Leery Polyp

I Am Boring. Here Are Some Commercials.

Today I am confining myself to bed, since a visit to the pediatrician's office and a visit from the great-grandparents yesterday left me feeling like that grayish sock that made its way down the washing machine outflow and into the laundry sink drain, where it festered for days, clogging up the works, until Sean plunged it through and we could do laundry again. Yeah, not gonna miss this place.

And while I haven't yet worked up the energy to tell The Whole Story, which even still is gathering layers of meaning, I'll tell you that it is probably not a good idea to look at your stitches, if you have stitches. Because the intersection of "perfectly normal" and "horrifying" occurs there in the perineum, and while I am all for self-knowledge and empowered health care consumption, sometimes, it's better not to know. You'd just end up calling the midwife anyway, and hearing her husband chuckle in the background as she explains for the thousandth time in her career that yeah, they're supposed to look like that, and no, you don't have to look again.

I will also tell you that it is a very good idea to have these things around, if your nipples respond to a day or two's worth of marginal latch by bleeding and scabbing and generally refusing to play nice. They are worth every penny, and if it turns out that they cause syphilis or something, please don't tell me. I don't want to know.

I am also a fan of the My Brest Fiend pillow, even though I feel like I'm vending pretzels at a ball game when I strap it on.

Likewise the assortment of slings. All very good.

My favorite, though, and Sean's too, are the cloth diapers. We're using a service for the prefolds, and then we have some Bummis wraps and some LiteWraps we bought from the service. So far the LiteWraps win for comfort and poop containment, though we haven't had a leak yet (the fold of the cloth diaper inside makes a bunch of pockets that catch everything, very cool). We love them so much that when we ran low (service delivers on Thursday, and we only had a half-load), we washed a few ourselves rather than use the stash of disposables.

THE SOPHIA UPDATE

As of yesterday, she'd gained back her birth weight and then some: 8 pounds 5.5 ounces, hell yeah, with a new little double chin and extra-juicy cheeks, and the jaundice is pretty much gone. She's a week old, and her little mousie newborn squeaks have been replaced by very grown-up "ah...ah"s when she wants something. Sean has taught her to suck her thumb. Her umbilical cord fell off this morning. She's an enthusiastic nurser to the point of looking utterly deranged when she's latched on sometimes.

And me, I smell like the dairy crates behind the elementary school, where days' worth of leaked milk sat out in the sun.

It's a pretty sweet deal.

A Very Quick Post, and the Promise of More

Hi, everyone. Thank you so much for -- well, for everything. Things are inexpressibly lovely, here, with Sophia and Sean and both of our mothers, who are taking such good care of all of us. The world is taking such good care of us.

I will tell you the whole birth story when I get a chance; it was absolutely astonishing, like nothing I could have imagined or predicted. Afterwards I felt completely deconstructed, disintegrated. That's a difficult thing, but a very very good thing, a necessary thing. I have to laugh at myself, now, for ever thinking I understood anything about the world. Forgive me my naivete, universe. Laugh with me.

The reason nobody can tell you what childbirth is really like is that we lack the language for it. You can say it hurts, you can say it's hard, but those things are utterly meaningless, and anyway, I feel the amnesia taking hold: I can remember the sequence of events, but it's harder and harder to recall what I felt like when I begged for a cesarean (yes, I did), or how exactly I got my shit together enough to finally push her out. But I did, somehow.

So. It was an interesting birth, which should make the midwifey types among you laugh; midwives often pray, before a birth, not to learn anything new. I am so grateful I have the midwife I do, skilled beyond belief, tough and soft and brilliant; there is no way I could have done this without her. Her instincts were excellent. The hospital's attending CNM learned a few things, I think, but these two midwives worked together seamlessly, along with the rest of the staff, a rare gift in an emergency transfer to an unknown hospital. Midwifery and medicine knit together perfectly, in a way I feel blessed to be a part of. It's the bridge I was talking about, a few posts back; it does exist. I saw it. Without that perfect bridge I would have had a cesarean -- certainly not the end of the world, but that knowledge renders this birth all the more amazing to me.

Which brings me to an important point about all this. Obviously nobody wishes for an emergency transfer and excruciating pain. No, it wasn't the birth I wished for -- I wished for a baby to fall out of me, ripe and perfect, after a few gentle pushes; I wished for some pain but nothing I couldn't handle gracefully. Who wouldn't wish for these things?

This was so much bigger than that I can hardly think of where to start the story. And now I think: what a foolish thing for me to have wished for. This thing that happened, it was so enormous it blew me to bits, and for that I'm profoundly thankful, and humbled, and awestruck.

In the end, it was the birth I planned for. It was exactly the birth I planned for. And I am so grateful it happened exactly the way it did. I would not change a thing, and that is not something to say lightly, as you'll soon see.

But right now I have to attend to my own needs, and to those of the most mesmerizing creature I have ever seen (who is a little jaundiced and a little sleepy, and requires a lot of prodding to wake p and eat and to stay on the nipple, ouch). I'll work on the birth story, and then there will be an absence of posting for a while -- we are moving in a little over a week, and will not have an internet connection until mid-September.

I am just awash in gratitude.

After the media blackout

I'm sure you have all chawn right through your fingernails a long while ago, and are now somewhere around your elbow-bones, but we here have some wonderful news, and enough post-materials to last many a month.

To the point:  Sophia Hazel was born on August 23rd at 7:14am.  The lovely Jo went into labor around noon on the 22nd.  It was a long road, and involved a hospital transfer at midnight (racing down cobblestone roads in the midwife's car), two hours of pushing (and I mean PUSHING, oh my fucking god).  We were destroyed, and then she emerged, and she is wonderful and beautiful and tiny and oh my god what a little monkey.

The stats: 8 lbs, 3 oz., 20 inches, blue eyes, light brown hair, sweet disposition.  We are at home right now, just finished a feeding session and had our first wet diaper (not including the one the nurses changed while she was in the nursery).

Here is a delightful preview: Jo & Sophia; Me & Sophia... best to y'all, Jo will post soon.

There Is A Lot of Yelling in This Post

As you can imagine, I am doing some frantic Googling today, and digging out all my doula and midwifery books, the only ones we haven't packed, in an effort to JUST FUCKING DEAL with the situation at hand.

I have to tell you, my usual sources are infuriating me right now.

On the subject of pitocin induction (a possibility after Monday), anything with a vaguely natural bent discusses the cons of pitocin use, which I ALREADY KNOW GODDAMNIT, and then suggests rather smugly that "natural induction methods" be tried first, before resorting to the pit. "Try walking, nipple stimulation, sex, or even castor oil," they counsel, and I shriek like a bird of prey, because I DID THOSE THINGS ALREADY AND HAVE BEEN DOING THEM FOR A SOLID MONTH AND JESUS GAY I AM STILL PREGNANT EXCEPT NOW I HAVE VERY SORE NIPPLES AND I HAVE WORN THE TREAD OFF MY SHOES AND OH YES MY ASS HURTS.

So maybe some source could offer some help? Dealing with those cons of pitocin use? Some suggestions for protocol to offset the abnormally painful contractions, the decreased between-contraction oxygenation period, the need for constant monitoring?

This was all I could find.

I still have some textbooks to dig through, but really. This is what I'm talking about when I gripe about the gulf between the medical model and the midwifery model, and how they should be learning from each other. Medicine offers no compassion and no evidence-based protocols for offsetting problems without creating other problems, and the crunchy natural world seems to be refusing to consider a need for medical intervention, or at least unwilling to help mitigate the transition.

All the medical sources are utterly useless here, because the answer to the possibility of increased contraction pain is of course the epidural and maybe some opiates, which kind of doesn't address the oxygenation and fetal well-being issues very well, and to the increased chance for fetal distress, their ace in the hole is the cesarean. So basically there is no middle ground. There's a gap where there should be a bridge.

There's always the Monday Protocol, sort of the hail-mary play of midwives, which involves a lot of cervical fiddling, amniotomy, a final round of castor oil (which does seem to get me started pretty well). I don't like the idea of amniotomy, particularly not coupled with the castor oil -- I think it will make for a more uncomfortable labor than would happen "naturally," and it certainly carries its own set of risks -- but it is still, for me, preferable to the alternative, and so I consent. At least this way I can be in my home, with my animals, my stuff. My chosen birth attendants who can be trusted not to irritate me; my guard down.

I don't know. I have long been of the opinion that pitocin labor is outside the range of what the body will do on its own, and therefore often beyond the reach of the natural coping mechanisms, and therefore something that if not necessitates certainly encourages the use of pharmaceutical pain relief. That applies to me; I'm tough but Wonder Woman I am not. I have no objections to pain medication used to manage a pitocin labor, in my own case, because I believe it is compassionate use, and even with all the information regarding risks and benefits at my disposal, I would consider it an option.

I just really, really don't want to find out what's down that road.

If I get there, I'll deal; but I don't want to have to. I'll accept it, but I don't like it, and I don't have to.

* * * * *

Whoever pointed out that being postdates and a reluctant laborer is a lot like being infertile made a very astute observation. Either way you are assaulted (and I'm not talking about you, nice commenters, I'm talking about every damn message board on the internet) with poorly spelled exhortations to do the following: 1) Relax; 2) Eat pineapple; 3) Have lots of sex; 4) Do all kinds of random shit like have a fight with your significant other or clip your toenails or eat a certain dish or drink a special tea or take a magic tincture or oil.

You will also find yourself in the company of mouth-breathing dingbats (well, I assume, since they're typing) who say things like, "DH and I have been TTC for two whole months and I am still not PG! Im so depressed!" and "I'm 37 weeks preggie and am SO TIRED of being PREGGO! Can anyone recommend some way to start labor?"

Perhaps a sharp stick in the eye would do the trick.

Their successful counterparts include the woman who went to see Beaches for the fourth time and finally got knocked up on the third try and is now recommending without irony Bette Midler as a fertility aid, and the one who finally went into labor (three whole days after her due date!) when she ate an entire bag of brown sugar and had sex with her obstetrician instead of an internal, and is now attempting to sell the rights to her new book (I Had A Baby, You Can Too!) to a publisher.

And either way you'll find yourself awash in uncharitable thoughts about these people with no real grasp of cause and effect or appropriate medical expectations. These people who think the plural of "anecdote" is "data," who have only a weak grasp on the basic principles of punctuation, and who offer such dire gems as, "do not take castrol oil it is poinsounus and will cause your baby to do a bowel movement insdie of you and it will get inside them and kill them ask any dr" -- well, yes, Castrol is poisonous, I guess. I shouldn't criticize.

Also there was a woman who attempted to blame castor oil for the persistent "excessive smallness" of her child. She took the castor oil while she was "already in heavy labor" and the baby, born shortly thereafter, was an appallingly miniscule seven and a half pounds.

I can't prove it was the castor oil, she said, but you know, be careful and all that.

Yeah. Patience running out. There is no "lingering subconscious" here, as Spiritual Midwifery would put it; all ducks are in a row, emotionally, as much as they can ever be, and frankly I don't know that I buy the "mom holds the baby in" argument any more than I buy the "you'll get pregnant when you're really ready" story.. The house is cleaner than any place I've ever lived, and all preparations for the coming move have been made, and I'm comfortable in my space. I've walked miles, eaten outlandish things, twiddled my damn nipples to the point of soreness, taken double doses of castor oil not once but twice, and for good measure, I massage myself with rose and clary sage essential oil. I work Spleen 6 until I have a big bruised pit, I alternate hot and cold water in the shower, I visualize and breathe. Hell, I even go into labor for a bit. My Bishop score is NINE, for the love of God.

I'm sort of at the bottom of my emotional reserves, and not inclined to do much other than wait. 42 weeks tomorrow.

We Can All Safely Go to Bed Now

And not because I had a baby, either.

You know if I'm posting, it's because we stalled out like a driver's ed stickshift. Apparently the back pain is mine to keep, but anything identifiable as contractions has stopped.

Tomorrow I will hang out, go swimming, eat good food. And then on Monday, my midwives will descend upon me to perform horrible heathen rituals in a last-ditch attempt to eject the recalcitrant baby before the deadline consigning me to the (granted, pretty decent) hospital.

Also? I barely pooped at all from the extra-large dose of castor oil. I -- I don't understand.

labor!

Hi all,

Sean here... which is good news for those constant refreshers, as it means me lovely wife can't post this herself.  Labor has begun.  No way to know how long to go.  Jo is doing wonderfully; and we gots the support going on.  No midwives yet, not time for that yet.  Probably soon though.

Marta just stopped by with a delightful sack of goodness, full of supplies for us weary monkeys, much deliciousness therein.  Bless her (munch munch).

Best to you all,
if I am directed again, I'll post again later, otherwise perhaps you will just be notified of outcome.

smell you later

Waiting, Waiting, Waiting

The herb store down the street is, somewhat predictably, going out of business (after a total of maybe three months), meaning that everything, all their lovely handmade infused oils and combination tinctures and tea blends are selling for 50% off. I got a jar of First Aid Balm that would do Susun Weed proud: it's plaintain, comfrey, chickweed, lavender, and other things as well in a beeswax and organic almond oil base. And it was seven bucks. (We also got the kind bud version of organic catnip, and the cat is seeing trails and falling off things and insisting that Cheech and Chong are comic geniuses, maaaaan.)

I applied it proactively, to, ahem, seal the basement, before the morning's Horrible Julius, and am thrilled to report I am considerably more comfortable than last time.

However.

I made the usual pre-Julius call to the midwife, just to make sure no one else was on the verge of foaling; at 5 a.m. we were good to go. Went back to sleep until the phone rang at 7:30 -- another woman had gone into labor. "She'll probably be done in three hours or so, judging by last time," my midwife said. "And both of us are available, so there's nothing to worry about" -- there are two midwives, one apprentice, and a variety of local backups -- "but hold off on that second dose until we call you, okay?"

You got it.

Sean and Gretchen were sorely disappointed, as someone had just instructed them to press the pause button on Christmas morning for several hours, but I have to admit I felt...reprieved. It's the second dose that leaves you torn up, man. Just as soon put it off, since it isn't really time-sensitive.

Again, though, not so bad this time: a brief rumbling in the belly, some liquidy unpleasantness, nasty but painless -- thanks to the balm, no burning. Also I have found that a (never used) squirt bottle from Ricky's, intended for applying the Punkiest of Colour to one's bleach-stripped hair, works really well for hosing off the fundament with warm tap water. It's very punk rock in my bathroom right now.

I'm sorry, was there anything else you wanted to know about my ass? Now is probably a good time to ask. I seem to be very forthcoming.

Feeling: mild contractions, the urge to walk to the post office, and seething jealousy for a woman who went into labor ON her due date, on her own.

UPDATE: I actually begged the midwife to let me take a larger dose of castor oil this time, three ounces instead of the usual two, since I seem to be impervious to its effects. Also, I did not go to the post office (for change of address forms, since we are moving on September 3). But I will take another walk.

The Profile, or, Gee, Your Placenta Smells Terrific

I must have made a hell of an amazing placenta. Ten out of ten on the biophysical profile. Lots o' amniotic fluid, nice moving-around baby, excellent reactive heart rate (especially after I slugged some orange juice. Like meth! For fetuses! Except, um, not like meth at all! But. Yes. I digress). It's pretty nice in there, turns out. I wouldn't be in a hurry to leave either. We're good to wait a few more days, and the hospital turned out to be very pleasant and not at all freaky, and my blood pressure was 106/68, so I must not have been too upset by the ordeal.

What else, what else...I stopped by one of the midwives' houses for a Jiffy Lube-n-Cervical Check, and after an internal, she brought us out to the garden and started handing us tomatoes, basil, zucchini, cucumbers, then picked a bouquet of zinnias. We pulled eggs, still warm from their respective chickens, out of the nesting boxes; then we went on our way with instructions to spend the day lolling around and letting my ass recover. Best advice was to give it a day or two and then do the castor oil again if I wanted to; no hurry, she assured us. Didn't have to do the castor oil at all; only if we wanted to. She talked about the Farm, Ina May, what kind of luck they had with castor oil. The second round does it for sure, most of the time.

So: barring the beginning of labor on my own, I think I'll be doing the castor oil again. I have to say it was not nearly as bad as I'd feared; no gut-wrenching cramps, no near-vomiting, just the Pyroclastic Flow and resulting Singed Asshole that caused me to break into the California Baby diaper rash cream. I am happy to report that it does not sting when applied to compromised tissue, and feel like quite the Consumer Reports mother for testing it out on myself before subjecting a baby to its calendula charms.

Now we have a Mason jar full of the most perfect zinnias, a huge basket of ripe home-grown tomatoes, green peppers that smell so good I want to eat them like apples, and enough zucchini for three loaves of zucchini bread. It's a beautiful late summer day, sunny but not too hot. We got to visit some chickens. And, at some point over the next few days, I'm going to have a baby.

Dammit.

Sixty to Zero

No baby yet.

Nice strong early labor -- poof. Evaporated overnight.

Going to biophysical profile now.

Signed,

The Woman Who Was Impervious to Castor Oil and Stayed Pregnant Forever

Castor and Bollocks

"Oh, it's not so bad," I told my midwife, when the effects of dose #1 started to kick in. "I had worse from Taco Bell last week." Which was true; I had to haul my pregnant ass through the mall to get to a bathroom I subsequently cleared. I was expecting titanic intestinal cramps, but all I got was, as one of you put it, the squirts.

"Hmm. Well, go ahead and take the next dose," she told me. "Call when anything happens."

Piece of cake, I thought. The first dose had gone down easily, mixed with a little bit of orange juice and some vanilla ice cream. If you'd been served such a thing at Orange Julius, you'd have gotten your $1.89 back, but the overall effect was that of eating (and belching up) a cheap lipstick, Wet 'n' Wild or maybe Artmatic, some skanky store brand heavy on the castor oil.

Halfway through the second dose, not nearly as tolerable going down (though a straw placed far back in the mouth allowed me to get it down without being too aware of the...greasiness), I realized I had to run for the crapper. Now.

Since then I seem to have run through the first dose, and while it's a little gross, what with the way the oil proceeds unchanged through your intestines and exits, oily as it came in, leaving a ring of fire in its wake, it's honestly not as bad as what happens when I have, say, salad and a latte. Perhaps I am inured to diarrhea. Who knew that was a useful thing?

I am, however, having frequent if not especially powerful contractions. And the second dose hasn't kicked in yet.

Anyway, recommendations for those who wish to give it a go themselves include use of a straw, placed toward the back of the tongue, and several boxes of Tucks, or possibly a bottle of Formula 409, on hand. Because you're going to want something to cut that grease, back there.

I am going to take a nap, since I woke up Godzilla-cranky at six this morning after a night of uncomfortable and ultimately unproductive contractions, and nonstop reflux, and sore hips. Sean and my sister Gretchen have cleaned and fixed up the house, and my only job right now is to make it to the toilet in time, and, I hope, to push out a somewhat reluctant Lord (or Lady) Squirmulon.

More updates as events warrant. Your good wishes and, um, astonishing vigilance (refresh! refresh!) are so very much appreciated, I can't even tell yas.