In yet another example of New York Mommies Are Not Like The Rest Of Us, I give you this: Yesterday one of the pre-school teachers had her first child.
- She worked up until the day she gave birth.
- While in active labor (that's the super-painful, "As Seen On TV" huffing and puffing part, for those not in the know) she walked twenty-five blocks to her hospital.
- While at the hospital, the other teachers kept getting texts from her. Texts that said things like PUSHING NOW.
- She only gained 14 pounds during her pregnancy. And gave birth to an 8 pound baby.
Um.
I don't know if it's something about becoming a new mother or if it's just a consequence of living in such a manic, competitive city, but with very few exceptions the mommies I meet here are nuts. I realize that that's a bit like the pot calling the kettle Crazyface but I like to think that my neurosis is tempered (at least slightly) with a dash of Midwestern grit. These women practically vibrate, they're so tense. It's like being surrounded by chihuahuas. They always ask me for child-rearing advice which I'm completely unqualified to offer but happy to dispense. I'm glad that I look like I know what I'm doing but I can't help wondering if I'm destined to follow their path. If I ever start freaking about getting into the "right" nursery school or passive-aggressively comparing how far I can jog, somebody get the net.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Thursday, October 18, 2007
I ain't touching the head.
Ah yes, week 32. Down to the single digits, countdown-wise. Some highlights:
- My innie is officially out and proud. I feel like I should hand it a flag.
- While I've somehow managed to dodge those dreaded stretch marks, the varicose veins are here to stay. Dammit.
- Still no linea nigra which is fine by me. That thing freaks me out.
- Possum's in launch position. I look like I'm birthing a missile.
- Looking down, I'm still not sure how this whole thing's gonna work. (I know it stretches but shoulders, people. SHOULDERS.)
Baby swag has begun arriving, which is both glorious and terrifying. It's one thing to get stuff from friends or immediate family (being an only child, presents aren't entirely unusual) but this stuff - "acquaintance gifting", as it were - feels big. Maybe it's because it comes through the mail (or because it's not for me) but the fact that the baby will be here - and soon - is really starting to hit home. We're going to have a kid. One actually lives here. One that I will take care of without getting paid.
Deep breath in...
Finally started Possum's baby book. Because I refuse to spend $90 ($90!) on some fancypants pre-made jobbie, I decided to get crafty and make my own. I printed out my own questions, scribbled down long-winded, vaguely inappropriate stories... I think the kid'll appreciate it when he's older. Or he'll just do what I did and hijack the thing when he's eight and fill in his own answers.
A quick but full-throated shout-out to Miss Amanda for her hilarious (and spot on) take on life as my NPP. Couldn't have described it better myself. (For the record, bloody placenta pics? Why. WHY?)
- My innie is officially out and proud. I feel like I should hand it a flag.
- While I've somehow managed to dodge those dreaded stretch marks, the varicose veins are here to stay. Dammit.
- Still no linea nigra which is fine by me. That thing freaks me out.
- Possum's in launch position. I look like I'm birthing a missile.
- Looking down, I'm still not sure how this whole thing's gonna work. (I know it stretches but shoulders, people. SHOULDERS.)
Baby swag has begun arriving, which is both glorious and terrifying. It's one thing to get stuff from friends or immediate family (being an only child, presents aren't entirely unusual) but this stuff - "acquaintance gifting", as it were - feels big. Maybe it's because it comes through the mail (or because it's not for me) but the fact that the baby will be here - and soon - is really starting to hit home. We're going to have a kid. One actually lives here. One that I will take care of without getting paid.
Deep breath in...
Finally started Possum's baby book. Because I refuse to spend $90 ($90!) on some fancypants pre-made jobbie, I decided to get crafty and make my own. I printed out my own questions, scribbled down long-winded, vaguely inappropriate stories... I think the kid'll appreciate it when he's older. Or he'll just do what I did and hijack the thing when he's eight and fill in his own answers.
A quick but full-throated shout-out to Miss Amanda for her hilarious (and spot on) take on life as my NPP. Couldn't have described it better myself. (For the record, bloody placenta pics? Why. WHY?)
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Miracle, My Ass
(Guest Blog by Non-Pregnant Partner, "NPP", for a day, Amanda)
As a child, I was totally excited by the prospect of growing up and getting pregnant – and not for the usual motherly reasons. I was a fat kid who, at least once, hid in the bathroom to sneak Reese’s Peanut Butter cups so what I was really excited about in regards to pregnancy was that I could eat whatever I want without being judged. I dreamt of have a freezer filled with coffee-flavored Haagen-Dazs ice cream. And if anyone gave me even a glance while I sat devouring the whole pint in one sitting, I would point to my belly and say something like, “Ah, the demands of the baby.” They would then apologize for even thinking that I was in the wrong and bring me another to make up for it. Sounded like the best thing ever! But then my uncle goes and gets my aunt knocked-up, and I begin to learn the real truth of pregnancy and I freak.
First off, she looks fantastic! Sure, I might have exclaimed when I got to town and saw her belly, but it was a good “Wow!” – I swear. And it’s just the belly that’s grown. She is still tiny everywhere else with just this adorable belly. Seriously, if I ever do get pregnant and can look half as good as she does, I will be SO grateful. However, considering the only reason that I ever really wanted to get pregnant was to shove my face full of bad-for-me food, I doubt I’ll be that lucky.
But beyond giving me an unrealistic hope for a pretty-pregnancy, she has also told me all the great things that come with it all. Not only will I have the inevitably painful part of getting the kid out of me, but also in the process of growing the thing you get perks such as these:
As awful of all of that was I still thought that this was something that I could eventually handle. But then I joined Matt and Alisha to see the movie “Knocked-Up” which happens to feature real images of childbirth. As soon as the characters in the movie entered the birthing room, Alisha closed her eyes. I figured that I was made of stronger stuff and could handle the truth. Then came the close-up of the baby’s head starting to pop out – and I freaked! In fact, I think that “freaked” doesn’t give it emphasis it needs – even italicized. I practically went into a momentary seizure. And poor Matt was left sitting between his weeping wife and convulsing niece. It was a bad time all around.
So, understandably, when I arrived to New York and was asked to fill in for Matt in the birthin’ class, I was hesitant to say the least. But I summoned my strength and said to myself, “Do it for Alisha. And if that’s not enough, do it for the jokes.” Matt and Alisha also tried to calm me by saying that they had watched the videos in the last class so there probably wouldn’t be any of those. They lied.
I met Alisha at the class; we took off our shoes (which I’m convinced they only have you do to keep you from running out in the middle) and headed on in to sit on a mat. They had had a sub for their first class so this teacher didn’t know any of the couples. Let me just say that I would consider Alisha and I close, but as a lesbian couple, we are the worst ever. This was the class when we went through some of the various positions that Matt and Alisha could use to help deal with the contractions. Looking around the room at the other NPP’s affectionately rubbing their partner’s belly and kissing them on the head only to glance back at the two of us truly embodying the awkwardness of the 7th-grade dance position (It was a real position – I swear.) as I whisper to Alisha in my pretend-braces voice, “I’m really glad you came with me to the dance!” I knew that we weren’t passing for “Couple-of-the-Year”. Then came the spooning position and I could sense the sympathy the other class-members felt for “our” child being born into such an affectionless-home.
We are also, apparently some of the worst women ever since when the teacher did make us watch the videos we were the only two staring at the floor and cringing. At some point I’m pretty sure that I even audibly said something like, “Come on!” I mean a video of 30 contractions back-to-back! Are you kidding me?! Why would anyone be okay with watching that? The teacher was good enough to point out that in real life there is a nice slow build to the awful screaming and panic that was displayed on these women’s faces which the sadist editors were kind enough to cut-out for this little gem of cinematography. Because why would I want the reminder that the experience of pushing something with shoulders out of a hole which I was once concerned I would confuse with my pee-hole that it is not a continuous stream of screaming, cursing and yelling at my NPP “Don’t talk!” for 12-36 hours??
And I also don’t understand all of these women who want to touch the baby’s head as it is being squeezed out of their neither-regions. I don’t want anything to do with that baby until it is out of me and gets hosed off. As I told Alisha, “As far as I’m concerned, it is cute in there [indicating the belly] and here [indicated the arms] – but not in between.” Furthermore, at the moment that I’m giving birth, I don’t want any more reminders of what is happening down there – I just want to get it done.
On top of all of this, in the bathroom of this place there is a huge, nicely framed picture of a baby being held next to a tub of bloody placenta. Ahh yes, that is exactly the type of memento that I hope to pass onto my children one day. “Yes, young Sam this is you and this the gory organ that I created at the same time! See, it has your dad’s features.”
In the end, the entire experience did little to shake me from my early stance of being in the waiting room with a cigar and flask of whiskey while Matt and Alisha are in the birthing room. I don’t buy that bullshit that Matt gets to be in that position since he has no chance of ever having to live through it. I’m the one who needs the stiff drinks now if my mom’s wish of having a grandbaby birthed from my womb ever has a chance of coming true.
As a child, I was totally excited by the prospect of growing up and getting pregnant – and not for the usual motherly reasons. I was a fat kid who, at least once, hid in the bathroom to sneak Reese’s Peanut Butter cups so what I was really excited about in regards to pregnancy was that I could eat whatever I want without being judged. I dreamt of have a freezer filled with coffee-flavored Haagen-Dazs ice cream. And if anyone gave me even a glance while I sat devouring the whole pint in one sitting, I would point to my belly and say something like, “Ah, the demands of the baby.” They would then apologize for even thinking that I was in the wrong and bring me another to make up for it. Sounded like the best thing ever! But then my uncle goes and gets my aunt knocked-up, and I begin to learn the real truth of pregnancy and I freak.
First off, she looks fantastic! Sure, I might have exclaimed when I got to town and saw her belly, but it was a good “Wow!” – I swear. And it’s just the belly that’s grown. She is still tiny everywhere else with just this adorable belly. Seriously, if I ever do get pregnant and can look half as good as she does, I will be SO grateful. However, considering the only reason that I ever really wanted to get pregnant was to shove my face full of bad-for-me food, I doubt I’ll be that lucky.
But beyond giving me an unrealistic hope for a pretty-pregnancy, she has also told me all the great things that come with it all. Not only will I have the inevitably painful part of getting the kid out of me, but also in the process of growing the thing you get perks such as these:
- Not being able to sleep in certain positions lest I squish my bodily organs – because I mean the baby is squishing enough for the both of us.
- 50% more blood in your body.
- 8% less brain!! And considering the fact that I my mind is a sieve now means that this 8% loss will probably mean for me a loss of the ability to remember how to walk.
- You’re not only growing a baby – but also a whole new organ: the placenta!
- Getting up to pee every 30 minutes throughout the night.
- Not being able to take baths over a certain temperature so that you don’t cook the baby!!
- 2 words: mucus plug.
As awful of all of that was I still thought that this was something that I could eventually handle. But then I joined Matt and Alisha to see the movie “Knocked-Up” which happens to feature real images of childbirth. As soon as the characters in the movie entered the birthing room, Alisha closed her eyes. I figured that I was made of stronger stuff and could handle the truth. Then came the close-up of the baby’s head starting to pop out – and I freaked! In fact, I think that “freaked” doesn’t give it emphasis it needs – even italicized. I practically went into a momentary seizure. And poor Matt was left sitting between his weeping wife and convulsing niece. It was a bad time all around.
So, understandably, when I arrived to New York and was asked to fill in for Matt in the birthin’ class, I was hesitant to say the least. But I summoned my strength and said to myself, “Do it for Alisha. And if that’s not enough, do it for the jokes.” Matt and Alisha also tried to calm me by saying that they had watched the videos in the last class so there probably wouldn’t be any of those. They lied.
I met Alisha at the class; we took off our shoes (which I’m convinced they only have you do to keep you from running out in the middle) and headed on in to sit on a mat. They had had a sub for their first class so this teacher didn’t know any of the couples. Let me just say that I would consider Alisha and I close, but as a lesbian couple, we are the worst ever. This was the class when we went through some of the various positions that Matt and Alisha could use to help deal with the contractions. Looking around the room at the other NPP’s affectionately rubbing their partner’s belly and kissing them on the head only to glance back at the two of us truly embodying the awkwardness of the 7th-grade dance position (It was a real position – I swear.) as I whisper to Alisha in my pretend-braces voice, “I’m really glad you came with me to the dance!” I knew that we weren’t passing for “Couple-of-the-Year”. Then came the spooning position and I could sense the sympathy the other class-members felt for “our” child being born into such an affectionless-home.
We are also, apparently some of the worst women ever since when the teacher did make us watch the videos we were the only two staring at the floor and cringing. At some point I’m pretty sure that I even audibly said something like, “Come on!” I mean a video of 30 contractions back-to-back! Are you kidding me?! Why would anyone be okay with watching that? The teacher was good enough to point out that in real life there is a nice slow build to the awful screaming and panic that was displayed on these women’s faces which the sadist editors were kind enough to cut-out for this little gem of cinematography. Because why would I want the reminder that the experience of pushing something with shoulders out of a hole which I was once concerned I would confuse with my pee-hole that it is not a continuous stream of screaming, cursing and yelling at my NPP “Don’t talk!” for 12-36 hours??
And I also don’t understand all of these women who want to touch the baby’s head as it is being squeezed out of their neither-regions. I don’t want anything to do with that baby until it is out of me and gets hosed off. As I told Alisha, “As far as I’m concerned, it is cute in there [indicating the belly] and here [indicated the arms] – but not in between.” Furthermore, at the moment that I’m giving birth, I don’t want any more reminders of what is happening down there – I just want to get it done.
On top of all of this, in the bathroom of this place there is a huge, nicely framed picture of a baby being held next to a tub of bloody placenta. Ahh yes, that is exactly the type of memento that I hope to pass onto my children one day. “Yes, young Sam this is you and this the gory organ that I created at the same time! See, it has your dad’s features.”
In the end, the entire experience did little to shake me from my early stance of being in the waiting room with a cigar and flask of whiskey while Matt and Alisha are in the birthing room. I don’t buy that bullshit that Matt gets to be in that position since he has no chance of ever having to live through it. I’m the one who needs the stiff drinks now if my mom’s wish of having a grandbaby birthed from my womb ever has a chance of coming true.
Blink. Blink.
So I think it's safe to say that when it comes to ridiculousness, New York Mommies are in a class by themselves. Between shuttling their two-year-olds to Italian For Toddlers ($45 a class) to shelling out $144,000 a year for a freaking nanny (that's $394.52 a day, peeps), these ladies take unnecessary spending to a whole new level. Take this little nugget, overheard while waiting to pick up my favorite three-year-old at preschool ($8,900 per year):
Overprivileged mom #1 to Overprivileged mom #2:
OPM #1: "I have to get Scarlet's hair done tomorrow for picture day."
OPM #2: "Do you go to Cozy's?"
OPM #1: "We actually go to this salon over on Madison. It's just so much easier than brushing it."
Seriously, it took every ounce of strength not to kick them down the stairs.
Overprivileged mom #1 to Overprivileged mom #2:
OPM #1: "I have to get Scarlet's hair done tomorrow for picture day."
OPM #2: "Do you go to Cozy's?"
OPM #1: "We actually go to this salon over on Madison. It's just so much easier than brushing it."
Seriously, it took every ounce of strength not to kick them down the stairs.
Monday, October 8, 2007
Do not read while eating or if easily squeamish
I was poking around the info section at birthing class last night, checking out the goods. There were brochures for breastfeeding and postpartum depression, websites for labor doulas - the usual. Then I noticed a pale blue pamphlet with a photo of a pregnant belly on the cover. "Pamper and Prepare: A Guide To Perineal Massage". Hey, massage! I loves massage! And since I happen to enjoy being both pampered and prepared I figured this was right up my alley. So I opened the brochure.
Mistake! MISTAKE!
First off, "massage" has nothing to do with this bullshit. PAINFUL VAGINAL STRETCHING. Since my approach to labor and delivery has been of the head-in-the-sand-variety it comes as no surprise that I tend to ignore the fact that a very large object - with shoulders! - is soon to exit my... area. The thought behind perineal "massage" is that by stretching the area beforehand, there's less chance for Ouch. Fine! Good! I'm all for eliminating the Ouch. But peeps, after reading the instruction manual (and checking out the visuals! OH GOD, THE VISUALS) I may never go near that area ever again.
A sample:
- Sitting in a comfortable position with your legs apart, similar to a semi-sitting birthing position, place some balm on your fingers and thumbs as well as around your perineum (the area between your vagina and anus).
- Insert your thumbs (!!!) into your vagina and press the area down and to the sides. Keep stretching the area until there is a slight burning sensation.
- Continue holding the stretch until you no longer feel any tingling. It should subside after a few minutes.
- When there is no more tingling, massage the lower part of your vaginal canal with a back and forth motion. At the same time, clasp your thumbs onto the sides of your vaginal canal. Mimic the action of your baby's head during birth by gently pulling the vaginal tissue forward. Hold this position for a few minutes...
(And so forth.)
Thumbs! THUMBS! Not to mention the burning and stretching! I'd be happy to email you the accompanying graphic if you enjoy recoiling in horror.
Seriously, every option for getting this kid out sounds awful. (Don't get me started on what I learned about the epidural...)
Mistake! MISTAKE!
First off, "massage" has nothing to do with this bullshit. PAINFUL VAGINAL STRETCHING. Since my approach to labor and delivery has been of the head-in-the-sand-variety it comes as no surprise that I tend to ignore the fact that a very large object - with shoulders! - is soon to exit my... area. The thought behind perineal "massage" is that by stretching the area beforehand, there's less chance for Ouch. Fine! Good! I'm all for eliminating the Ouch. But peeps, after reading the instruction manual (and checking out the visuals! OH GOD, THE VISUALS) I may never go near that area ever again.
A sample:
- Sitting in a comfortable position with your legs apart, similar to a semi-sitting birthing position, place some balm on your fingers and thumbs as well as around your perineum (the area between your vagina and anus).
- Insert your thumbs (!!!) into your vagina and press the area down and to the sides. Keep stretching the area until there is a slight burning sensation.
- Continue holding the stretch until you no longer feel any tingling. It should subside after a few minutes.
- When there is no more tingling, massage the lower part of your vaginal canal with a back and forth motion. At the same time, clasp your thumbs onto the sides of your vaginal canal. Mimic the action of your baby's head during birth by gently pulling the vaginal tissue forward. Hold this position for a few minutes...
(And so forth.)
Thumbs! THUMBS! Not to mention the burning and stretching! I'd be happy to email you the accompanying graphic if you enjoy recoiling in horror.
Seriously, every option for getting this kid out sounds awful. (Don't get me started on what I learned about the epidural...)
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Friday, September 28, 2007
So sit right down and you'll hear a tale...
For the record, I'm very good a panicking. I can freak with the best of them. If I could figure out a way to get paid for overreacting, I would be all set. Which is my way of attempting to explain how I wound up at the Lenox Hill emergency room on Friday.
(No fears - everything is absolutely fine. Baby's great, I'm great... albeit a touch humiliated. Nothing new there.)
Friday afternoon I was hanging out with my little three-year-old friend, having lunch, shooting the shit, when I noticed that Possum wasn't doing his usual afternoon squirm. When I thought about it, I hadn't felt him move all morning. Or at all.
Now Possum is known for many things (his charm, his wealth, his way with the ladies) but one thing he is not known for is being still. He's a very, VERY active baby with a fairly predictable time clock, so something was definitely weird. I tried shaking him - no response. I grabbed some orange juice - a sure-fire baby waker-upper - and chilled on the couch for a half an hour. Nothing. I grabbed a sugar packet and downed that, Pixie-stick style.
Not even a flutter.
At this point I was starting to get a little twitchy. I called the doctor and asked if I could come in, just to make sure things were cool - at which point I was instructed, in no uncertain terms, to get my ass to the emergency room.
A doctor with fear in his voice - that shit will motivate you quick.
I dropped everything, called the parents, grabbed the kid (his mom met us there) and got my ass to Lenox Hill. I would love to say that I was a bastion of calm but c'mon, we know me. I'm not saying I went apeshit on the staff at one point but I might've gone apeshit on them. (Rule #1: When a pregnant woman thinks her baby is dying, don't ask her to fill out insurance forms.) Needless to say, they hooked me up to the monitor and thankfully, wonderfully, blessedly, we heard the heartbeat.
Turns out, I've got a cold. And because I've got a cold, I took two Benedryl. And although Benedryl is perfectly safe for pregnant women, it tends to make their babies a little groggy. Or in my case, REALLY groggy. Even when the doctor tried prodding him with the sonogram wand Possum played possum, but after a few minutes he started to squirm - much to his mother's relief.
So what did I learn from all this?
- Ix-nay the Benedryl-ay. (Being able to breathe is not worth the panic.)
- Don't call your poor mother weeping that you've killed your baby with antihistamines. (Sorry mom.)
- Three-year-olds really like wheelchairs.
But I've saved the best for last. As the doctor was looking at Possum's readout he goes, "How far along is this baby?"
"29 weeks."
"Really? I would have guessed he was much further along than that. We don't normally see babies this advanced."
"REALLY?!"
"Yes. He's very advanced, both physically and neurologically."
Of course Matt is convinced that we're giving birth to a mutant genius, ala Professor X from the X-Men. But hopefully with more hair.
(No fears - everything is absolutely fine. Baby's great, I'm great... albeit a touch humiliated. Nothing new there.)
Friday afternoon I was hanging out with my little three-year-old friend, having lunch, shooting the shit, when I noticed that Possum wasn't doing his usual afternoon squirm. When I thought about it, I hadn't felt him move all morning. Or at all.
Now Possum is known for many things (his charm, his wealth, his way with the ladies) but one thing he is not known for is being still. He's a very, VERY active baby with a fairly predictable time clock, so something was definitely weird. I tried shaking him - no response. I grabbed some orange juice - a sure-fire baby waker-upper - and chilled on the couch for a half an hour. Nothing. I grabbed a sugar packet and downed that, Pixie-stick style.
Not even a flutter.
At this point I was starting to get a little twitchy. I called the doctor and asked if I could come in, just to make sure things were cool - at which point I was instructed, in no uncertain terms, to get my ass to the emergency room.
A doctor with fear in his voice - that shit will motivate you quick.
I dropped everything, called the parents, grabbed the kid (his mom met us there) and got my ass to Lenox Hill. I would love to say that I was a bastion of calm but c'mon, we know me. I'm not saying I went apeshit on the staff at one point but I might've gone apeshit on them. (Rule #1: When a pregnant woman thinks her baby is dying, don't ask her to fill out insurance forms.) Needless to say, they hooked me up to the monitor and thankfully, wonderfully, blessedly, we heard the heartbeat.
Turns out, I've got a cold. And because I've got a cold, I took two Benedryl. And although Benedryl is perfectly safe for pregnant women, it tends to make their babies a little groggy. Or in my case, REALLY groggy. Even when the doctor tried prodding him with the sonogram wand Possum played possum, but after a few minutes he started to squirm - much to his mother's relief.
So what did I learn from all this?
- Ix-nay the Benedryl-ay. (Being able to breathe is not worth the panic.)
- Don't call your poor mother weeping that you've killed your baby with antihistamines. (Sorry mom.)
- Three-year-olds really like wheelchairs.
But I've saved the best for last. As the doctor was looking at Possum's readout he goes, "How far along is this baby?"
"29 weeks."
"Really? I would have guessed he was much further along than that. We don't normally see babies this advanced."
"REALLY?!"
"Yes. He's very advanced, both physically and neurologically."
Of course Matt is convinced that we're giving birth to a mutant genius, ala Professor X from the X-Men. But hopefully with more hair.
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