I reluctantly revealed my miraculous news to coworkers this week, recognizing that the extended bump on my frontside really couldn't be explained by weight gain alone any longer. Fortunately, the particular co-workers I talked to remember my last pregnancy, and know better than to ask for more details than I am willing to give them. I joked about not telling them at all and seeing how long any one of them could hold out until they finally asked, and then took my leave of them peacefully.
So far, so good.
There is, however, the Downstairs Contigent, a group of homebodies with nothing better to do who will be watching my belly with some delight and will not hesitate to ask me whether I am pregnant, when I am due, how I am feeling, what I am having, how much weight have I gained and whether or not I'll be coming back to work(most likely while I am in the middle of some work-related, concentration-requiring task). These are the people I am dreading. Not only are these irrelevant questions that are none of their business and set my teeth on edge, but they interfere with me doing my job. And I hate things which interfere with me doing my job.
In other news, the clinic that I go to continues to be disorganized and ditzy, with the result that at my last appointment the nurse took the urine sample, my weight, and blood pressure and only then made it apparent that she had no idea why I was there. "There's a pre-natal questionnaire attached to your paperwork," she said, "do you know why its there?"
I informed her that I had no idea how their forms worked and was unaware of the inner workings of the bureaucracy which would place them in certain places, but that I was here for my prenatal appointment as the forms under the questionnaire probably indicated. Mercifully, she left and the rest of the appointment went without incident.
As long as I don't get to the point where they're about to do the c-section but forget how to do it or what my due date actually is, we're probably alright.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Dressing is a Snap
During my last pregnancy, I stacked wood, hiked through the woods, shoveled snow, slogged through knee deep snow to string up sap tubing during sugaring season, and plowed our driveway using our John Deere tractor all the way up to the point of delivery (literally-- there was a snow storm the night we went to the hospital). In short you could say I was moderately active during the entire thing and I had no problems whatsoever except one--my pants kept falling down.
This is actually a common issue with what passes for clothes for women these days with the apparently persistent fad of having your pants come up to about your mid thigh but stopping short of covering your nether regions without extra help. I've begun avoiding this fashion for my professional appearance by shopping at used clothing stores, where old fashioned slacks meant to stay up have been abandoned by fashion-conscious women in favor of the butt-crack version. And for the outside work, which requires rugged, warm clothes, I usually just turn to the men's section.
Alas, it turns out they don't make maternity clothes for men. Nor do they make outdoor women's clothing for pregnant women. So what is a pregnant tomboy-farmer to do?
I posed this question to google and was heartened to find that I was not the only who noticed that maternity pants do not stay on. But the solutions ran short of the mark:
1) Wear work out pants. Fine for grocery shopping, lounging, power-walking, entertaining friends and family, doing dishes and sleeping in. Not so fine for trudging through snow, protecting legs from splintering wood or scratchy briars. Verdict: Not Tomboy Certified.
2) Wear a sundress. Fine for summer, if you're hosting cocktail parties, which you probably aren't since you're not drinking. Not so good for winter, dirt, hiking, or anything else. Verdict: Not Tomboy Certified.
3) It's only for 9 months. Fine for those who think pregnancy is God's Gift to Womankind. Not so good for those of us who realize that 9 months is only 3 months shy of a year. Verdict: Not Tomboy Certified.
I did finally come upon one woman who mourned the fact that they don't make suspenders for pregnant women. For a while I wondered what a pregnant woman's pair of suspenders would look like, and then realized that the only people who ever wear suspenders are beer bellied men, and that actually therefore they are made for pregnant women.
So: My husband found me a nice pair of black suspenders which I am even now wearing under my shirt to prevent my pants from falling down, and fully intend to wear them whenever I need to venture outside. This year when I plow the snow, it won't fall down into my underwear, and I will be able to walk through the woods without stopping every two seconds to hitch my pants up. Maybe, if I start wearing them like my beer-bellied fellows, people won't even realize I'm pregnant. They'll just think I'm a long haired Santa Claus. Verdict: Tomboy Approved.
This is actually a common issue with what passes for clothes for women these days with the apparently persistent fad of having your pants come up to about your mid thigh but stopping short of covering your nether regions without extra help. I've begun avoiding this fashion for my professional appearance by shopping at used clothing stores, where old fashioned slacks meant to stay up have been abandoned by fashion-conscious women in favor of the butt-crack version. And for the outside work, which requires rugged, warm clothes, I usually just turn to the men's section.
Alas, it turns out they don't make maternity clothes for men. Nor do they make outdoor women's clothing for pregnant women. So what is a pregnant tomboy-farmer to do?
I posed this question to google and was heartened to find that I was not the only who noticed that maternity pants do not stay on. But the solutions ran short of the mark:
1) Wear work out pants. Fine for grocery shopping, lounging, power-walking, entertaining friends and family, doing dishes and sleeping in. Not so fine for trudging through snow, protecting legs from splintering wood or scratchy briars. Verdict: Not Tomboy Certified.
2) Wear a sundress. Fine for summer, if you're hosting cocktail parties, which you probably aren't since you're not drinking. Not so good for winter, dirt, hiking, or anything else. Verdict: Not Tomboy Certified.
3) It's only for 9 months. Fine for those who think pregnancy is God's Gift to Womankind. Not so good for those of us who realize that 9 months is only 3 months shy of a year. Verdict: Not Tomboy Certified.
I did finally come upon one woman who mourned the fact that they don't make suspenders for pregnant women. For a while I wondered what a pregnant woman's pair of suspenders would look like, and then realized that the only people who ever wear suspenders are beer bellied men, and that actually therefore they are made for pregnant women.
So: My husband found me a nice pair of black suspenders which I am even now wearing under my shirt to prevent my pants from falling down, and fully intend to wear them whenever I need to venture outside. This year when I plow the snow, it won't fall down into my underwear, and I will be able to walk through the woods without stopping every two seconds to hitch my pants up. Maybe, if I start wearing them like my beer-bellied fellows, people won't even realize I'm pregnant. They'll just think I'm a long haired Santa Claus. Verdict: Tomboy Approved.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Babies R' Us
The lobby of the Women's Health center contains tons of magazines for the patient who may be waiting awhile. In fact all the doctor and dental offices I've ever been have ample supply of reading material. Usually there's a healthy mix of junk (People), "women's" (Good Housekeeping, Fitness, etc), "men's" (Sports Illustrated) and general interest (NewsWeek, Time, National Geographic).
Women's Health? Well, they're dealing with Women, right? So clearly Sports Illustrated is out. But you'd expect to still find magazines which fit all interests and mental levels; a good mix of Good Housekeeping, a few Fit Pregnancies maybe, and a plethora of NewsWeek, Time, National Geographic; heck, a local newspaper would do.
Today, during my 45 minute wait for my 5 minute appointment, I sat in the lobby with nothing to read because the only concession the Women's Health Center lobby made to the mantra "Women are People with Brains Too" was a bland, badly edited edition of Skiing Magazine. The rest of the scattered reading material was on babies, more babies, having more babies, or trying to have more babies all the while keeping your house clean and your body thin and sexy after you have your babies so you can have even more babies. Don't worry about politics or current events, dear. We all know what stress does to the baby.
Being bored out my skull is much much better.
The appointment? This is what they did:
On Number Five, my husband made the mistake of trying to engage the doctor in the health care debate and so, while the sonogram dutifully recorded the baby's heartbeat, neither the doctor nor my husband were listening to it. These two would be the only interested parties, since I happen to know the baby is in there.
I cancelled a meeting for this?
Next time I'll mail them my weight, blood pressure, a urine sample and a recording of a baby's heartbeat, and skip the appointment altogether. I won't interrupt my workday, they can see more patients, and I can read Benjamin Franklin's biography in peace without feeling like a heterosexual tomboy freak of nature.
Women's Health? Well, they're dealing with Women, right? So clearly Sports Illustrated is out. But you'd expect to still find magazines which fit all interests and mental levels; a good mix of Good Housekeeping, a few Fit Pregnancies maybe, and a plethora of NewsWeek, Time, National Geographic; heck, a local newspaper would do.
Today, during my 45 minute wait for my 5 minute appointment, I sat in the lobby with nothing to read because the only concession the Women's Health Center lobby made to the mantra "Women are People with Brains Too" was a bland, badly edited edition of Skiing Magazine. The rest of the scattered reading material was on babies, more babies, having more babies, or trying to have more babies all the while keeping your house clean and your body thin and sexy after you have your babies so you can have even more babies. Don't worry about politics or current events, dear. We all know what stress does to the baby.
Being bored out my skull is much much better.
The appointment? This is what they did:
- took a urine sample
- weighed me
- took my blood pressure
- asked if I was okay
- listened to the baby's heartbeat
On Number Five, my husband made the mistake of trying to engage the doctor in the health care debate and so, while the sonogram dutifully recorded the baby's heartbeat, neither the doctor nor my husband were listening to it. These two would be the only interested parties, since I happen to know the baby is in there.
I cancelled a meeting for this?
Next time I'll mail them my weight, blood pressure, a urine sample and a recording of a baby's heartbeat, and skip the appointment altogether. I won't interrupt my workday, they can see more patients, and I can read Benjamin Franklin's biography in peace without feeling like a heterosexual tomboy freak of nature.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
When the Pig Flu
It's quite a novelty for me to be in the "risk factor" group for anything. I normally don't bother with the seasonal flu shot at all, let alone special supplementary flu shots of particularly virulent strains such as H1N1. But I'm not the only one deciding things like this these days. No, I don't mean the little 2.5 ounce fetus. I mean my husband.
So when the center called up and asked if I wanted to be one of the lucky few with a sore arm, I said sure. I even made an appointment for the next day.
A little while later, they called me back and said actually they didn't have any vaccine. Then they called back and said they might have some, so did I still want to come?
In my first pregnancy the OBGYN nurse emphatically urged me to get the seasonal flu shot. So I agreed and signed up at my work's flu shot clinic, only to be told that pregnant women couldn't get flu shots. I wish they'd get their story straight.
Anyway; the upshot is that I am still "unprotected" aside from my robust health and strong immune system, from swine flu, even though I am in the vaunted Top Four, even though the news media is pushing out stories daily of women and children breathing their last, and even though the hospital has some vaccine but maybe doesn't, they're not sure. I asked them to call me if they ever figure it out.
So when the center called up and asked if I wanted to be one of the lucky few with a sore arm, I said sure. I even made an appointment for the next day.
A little while later, they called me back and said actually they didn't have any vaccine. Then they called back and said they might have some, so did I still want to come?
In my first pregnancy the OBGYN nurse emphatically urged me to get the seasonal flu shot. So I agreed and signed up at my work's flu shot clinic, only to be told that pregnant women couldn't get flu shots. I wish they'd get their story straight.
Anyway; the upshot is that I am still "unprotected" aside from my robust health and strong immune system, from swine flu, even though I am in the vaunted Top Four, even though the news media is pushing out stories daily of women and children breathing their last, and even though the hospital has some vaccine but maybe doesn't, they're not sure. I asked them to call me if they ever figure it out.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Prenatally Yours
Towards the end of my first pregnancy, I figured out that being pregnant wasn't actually that bad, per se. It was all the other people that made pregnancy an unbearable bore.
Since we were able to successfully produce a competent, physically abled child the first time around despite our unhealthy lack of respect for doulas, midwives, pregnancy myths, childbirth classes, other people's perceptions and breastfeeding, we've decided to do it all over again, one more time, you know, just for fun.
This time, though, we've got an even more unhealthy lack of respect for the above mentioned items, and added to that we've already been through the whole entire process once before, so we're even less impressed when, say, during the first routine pee-in-a-cup routine, we get a panicked call from one of the hospital midwives sputtering that we have group b strep in our urine.
Oh my god!! Bacteria!! We're all gonna DIE! Quick! Go on antibiotics now! she screamed in my ear.
Turns out that group b strep bacteria is common and entirely harmless, except during the actual act of natural child birth, which occurs (perhaps you, like the midwife, are unaware of this) at the end of a pregnancy, approximately 9 months from when you first started. So not only is it unproductive to go on antibiotics for such an issue when you are only 3 weeks along, it turns out that in my case it is entirely unneccesary, since this time I am opting to trust modern medicine and go with a repeat c-section.
I explained this to the midwife, who listened politely and then informed me that was all very true but what if I went into labor early?
I asked her if she thought that a little group b strep bacteria would be my biggest worry if I happened to "go into labor" or, as we lay-people call it when we're in the first trimester, "miscarry," when I was only three weeks along.
Midwives, you see, tend not to be very logical.
A few weeks later, I saw the obstetrician, who confirmed that a) urinary tract infections, if I even had one which was unlikely, generally resolve themselves within 10 days, and b) that the group b strep antibiotic scenario was only effective at the time of labor. We left it at that. Things were going swimmingly until he tried to find the heartbeat, at which point concern furrowed his brow.
"At thirteen weeks we should be able to detect a heartbeat," he said, "I want to do an ultrasound."
"I'm only ten weeks, " I informed him, which went over his head. He's the doctor, right? If he says it's thirteen weeks, it's thirteen, even though you have to bend and warp the space-time continuum to do it. Whatever; I scheduled the ultrasound for the following week and went back to my full time job.
Two hours later, I get a frantic phone call from another nurse. "I can fit you in tomorrow!" she exclaimed.
"I didn't get a sense there was any urgency," I responded. "Anyway, I'm at work. I can't just slip out here and there for a quick ultrasound."
"But! He didn't detect a heartbeat!!" she said anxiously, unwilling, I guess, to tell me what this might actually mean.
"I see. So if I go in tomorrow as opposed to next week, there's a chance you can do CPR on it or something?" I asked.
She was horrified. Nurses, you see, have no sense of humor.
The ultrasound, by the way, turned up a fetus with a fully functional heart and a spot on date of 11 weeks, 0 days (in a rare generous move on my part, I resisted the urge to ask them to put that in big red letters so they'd stop asking me when the date of my last period was). Aside from my run-ins with the pre-natal medical community, things have been fine. No nausea, some fatigue, the usual. For the most part, life goes on as it always has. Until I have to tell everyone else, I'll be a happy, pregnant, camper.
Since we were able to successfully produce a competent, physically abled child the first time around despite our unhealthy lack of respect for doulas, midwives, pregnancy myths, childbirth classes, other people's perceptions and breastfeeding, we've decided to do it all over again, one more time, you know, just for fun.
This time, though, we've got an even more unhealthy lack of respect for the above mentioned items, and added to that we've already been through the whole entire process once before, so we're even less impressed when, say, during the first routine pee-in-a-cup routine, we get a panicked call from one of the hospital midwives sputtering that we have group b strep in our urine.
Oh my god!! Bacteria!! We're all gonna DIE! Quick! Go on antibiotics now! she screamed in my ear.
Turns out that group b strep bacteria is common and entirely harmless, except during the actual act of natural child birth, which occurs (perhaps you, like the midwife, are unaware of this) at the end of a pregnancy, approximately 9 months from when you first started. So not only is it unproductive to go on antibiotics for such an issue when you are only 3 weeks along, it turns out that in my case it is entirely unneccesary, since this time I am opting to trust modern medicine and go with a repeat c-section.
I explained this to the midwife, who listened politely and then informed me that was all very true but what if I went into labor early?
I asked her if she thought that a little group b strep bacteria would be my biggest worry if I happened to "go into labor" or, as we lay-people call it when we're in the first trimester, "miscarry," when I was only three weeks along.
Midwives, you see, tend not to be very logical.
A few weeks later, I saw the obstetrician, who confirmed that a) urinary tract infections, if I even had one which was unlikely, generally resolve themselves within 10 days, and b) that the group b strep antibiotic scenario was only effective at the time of labor. We left it at that. Things were going swimmingly until he tried to find the heartbeat, at which point concern furrowed his brow.
"At thirteen weeks we should be able to detect a heartbeat," he said, "I want to do an ultrasound."
"I'm only ten weeks, " I informed him, which went over his head. He's the doctor, right? If he says it's thirteen weeks, it's thirteen, even though you have to bend and warp the space-time continuum to do it. Whatever; I scheduled the ultrasound for the following week and went back to my full time job.
Two hours later, I get a frantic phone call from another nurse. "I can fit you in tomorrow!" she exclaimed.
"I didn't get a sense there was any urgency," I responded. "Anyway, I'm at work. I can't just slip out here and there for a quick ultrasound."
"But! He didn't detect a heartbeat!!" she said anxiously, unwilling, I guess, to tell me what this might actually mean.
"I see. So if I go in tomorrow as opposed to next week, there's a chance you can do CPR on it or something?" I asked.
She was horrified. Nurses, you see, have no sense of humor.
The ultrasound, by the way, turned up a fetus with a fully functional heart and a spot on date of 11 weeks, 0 days (in a rare generous move on my part, I resisted the urge to ask them to put that in big red letters so they'd stop asking me when the date of my last period was). Aside from my run-ins with the pre-natal medical community, things have been fine. No nausea, some fatigue, the usual. For the most part, life goes on as it always has. Until I have to tell everyone else, I'll be a happy, pregnant, camper.
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