theology&geometry

Christmas at my parents’ was even more hectic and insane than I could have imagined. I was up at 5 but wanted Ray to get plenty of sleep since he’d taken the night shift, so we ended up not leaving until well after 10. I managed to get a shower and blow dry my hair — the latter of which is reserved for special occasions now — and get a non-pajama outfit on, but Holden decided after our final feeding of the morning to puke on my shoulder. No big whoop, I thought, and wiped it and him off. Except that he did it again, this time in my hair too, at which point I had to change shirts because for holidays I’ve always tried to have a one-puke limit on my clothes. And that was when I was single! (Rimshot.)

Anyway, we got to my parents’ after noon, and there was a huge spread of finger foods laid out (Ray was so grossed out by the term “finger foods” — is that a regional thing? I would feel like a phony calling them hors d’oeuvres). Holden was passed around quite a bit and Ray and I were on edge thanks to my parents’ idiot yipping dog that kept making like he was going to jump on the baby (that for some reason they wouldn’t put in the basement … grrr) but did fine except when he got hungry and wanted to nurse. It was loud — my family yell talks — and crazy and we were only there six or so hours but it made for a long, exhausting day. I didn’t even have a chance to eat any of my birthday cake, and no one got a picture of Ray, Holden, and me like I wanted. Bleh.

My sister made us a sweet DVD of photos of me and Ray as kids and of Holden. I asked her to send me the file so I can see if I can upload the little movie. It’s pretty cute. It made me cry. I am a sentimentality factory these days. Oh please, more like always.

My family was here days and days ago but it’s taken me this long to post pictures! My sister and nephews are hopefully coming up this week to meet the beebs, so that should be fun.

My dad was already talking about getting the boy into Civil War re-enacting. I was like, Dad, he can’t even hold his head up yet! So we have quite a battle ahead of us.

My family came up Sunday to do a furniture swap of sorts with me, and I saw my dad’s chin for the first time in my whole life. As long as I have been in this world, he’s sported a full beard. Not sure why he decided to shave it in that spot, but he’s already heard that he looks like Paul Sr.

Even wackier — this is the first time since my parents have been together (for 32-odd years, mind you) that my mother has seen my dad’s chin.

He sure does look a lot more like my aunt and my grandfather under all that hair.

There was a moment during today’s early morning ultrasound (big thanks to the Mid-South Maternal Fetal Medicine for squeezing us in at such a late notice) when I felt the bulk of worry lift off me. I squeezed Ray’s hands as the tech, who was so nice and so thorough, went organ by organ, noting how everything looked great, all of it right on track in size and function. That bright bowel the Flinn Clinic had flagged twice was nowhere to be seen (what’s unclear is if they overestimated it or if it resolved itself; I feel like they overestimated it because they never turned the monitor down to compare bone vs. bowel), which automatically greatly reduced the chances of us having to worry about genetic or other abnormalities.

It seems it’s just that pesky two-vessel cord we’ve got to worry about, but Dr. Bors-Koefoed came in and essentially told us what I’d already read online: That it’s rare but not that rare (it’s common enough that they refer to it as a variant rather than an abnormality), and that it just means I’ll need to pop in for more frequent ultrasounds and growth checks than the average pregnant lady would. I can handle that. A nice surprise was that when I asked if it’s true that two-vessel babies don’t handle labor as well, the doctor shook his head and let me know that my homebirth plan is still viable, as long as there’s no growth restriction or related complications leading up to the due date. I honestly was expecting to be told I was considered high-risk, and that I’d need to report to the hospital for labor or a scheduled C-section no matter what.

Mom came up for the appointment, and my midwife Amy was there too. It was a packed room but I really enjoyed getting to hear the good news along with them. My mom cried when she saw the little beating heart appear on the screen, and she kept saying, “That’s my grandson! What a miracle!” A pretty special moment, right there.

I can’t stop looking at the 3D pictures of his little face. I guess that’s an added perk of having a mandatory level-two ultrasound. I see Ray’s forehead and my mouth in there, maybe, but what a trip to get a glimpse of my little man’s face already. He’s beautiful. I’m clearly biased, but that is a good-lookin’ kid.

He stayed pretty balled up during the entire visit, his knees tucked close to his chest in a display of flexibility that he certainly did not inherit from me. He is now the size of a spaghetti squash and he weighs one pound. One pound! He’s still sitting breech, tap dancing on my cervix when he feels fancy, and his face is tucked up behind the placenta, which made getting good straight-on 3D shots kind of tough. He better get over his camera-shyness in a hurry.

There was one point when the tech was jiggling my belly around to get him to stretch out so she could measure his spine, and he punched her! I mean walloped the exact spot where the wand was. I felt it and so did the tech. My baby don’t take no shit.

Yesterday I was lying on the couch with my hand on the left side of my belly, and I felt a kick that made my hand jump. That was the first time I’ve been able to feel movement from the outside. I called Ray over and he stood there for a while, trying to will baby boy to kick hard again, but he never did. He will, I know. I shouldn’t rush the organ-crushing part of this process.

We’ve gotten so much wonderful support throughout these past few tense weeks. We’re ever so grateful, and getting more and more excited about what’s to come.

Last night my dad told me my grandmother’s dog Jake had been hit and killed by a car. This isn’t an uncommon thing where I’m from; the dogs are free to roam all over the farm and they chase cars speeding by on the highway when they get bored. It’s frustrating but that’s how it’s been my whole life. I called Grandmaw to check on her and see how she was doing. Jake was her inside/outside dog, her good buddy who kept her company in her big, empty house. She was obviously feeling down about it. She said she’d never find another dog that good. I tried to reassure her that it feels that way now, and that he was a good dog, but that she’d have plenty of dogs to love in the coming days. People are always dropping strays on the farm, so the pack grows on its own.

She asked me how things were going with the baby. I told her we were taking it a day at a time, and anticipating the visit with the specialist Thursday because we would hopefully get some answers about the things worrying us.

She told me that when she was seven months pregnant with who would have been my first of two aunts, when the baby stopped moving, the doctors refused to tell her she had died. Grandmaw had gotten stung by a wasp and thinks either the sting itself — she was allergic — or the treatment she received afterward led to the baby’s death. She knew a complete halt in movement was not normal, and deep down inside she knew the baby had passed. But this was in an age before ultrasounds, so she could never get visual confirmation. And she can’t remember if they ever listened for the heartbeat. They just refused to tell her that the baby was dead, assuring her that everything was fine and there was nothing to worry about. They gave her pills — she realizes now they were antibiotics — and let her carry the baby to term. She delivered a stillborn baby girl, who is buried in the family plot at Shady Grove Cemetery in Saltillo.

That story fascinates me. I want to be angry, assuming that the doctors knew the baby was dead, hence the antibiotics, but that they just wouldn’t deign to tell my grandmother or do anything about it. This was in the ’50s so I’m not sure how they handled removal of a dead fetus in the last trimester. But how cruel to ignore a woman when she says something is wrong, and then to make her carry that baby to term, knowing it’s already dead.

For all my gripes with the modern medical industrial complex, I am grateful we have made some significant progress, so that at least we generally try to err on the side of caution in prenatal matters.

Mere minutes from noon. I’ve finished my breakfast — scrambled eggs (with gouda!) and biscuits and coffee. I only get a few cups a week so I’ve decided to have them at home, where we use a grinder and a French press. I don’t care if it’s pretentious; it tastes infinitely better than the reheated Maxwell House sludge I end up with at work.

Been feeling pretty crummy lately in the head region. Of course the ultrasound business has me skating on a quiet baseline of dread, but other things seem to be nipping at my heels a little more than usual, and I’ve found myself sinking to the floor here and again, having little gulping breakdowns no one ever notices. My family is drama-laden lately: My sister is barely speaking to my parents and there seems to be inexplicable animosity growing for reasons I can only guess at. Seems like this happens every few years and I don’t know why, but it breaks my heart all the same. It made for a tense visit a couple of weeks ago when I had to beg my sister and nephews to come participate in the big news about the baby boy. It was still kind of awkward but we made it. Mom has plenty of bad days and Dad is working all the time, in 12-hour shifts on the night side. Their house is overrun with pissing dogs. Age is taking its toll on everyone and I find myself wishing I’d had a baby years ago before everyone got so worn out.

At home, I’m living on what feels like an emotional island.

So many things just seem broken lately.

We finally, finally, finally, have a pronoun to use for the Heirloom Tomato Formerly Known as Sweet Potato — he’s a he! That’s correct, ladies and germs. There will be a penis inside of me for the next five months. Jealous? Yuk yuk. Can you believe I am going to be someone’s mother?

Now the hunt for a name begins in earnest. Before, there was a fifty percent chance I wasn’t going to have to worry about a boy name; we had pretty much settled on a girl name. But now there is no avoiding that I am going to have to hunker down and wade through the awful, awful Braedyns and Jaykobs and find our diamond in the rough. I have a handful of names I love dearly but that Ray doesn’t care for and, in fact, insists will get our sweet baby boy beaten up on the playground. And Ray has a handful of names he fancies but that I might name a goldfish before I’d christen a child with them. We will find our middle ground but it might not happen until my water breaks.

During the ultrasound last week, Heirloom Tomato was very modest, and quite lethargic. (I am hoping he was just asleep and not a true couch potato, like his mommy.) He kept his legs together the whole time, so that the tech had to go around and up under him to get a glimpse of the, uh, turtle. Oh, my sweet son, you have no idea the ways in which we are going to creatively invade your privacy throughout your precious life.

There was this one point early on (you can see it in the video I posted) where he sort of threw his arms up like he was doing the wave. That cracks me up every time I think about it, but then again, maybe the ultrasound pulses scared him. Or it was just a random, uncontrollable muscle twitch. I don’t know. Amber told me that, facing forward, he looks like a fortune cookie and a Jason mask. No, Cox, that does not mean I am going to name him Jason.

On Monday we went to Saltillo — final batch of sex-reveal cupcakes stacked in the back seat — to let my family in on the secret. Originally I wanted to get Muddy’s to make a cake for us, but when I realized I’d be doing the reveal on a Monday, plus my dad wouldn’t be able to be there, it became clear that making my own cupcakes had to be the way to go. (Muddy’s is closed on Sundays and Mondays.) That way Dad was able to take a cupcake to work with him, and we all bit in at the same time. He texted me, “Told ya so. Never doubt me!” because he thought it was a boy all along (as did I; I am fascinated by how I just knew that was the case, and it gives me hopes for my maternal instincts). My sister was rooting for a girl, but I’m not sure anyone else cared one way or the other. We ate cupcakes and grilled things and then sat around while I got to explain my somewhat unconventional labor/delivery plans. Everyone demanded I would want drugs, of course. I just had to laugh it off and say that I may want them, but I’m determined to go without them. My grandmother thought my homebirth plan meant I would be giving birth unassisted, which explains the pained look on her face as we discussed it, but I explained that no, I’d have a qualified midwife there to guide me and make sure things were going smoothly. “No offense, but I think you’re crazy!” said my aunt. You just have to laugh all that stuff off and not let it get to you. It’s difficult enough rising above my own fears and insecurities. I can’t start letting others’ seep in.

Mom and Dad gave us a sweet glider — wooden with cushions — and a pretty green and toile travel bed. Plus a smattering of stuffed animals. They are so giddy about the new grandbaby. Dad said he was excited to see me become a mom, since there for a while he didn’t think I was going to make that leap. It floors me that anyone could objectively look at me and think I would be a good parent, as I am a whirling dervish of crazy, but I suppose my dad isn’t looking at me objectively. Still, it’s sweet.

This week I have given up on all my pants entirely. It’s time to cry uncle and get some panel pants, if only because I get sick of looking at my busted, pale legs every day when I wear a skirt and I cannot force myself into my jeans as though I am some sort sausage to be cased. Even with the Bella Band. Hell, I would wear a muumuu every day if polite society would allow it.

I’ve noticed my skin has made the change I was so excited about: The oil-factory has slowed production considerably. Used to be that I’d wake up every day with a fairly greasy head of hair. No more. Now I could probably go every other day without washing my hair, but old habits die hard.

Supposedly Heirloom Tomato should be starting to hear things soon. I am trying to watch my mouth. We’ll see how that goes.

The man was wearing a bright red shirt — was it red? Lord, my memory is bad — and he was smoking a cigarette outside the chain-link entrance to a parking lot Downtown, a grin creeping across his face as we walked closer.

“I don’t know if y’all are married or not,” he said, “and I didn’t want to say anything, but if you’re not, you better be soon!”

We looked at each other and then down at the ground, laughing and embarrassed. I glanced at my growing belly to see if perhaps it was peeking out more than usual, prompting strangers to contemplate its origin and future.

“I didn’t pay him to say that, I swear,” I said to my companion, loud enough for the stranger to hear.

We passed the man, all three of us chuckling.

“You need to put a ring on her finger,” the man said to our backs. “Don’t let her get away!”

My companion was smiling as we got out of the man’s earshot. “I think people need to mind their own business,” he said, half kidding.

“I dunno. I thought he was nice.”

I’ll be honest — I’ve had a couple of days now of nagging worry. Tuesday I slipped on a pair of pants that I was unable to button just last week and the dang things fit. I thought maybe it was a fluke so I tried on another pair and sure enough, it fit too. I mean, they fit OK but not awfully comfortably. The same thing happened Wednesday, I don’t know. I find it unsettling. And I know that weight fluctuation is normal, and that my belly was mostly water and gas throughout the first trimester, and that that has a tendency to settle or even out or change as the weeks pass. But I still do not like the feeling of steady growth suddenly shrinking.

I am trying not to worry but the brain goes to dark places when in doubt. As soon as I find “yes, this is normal” reassurances on mommy message boards, I click on something that turns out to be tragic. What good is worrying? I ask myself. You can’t do anything about it. What’s happening is what’s happening. Let it happen and just have faith that things will work out as they need to work out. But, well, faith alone doesn’t grow healthy babies.

Of course on the most basic level I have faith and hope that things are fine. I feel fine. Things surely are fine.

And yet, when the night grows quiet and it’s just me awake, lying there with my hands on my stomach, trying to divine some sense of the life that’s inside me, I whisper my pleas: “Please, baby. Don’t leave.” And the morbid part of me strains in the acute hope that I am not already talking to a ghost.

I mean, how do you really know, during these long pauses between midwife or doctor visits?

I don’t necessarily want to rush through what has been an admittedly laid-back pregnancy so far, but I do long to be at a point where I can feel the baby moving. Just so I can know what’s going on. That something IS going on. I suppose, if you take this to its logical end, it means I am going to be a bit of a meddler in my child’s life. I’ve had plenty of practice as a hovering art director; I see no reason to relinquish my nosiness now when it will surely be of more use to the world.

In less morbid news, my former tadpole should now be the size of a navel orange. Which is what I just ate, so ew, she says, pushing the peels out of her line of sight. In a wonderfully science fictiony twist, the baby’s skin is nearly translucent. It’s possible — well, probable, given my DNA, that the baby is starting to suck its teeny little thumb. (Which reminds me of an adorable story about my dad, who — like me — was a dedicated thumb sucker as a child. He was riding his horse as a boy of 10 or so out in the pasture, and got bucked off. The horse then stepped on his thumb — his preferred sucking thumb! — and my dad interpreted that as a sign from God to stop with the thumb sucking already. Also I think the nail fell off and who would want to suck that? Don’t answer that, Internet.)

After reading several birth books (with another in my mental queue), I decided to graduate to a Ina May’s breastfeeding book. In what will surely be used as evidence of my lack of parental fitness some day, I am enjoying flashing Ray with the included pictures of undoctored boobs in funny positions. Today’s flash was an inverted nipple being squeezed to all hell so it would pop out. Ray was confused but probably aroused.

What else?

Oh, I had some pretty dull but annoying lower-back pain for several days. My friend Stephanie lent me a foot stool at work to help with my bad sitting posture. Plus I did some deep stretching, and the pain seems to have gone away.

I see Amy, my midwife, on Tuesday for our first official checkup. My every minute between now and then will be spent simply trying to pass the time until I can hear that heartbeat again.