in such a way that I need to keep reading while brushing my teeth.

The Labor Non-Movement

I always thought that labor was a state that you went into at a discrete moment (with "My water just broke!" or "I'm having contractions--honey, it's time!"), usually within about 24 hours of actually giving birth. I didn't realize that a person could have contractions pretty much ALL day, EVERY day, varying only in timing and intensity, for WEEKS on end (4 weeks and counting). They have been as regular as every 4 minutes for several hours, and I've had individual contractions that have lasted as long as ELEVEN minutes.

So, I'm not sure how I'll really know that I'm in labor until the very end of the process, which is what happened with AC--except that we happened to be at the hospital already that time. Sam has a picture where I'm smiling and waving, about 7 or 8 cm dilated, and not really uncomfortable yet. The nurses would ask me to rate my pain, and I would say, "Um, I don't know? 2?" partly because I was too embarrassed to say "zero." That part of the labor was great.

But the part that haunts me is the 15 minutes when I went from minor discomfort to frantically scrambling around in the bed and calling out in abject terror, "I need to push--now!" I don't want to have that moment at home this time. But even home, with the comfort of my own bathtub that I am keeping scrupulously clean these days, would be better than 5) an ambulance, 4) the front seat of the truck, now that carseats take up the whole backseat, 3) my own car, with only AC as birth attendant, 2) the grocery store/Starbucks (the only places I go these days), or The Big Number One Place I Do Not Want To Give Birth: class.

Hanging In There

So, no baby yet, and even though in an emotional sense, I can't wait to see her, in a practical sense, we are hugely thankful for every day that she stays in there where she belongs.

I haven't been able to concentrate on work to the extent that I had hoped; I've gotten some writing and work on my spring class done almost every day, but I've definitely been distracted by the false labor episodes. My mom asked me yesterday morning, "So, are you pretty sure that we won't be driving out there today?" and I had to say that I simply have no way of knowing, minute to minute. Today I had few contractions, but then a series of strong ones for an hour or two. Thursday, when they were pretty constant all day, I was hesitant to even put something in the slow cooker in case we wouldn't be around to eat it. I see a lot of quick foods in our future.

Plus, I've been trying to take it easy, and Allison Clare thus has been allowed to watch all the Sesame Street that she feels so bitterly denied of in her regular life (we usually let her watch just a little at the end of the day, while I'm getting dinner). We bought her a volume of old Sesame Street episodes for Christmas, and the set includes the pilot, which is kind of weird and hilarious. Big Bird has a pinhead, and they clearly haven't worked out the kinks of his character yet--he's kind of a doofus. Gordon has big curvy sideburns, and--get this--Oscar is orange. My confinement has been very educational.

Doing the Math

[35 weeks @ (80% effaced x 2 cm dilated)] x 100% insomniac = completely counterproductive

Argh. At least we're 80% ready for the baby (in the absolute minimal sense) after a burst of probably ill-advised activity today . . . the rest will have to wait until AC is awake since some of the things that need to be sorted out are in her room.

I wish the new baby would sit tight for another week, ideally two, so we could be more confident she was really ready. AC was born 10 days before her due date, which was still full-term. If this baby is born within the next couple of weeks, she will be a late-term preemie (i.e., probably fine in the long run, but more risk of complications and a longer hospital stay). I just looked back at this blog and saw that last time I posted that I was 80% effaced, I gave birth less than 12 hours later. Yikes. I was more dilated then, and it doesn't really mean anything for sure anyway, but I really can't imagine that she's going to hang out for another 5 weeks until her actual due date.

I'm less worried about the birth itself than the orchestration of the logistics. AC was born so quickly that I feel like we need to be able to activate our plan for childcare and get to the hospital superfast, at any moment (last time, I didn't have painful contractions until I was almost 9 cm dilated, and I was pushing within about 45 minutes--fortunately, we were already at the hospital following up on a routine appointment that day . . . this was a blessing but has me somewhat fearful of giving birth without warning at home, in the car, or worst of all, in public). Since my parents live a day's drive away, AC's angelic babysitter, who is like a member of our family and one of AC's favorite people in the world, is on call and already has a bag packed in her car. And in case we have to head to the hospital with AC in tow, our friends who have a toddler (and hence a toddler carseat) are also on backup call so that they can pick her up and drive her back to our house if necessary.

Of course, the second labor could be completely different--this baby could decide to cozy in after all until 40 or 41 weeks, or she might position herself in such a way that I have a much longer labor, or my water could break at a different stage in labor. Who knows. She already seems different from AC. Maybe it's silly even to say, but she kicks differently. AC would push her feet under my ribs hard, or pound frantically like she was trying to bust out, or rest for long periods with barely any movement; this baby rolls around gently and quietly and almost constantly, in a very reassuring and peaceful way.

Even though I'd like her to stay inside for longer, I also can't wait to meet her.

Not Such a Very Big Sister

People often ask me if Allison Clare is excited about her new sibling. The answer, unfortunately, is no, not at all. She just doesn't understand things that far out of her frame of reference--or rather, we can't communicate them to her. In fact, she seems to think our family is pretty complete the way it is; she especially loved a Christmas tree ornament of ours that showed a snowman family . . . she would point to each figure and say, "Daddy, Mama, Baby" with a triumphant emphasis on the last one, as if to say, "That's all you need."

Recently, she happened across the musical toy bar to her bouncy seat, which I had gotten out of storage for the new baby, and we had yet another conversation in which I tried, futilely but gamely, to prepare her even a tiny bit for how her life is going to change.

AC (fixated on toy bar): Song! Play! La la la.

Me: Yes, do you know who is going to play with that toy?

AC: Prin! [Her babysitter.]

Me: No, not Prin. Gillian*!

AC: Gin!

Me: Yes, do you know who Gillian is? Gillian is your sister.

AC: Friend!

Me: Yes, Gillian is your friend who is in Mommy's tummy.

AC looks down at her own tummy.

Me: She's in Mommy's tummy.

AC kisses my stomach.

Me: That's nice. Thank you!

AC raises her own shirt and points to her own tummy: Baby. Kiss baby.

Me: No, you don't have a baby in there.

AC, insistently: Mama, kiss baby. Baby!

Me: No baby, but I'll kiss your tummy, silly. You are going to love Gillian, and she is going to love you.

AC (spying something she discarded earlier and rolling off my lap to pursue it): Spoon! Find spoon!

Sorry, Jilly. Your sister may find an orange plastic spoon more interesting than news of your arrival, but your Mommy and Daddy are very excited to meet you.

*Working title

4:30 a.m.

Four or five months of responding to night terrors (and trying multiple times some nights to decide which cries will resolve on their own) are almost worthwhile when you go in to her room at the behest of a bloodcurdling scream, her arms go around your neck, she calms down, and as you lay her back down, she says sleepily, "All gone sad."

Possibly Irritable, but Not Incompetent

I don't generally like to call doctors' offices and ask questions; I hate feeling like an anxious, hysterical patient. But yesterday I called my OB's office (very calmly) because I've been having some contractions for about a week and a half, and they had gotten fairly constant and strong. I probably would have just assumed they were Braxton Hicks contractions except that last time, I was making that assumption a few hours before AC was born. So, since we didn't want to be taken by surprise by a little preemie arriving 7 weeks early (how un-Fee-like of her!), I figured it would be better to be safe than sorry.

Anyway, I talked to the call nurse about the contractions, and it was marginally helpful (Dr. B. was much more precise and helpful later--it's nice to have a friend who is married to someone in such a useful profession). But one of the things the nurse told me was that if I was a bit dehydrated, my "uterus could get a little irritable" and contract. For some reason, this completely cracks me up. I just picture my uterus getting really hissy and annoyed, and deciding she is fed up and taking matters into her own hands with regard to this houseguest ("You expect me to keep her here for nine months and you don't even give me anything to drink! Well, I've had it!"), until I do something to placate her, like lying down, resting, and getting her some tea.

It made me think about the language applied to these things--I've also heard of a problem called an "incompetent cervix," where the cervix can't hold the baby inside. It struck me as funny that one's reproductive organs could be called "irritable" and "incompetent," as if they were unhelpful retail clerks being judged by an exasperated clientele. I don't know if there is really a counterpart in terms of masculine physiology, except for "impotent," which strikes me as also gendered. I guess we expect men's organs to be powerful, and women's to do their jobs and be nice while at it.