Big Baby

By dates, I reached 37 weeks of pregnancy on Friday. That means that now the kid will not be considered premature, even if I go into labor and deliver in the next 30 seconds. S/he is fully cooked and can show up whenever the mood strikes without any health professional batting an eye.

I, on the other hand, have been talking to the fetus about March 2. There's still kind of a lot to do around here, and I'm just not feeling quite prepared for the arrival of an infant. I mean, jeez. A newborn baby. They're so... you know... time-consuming. Labor-intensive. Inconvenient.

It really is good that there's no turning back now, because I might be tempted. I have so wanted Cassie to get to have a sibling, and that really is worth a whole lot to me. Yes, yes it is. But I've never really been wild about this whole going-through-the-postpartum-period-again business. And now that it's approaching fast, I am finding myself to be no more enthused than ever.

Labor is okay with me. I mean, I'm not exactly looking forward to it. It's intense, and it hurts, and it's tiring. But the first time around, it really was pretty much just a hard day's work (10 hours, first strong contraction to "it's a girl"), and I imagine it will be fairly similar this time. (Thanks to my mom, for the birthin' hips.)

One thing that's different about labor this time, I have to admit, is that I've thought about it very, very little. When you've never done it before, it's hard not to obsess and worry. My biggest fear was losing control and being rude and mean and yelling and stuff during transition. And as it happened, well, maybe I wasn't chatty and sunshiney and the perfect hostess or anything, but I was okay. I said please and thank you (between contractions, we're talking) and had a tiny bit of a sense of humor. Generally, I was more or less myself, plus loud moaning, which worked out fine. But I'd done a lot of emotional preparation. Pete and I went to Bradley classes, and I read books about labor, and I journalled and thought and dreamed and processed. This time around, I have trouble keeping my mind on thoughts of labor for more than 20 seconds. I just kind of... don't care. The first time, I made special mix tapes for myself and mixed selected essential oils into unscented lotion, and poured them into color-coded bottles. I packed the going-to-the-hospital bag carefully and well ahead of time. Pete bought the requisite new garden hose so that I could labor in the water. But in the end, none of it got used. That all was very much not what labor looked like for me. Dilating was a brisk and almost business-like (though noisy) affair, and pushing (for 3 hours, as Cassie finally turned occiput-anterior and then made her enormous way out into the wide world) really sucked, but there was nothing scented-lotion and soothing-music about it. It was just pain and exertion of an almost prosaic, if unusually intense, quality. So it's hard for me to even pay attention to that coming up again. I guess there doesn't seem to be anything to be done to prepare, not really. And I'm not worried about it. It's just there.

Having a newborn, on the other hand, does kind of worry me. It sounds difficult and exhausting and thankless. It sounds significantly Not Fun. And whereas with the first child, all you have to do is get through it however you can, it feels like with the second, you also have to be mindful of making it as easy on the older sibling as you can. You can't just totally shut down all auxiliary systems and go into pure survival mode. You have to try to keep things seeming sort of normal, to the extent that you can.

I don't know. We'll see. Maybe it won't be so bad. At least babies start getting more interesting after not too long. Those first little glimmers of this being an actual individual human rather than only a mooshy blob of infant need--they start showing up fairly early, I think. And it helps.

I had an ultrasound on Friday. The midwives wanted to check on the size of the fetus, what with gestational diabetes and all, despite my good glucose control. (Oh, and did I mention the fact that Cassie weighed 10 lbs. 4 oz. at birth?) The ultrasound size estimate was 8 lbs., with a projected fetal weight gain of 1/2 lb per week from here on in. So this is likely to be another Cassie-sized critter, more or less, which is pretty much what I anticipated. That's what it feels like. Anyway, they got some kind of nice pictures of the face of this kid. It has big cheeks and pouty lips, and its face looks kind of smooshed down into my pelvis. Its expression can only be said to be grumpy. Very, very grumpy. Which I have to admit, kind of makes me like him/her even a bit more than I was able to before. Certainly being smushed upside-down into a cramped, hot, infinitely humid, muscle-walled hell-hole seems to warrant a certain darkness of mood. And then also I think, hey, if we're able to just sit around and be grumpy together, we'll probably be all right after all.

Rosie Bonner is Unemployed

I finally applied for unemployment benefits last Friday. They have offices where you can go take a number and stand in line and fill out forms and stuff just like in the movies (Fun with Dick & Jane and St. Elmo's Fire leap somewhat incongruously to mind), but you can also apply by phone or even, I think, online. I was pretty depressed that day, I guess, complete with sitting leadenly on the couch for an hour at a time trying to work up the emotional energy to do something, anything (which isn't a state I've reached too often since starting on the nice little white ovals of antidepressant goodness). Getting fully dressed like a functioning adult and going out into the daylight and driving my car to somewhere I'd never been before in order to deal with administrative issues related to losing my job was just not something I felt able to face. Besides that, there was the more rational reason that with the size of the belly on me at this point, the true status of my "looking for work" would have to be deeply suspect to anyone who looked at me. (I mean, looking for work? Honey, the only thing you need to be looking for right now is Labor and Delivery, the sooner the better.) I did have a question, though, so I called the number to talk to a person.

When I called, I got a message that said that all agents (? or something) were currently assisting other callers, that I could call back later, and if I chose to hold, the wait was estimated at "twenty... three... minutes." I immediately felt slightly relieved. Being on hold is doing something. Being on hold with the unemployment office is a noble, productive, necessary part of my day. And yet, all I have to do is sit there. For 23 minutes. Count me in. The only problem was the hold music. I had my radio on an oldies station (not my usual fare, but "Dancing Queen" and "Daydream Believer" had actually lightened my mood enough that I was able to do some cleaning, so I kept it on), and I really did not appreciate the stupid governmental muzak (punctuated, of course, by little recorded announcements about regular office hours and having your child's social security number ready if you were applying for dependent benefits). Despite the cacophony of "Can't Buy Me Love" mixing with what I think must have been "Thorazine for Electronic Strings," I kept my radio on out of dumb misplaced stubbornness.

Finally, there was a brief ringing, and a lady came on and asked how she could help me. I said that I had lost my job and wanted to apply for unemployment benefits. She started asking me the routine questions--who were my employers for the last 12 months, what were the dates of employment, what were the circumstances of my leaving my last position... The circumstances of my leaving. I mean, of course I knew I was going to be asked that, and yet trying to answer, I kind of stammered and found myself overexplaining. "...and the nurse manager said that I just wasn't catching on fast enough," I concluded forlornly. There was a brief pause, and then I said, "so, um, I guess 'poor performance'?" The unemployment lady might have been a bureaucrat, but she was a kind bureaucrat. "Not a good fit," she corrected me, consolingly.

She continued to run through the questions, and I had twinges of conscience when she asked whether I was currently looking for work, and whether I was able to start work now, but at least I was prepared enough to lie without hesitating. Sure. Sure, I can start work any time. Tomorrow, three weeks from now. Whenever. I just have to find an employer who doesn't need me to get through a doorway sideways or mind if my water breaks all over the floor. Well, and there is the moaning. I can do vitals and pass meds between contractions, but do you happen to have any soundproof rooms anywhere? Otherwise I might have to cut out early one day if I get too loud for the patients.

Meanwhile I have the opportunity--again--to ponder--again--the meaning and hidden lessons that may be derived from a bout of unemployment. Again. Of course the topic that leaps to my mind most readily is "what the hell is wrong with me, anyway?" Of the, let's see, 30 months since we moved here, I have been fully unemployed for a total of 13, working as a temp (in an office, answering phones, making photocopies, entering mind-numbing data) for about 8 1/2 and gainfully employed in something resembling an appropriate job for 9. And yet, and yet, I somehow maintain a self-image as someone who is not, in fact, a total loser. Does there come a point when I stop believing that? Does my self-esteem eventually throw up her hands and walk off in disgust, muttering at me "what have you done for me lately"?

I listen to the radio, I watch television, I read the newspaper, and there are people everywhere just doing their jobs. Just working. At the jobs that they have and have had and will continue to have. It looks so effortless. The dj on oldies radio (yes, I'm still at it) asks a caller if he has the day off for President's Day. Yes, he says. Of course. A talking head on the news (or on the Daily Show) is identified by job title. The nurses on Grey's Anatomy have sex with interns in the call room and go on strike... but they don't get fired. Working is what grown-ups do. It's just how the world functions. I feel as though I must be in suspended animation, floating quizzically in the stillness, mutely watching and wondering as the rest of humanity rushes on.

It seems incumbent on me to figure out the pattern, to crack why it is that I'm not much of the working world the past couple years. It certainly has not been my intent. And yet there it is. So it seems foolishly and blindly blithe to fail to notice. But when I think about each instance of unemployment--1) being directionless after having just moved here; 2) having been allowed to resign from Famous Hospital after the e-mail incident; and 3) having been allowed to resign from Other Famous Hospital for failure to perform adequately as a staff nurse--there doesn't seem to be a whole lot of commonality. It seems as though I'm supposed to have an epiphany along the lines of, I don't know, "I need to learn to manage my anger," or "I guess I really do have a drinking problem," or "I reluctantly conclude that I do have to bathe more than once a week." But nothing's really presenting itself immediately. In instance #1, I was new to the area and had been counting on the assistance of a certain VP of patient services to get me some consulting work, and when that fell through, it turned out I had little more thought out and a terrible temperament for hustling up self-employment opportunities. Plus I was depressed. In instance #2, I lost the job through a relatively isolated pissy moment and what turned out to be a significant misjudgment of my co-worker's character. In instance #3, I lost the job through some kind of failure to get up to speed and adapt to an extremely detail- and task-oriented role. The only theme I'm coming up with is some vague sense that I'm just not ideally suited to anything, that I don't quite fit in anywhere. But that's not particularly enlightening, useful, or even necessarily true.

So maybe I just stop thinking about it. Maybe I just work on getting the baby's room ready, pull out and wash Cassie's old newborn clothes, freeze some food for postpartum, pack a going-to-the-hospital bag, and just hang out doing what needs to be done. (Ooh! And cupcakes for Cassie to take to school on Friday because it's her 4th birthday! Eek. Okay.) And we'll worry about employment when it's time to worry about employment.

Historical

I must have tuned out for a moment while making Cassie's supper, with her chattering away the whole time. So I never did find out what she was referring to when she said:

"It's an old joke... from the 1830's."

Poem

Okay, so, you know how "your children are not your children; they are the sons and the daughters of life, longing for itself"? Yeah. So, well, here's what happened Sunday afternoon.

Cassie and I went to the playground/park nearby so she could get some fresh air, expel ya-ya's, etc. Unfortunately, due to recent snow meltage followed by a long day of rain, the entire main playground/climbing/slide structure turned out now to be in the middle of a rather substantial pond. Some children in knee-high rubber boots had waded across and were clambering around on the equipment, but I had not anticipated this state of affairs, and neither Cassie nor I was adequately shod to join in.

So we spent a little time at the one slide that occupies a separate, non-diluvian spot in the park, walked around a bit, and ended up sitting at a picnic table, as Cassie contemplated a stick and two rocks she had picked up. She explained to Valentina, her red bear, that sticks came from trees, and that rocks came from the sidewalk or tree bark. [?] Then she cuddled up to me, lay her head on my lap, and rested peacefully a moment. A moment later, she sat up and announced, "I'm gonna make a poem."

"Um, okay," I said.

And then she launched into it. It only took me a moment to realize that I needed to fish paper and a pen out of my jacket pocket, but I already had missed what probably amounted to a full stanza. She was talking fast, and some of what she was saying wasn't intelligible, and I suspect that some of it might not have been words at all, but just syllables to fill out her cadence. So I didn't catch nearly all of it. (And I have to say, parts of it had a more distinct rhythm and scanned better in the original.) Here, however, is what I was able to get down:

Trees blow, trees glow ["grow?" I asked--"no, glow," she said]
Every wish that every wish
And every owl flies at night
In the night sky
And I imagine every shape
That the clouds make
And it goes away to make another shape
And every poem... this poem's long
And [something, something, something] wrong.

And the sun is golden white.

Anything that's gold and blue
Anything that's red and pink
Anything that's blue and green
Into the lightning, blowing leaves.

There is another shape of clouds
And every table, every nook
In the house
And every wish you make into
And there's into tables, into two, into two, into two...
And trees blow, flags wave--
American flags.
Tables cloth, tables cloth, tables cloth...

And every word and nook and neck
Move any branch to the side of the sidewalk
In a grassy, mossy hill.

Valentina, Valentina, Valentina,
Valentina too.
Chimney tops in charge of roofs.

When Cassie was done with her poem, she decided that it was time for me to make one, too. She took the pen and paper, and I did my best to oblige. (I was absurdly self-conscious about making my poem not suck, and I had to pause for quite a while at a couple points. Cassie was very patient as she waited for me to get going again.) She very seriously repeated each line after me, as she was "writing" it, and covered the rest of the paper with strings of loops that in some way must represent my poetic effort.

I think that basically, my question about this episode is "wtf?" I mean, I guess it's not as if we've never read a poem to her, but it's certainly not a daily or even weekly occurrence. Maybe they've been doing poetry in school? But what evidence of school-based poetry-related activity comes generally in the form of cutesy little rhymes about snowmen or apples that get sent home with a day's packet of xeroxed schedules and newsletters. I mean, Dada/Beat blank verse it ain't.

As a child, I was careful about following rules, and being a good girl who did things the right way. I was a cautious and probably somewhat annoying little priss. So I have the hardest time wrapping my mind around just deciding you're going to "make a poem" and then coming spontaneously forth with a fluent stream of words and sounds and images. How do you even do that? My artistic efforts all suffer noticeably from being too cramped, controlled, over-careful, over-determined. Constipated is, in fact, the word that comes to mind.

But Cassie's just not like that. It's the same with drawing. She seems not to feel the slightest pressure to make the kinds of pre-determined images that I think of when I remember drawing as a child--those houses with the square bottoms and triangle tops, the flowers all shaped like cartoon daisies, trees like green and brown lollipops. Cassie goes wild with color and form, mixing media as she goes--sometimes turning out meaningless, dashed-off little scribbles but also occasionally taking the time to produce grand, complex, layered, and genuinely beautiful works (often purely abstract but sometimes incorporating some figurative elements).

It's just weird as hell to me. How does she know she can do that? How does she tap into it? Where does she get permission? And could it be that the silly hippie claptrap about the wisdom and creativity of the natural, unfettered child is... true?

I don't know, man. It just blows my little mind.

Medium Pink

Cassie has a cold. I have to admit that from my perspective, this isn't a wholly bad thing. Feeling a little under the weather means that Cassie's a bit lower-key than usual, which is easier for me to keep up with at the moment. It also affords me the opportunity to be all maternal and doting in a sit-down-and-speak-in-a-low-loving-voice way rather than a chase-around-the-playground-pretending-to-be-a-mama-bunny-running-with-my-baby-bunny-away-from-a-loud-sound way. I'm afraid I've kind of been falling down on the job in the latter category of motherish responsibilities.

My shrink has, predictably I suppose, been adamant about my not taking this on. She even wrote it out for me as an assignment on the back of an appointment card: "Stow maternal guilt." The thing is, it isn't really even guilt--it's more plain regret. Cassie and I are, at baseline, so easily and fluidly connected, with about as much mutual understanding and respect as an adult can have with a not-yet-4-year-old, that a disruption in the relationship just plain feels crappy. I've been tense, I've been cranky, I've been tired. My patience with shenanigans has been minimal (which--surprise, surprise--does not in any way lessen the child's propensity for shenanigans; rather the opposite), and my sense of humor wan and flickering like a faulty fluorescent light. I've been less flexible, less creative, less energetic. I've just been less.

For whatever reason, this pregnancy is kicking my butt in a way that my first pregnancy never did. I'm tired enough, with these weird spells of shortness of breath accompanied by large-muscle achiness/weakness that actually feels ischemic, that my midwife sent me to my primary care doc to get evaluated.

In my doc's office, my oxygen saturation was 98%, and my peak flow reading (a test usually used in asthma or COPD) was in the high 500s (=good/great), and she decided she basically wasn't worried. She offered to send me for dopplers of my legs, just to rule out clots (which can then go to the lungs as pulmonary emboli, which can lead to shortness of breath... oh, well, and death), but given the situation, that seemed like overkill to me, and she really wasn't attached to the idea. She thought a little, then said well, let's go ahead and draw a CPK (an enzyme that, if elevated, could indicate muscle breakdown)... And a calcium? I chimed in. Yes, she said, and let's get a potassium, too. She sat looking at the computer screen a moment. Anything else? she asked. No, I said, I couldn't think of anything. (To that point, I hadn't really formed much of an opinion about my doctor one way or another, but I am an absolute sucker for being treated like a colleague by my health care provider. I'm now perfectly content to see her instead of the nurse practitioner I usually try to get in to see.)

The upshot is that the blood tests came back normal, and I seem to be doing a little better fatigue-wise the last couple days, though I still seem to need an awful lot of sleep. And as the fallout of being fired settles, I'm probably less uptight. (Though I still haven't been able to break myself entirely of spending stray moments ruminating somewhat obsessively over the stupid details: she said that Mr. F was one of the most medically stable patients, but that's just not true--on my last day they moved him to a private room because they thought he was getting close to dying; I told Claire about missing Mr F's NPH, and he only ended up getting it 2 1/2 hours late; blah blah blah blah ad nauseam). And as Cassie and I have a little more time together, I think we're finding our way back to each other.

The past couple days, Cassie has been sweeter and more tractable. There were a couple weeks where she would regularly get very oppositional, as well as precociously and maddeningly passive-aggressive (does she know she has Minnesota roots?) when I was trying to get her to, say, wash her hands before supper or get her pajamas on. That behavior has substantially receded, though. For my part, I've been able to simmer down and spend more time doing things like voicing Valentina, Cassie's red bear with whom she likes to have long conversations. (During the dark days, Cassie was even having her plastic dolphins peck viciously at poor Valentina's button eyes--I mean, jeez. Showed me where I stood, boy.) We sit and draw pictures together. We look through the Delia's catalog and pick out our favorite t-shirts (Cassie favors the one with the zillion little cartoon hamburgers and the light blue hamster one; I myself like the Fantasia mushroom one). We talk about the various different shades of pink, and which precise one is her favorite color.

It's all making me kind of have to recognize the blessing-in-disguise aspects of losing my job. I really was exhausted and strung out, and it was having repercussions. And now I get to recuperate and reconnect and stuff before having to face being the mom of a newborn. So that's all fine.

I would like, however, to remind the powers that be that I am also quite receptive to entirely undisguised blessings. Painfully obvious blessings. Stark naked blessings, even.

Well. Of course there's Cassie. Stark naked and otherwise.