hurrah! plus: bed rest for the curious.

Finally. It's about dang time, people. I met with Dr. H yesterday and Dr. H said I look fabulous, except for high-ish blood pressure, and they're a tad concerned about a scant trace of protein, and so they definitely do not want me going to 41 weeks. So guess what! They've scheduled me to go into the hospital tonight for some pre-induction medication (to soften up the cervix) and then tomorrow morning, they'll give me the powerful stuff to get the contractions and dilations going full speed and drag Melissa out of her safe, warm cocoon.

Right now, I'm actually 1-2 cm dilated, and I must say (once again sharing way too much info): the way they find this out is quite unbelievably painful. "Ow, ow," I said as he checked.

"I'm really sorry, I know that's uncomfortable," Dr. H said. Uncomfortable?? I have about 25 other words on a list to describe what someone sticking their finger up your very narrow, tight cervix feels like, and "uncomfortable" isn't strong enough for that list. Then he told me to try emptying my bladder, which I did. And when I came back he tried again.

"Is that a little better?" he asked.

"Yes, a lot. But still: Ow. Ow. (breathing technique: hoo. hoo. hout. hout) Ow." Charles said I looked like I was about crawl away, jump to the ceiling, and then run away very rapidly. This is an accurate description.

So deep breathing techniques did not help me through this. Which is how I am now quite, quite, very, very certain: I'll need the full amount of epidural right up to the legal limits, possibly flirting with the illegal limits as well. I know myself and my pain tolerance level; it's going to be the only way Melissa and I will get through this with our sanities intact. I will need mine more than she'll need hers, I feel: my sanity is much more developed and experienced...in certain areas, at least. All she needs to do is figure out how to breastfeed with out vampirically sucking off one of my boobs. We may have a strained relationship if that happens.

We were actually going to start this process on Thursday, but Charles decided he wasn't feeling at all auspicious about a Halloween baby (he's worried there will be too much sugar each birthday, which will lead to early onset diabetes) (my mother, on the other hand, worried other kids will tease her about being born on Halloween. As if! But you know...this demonstrates once more the over protective cocoon in which I was raised and why it took me until just recently to figure out how to stop being so naive) (and please note: I am not worried about auspiciousness, teasing, or glucose levels...my main concern is how a determined, watchful, occasionally demanding Scorpio will make it with a dreamy, often reality-avoidant, occasionally overly free-spirited double Pisces mother).

And so it has been decided: the labor begins tomorrow, but the REAL fun begins on Thursday when we take her home.

***Bed Rest, for the Curious***

Here is what bed rest looks like.

I would like to add that PILGRIMS by Elizabeth Gilbert has been excellent so far; if you love short story collections with fresh, writerly writing and endings that sometimes leave you wondering, you'll like this book.

I do NOT recommend reading about Zak and Vanessa's gushy, young, wealthy love in OK magazine. They are both only about 3 steps away from being as ridiculous as The Hills' annoying Heidi and Spencer:



You know who's turned out to be amazingly superior at bed rest? THAT one:



Seriously. She only gets up to use the bathroom and eat. And then she comes back to bed rest with me all day. ALL day. Which is really sweet, because clearly she loves me. But she's kind of a bed hog. And when Charles comes in for the night, she's become very indignant over the last 4-ish weeks, and tries to guilt trip us by sleeping on the floor, in a corner, outside the bedroom. This is her ritual:

1. Tries to create room. Gets kicked by Charles, and then moved by Amy. Realizes she will have to sleep at the bottom of the bed, in a corner.

2. Leaves the room and sits just outside the door.

3. Stares angrily for an extended period.

4. Sighs forlornly, curls up on the floor.

5. Sleeps.

I wish Tasha could talk, because that might make the time go faster. Except for the fact she friggin' sleeps ALL day. How does one do this and then sleep just as hard ALL night? Here is what Tasha looks like when you wake her up from bed rest (this is very similar to how I wake up when an alarm clock goes off at 5:45 AM, by the way):




I have other, recent photos if you're interested, of me pregnant at 10 months (because that 9 month thing actually means: ALL 9 months, and your due date marks the beginning of the 10th) on my MySpace page. I have even taken a picture of my hideous, shocking stretch marks that showed up over night. Oh my god--it's unbelievable what babies will do to one's body, inside and out. I'm going to remember this.

That page is private but if you want to see them, send me a friend request with a note letting me know who you are and how we know one another, and I'll more than likely accomodate. (I do realize this sounds bizarre, and not a little bit egotistically paranoid, but I have a very specific reason for making this decision...there will also be no Amy-Charles-baby Melissa photos uploaded here, for this very same reason. It's a personal/emotional boundary for me.)

I'm quite excited, yet very nervous about all of this. I'm worried about things far beyond my control: pain, umbilical cords wrapped around small necks, having to have a C-section in the end WITH vertical ugly scar, and not knowing when to push or doing it right. Charles assures me the hospital people do this ALL the time, so they'll know what to do. But I have my own special control freak alter ego inside of me--which usually only comes out on plane rides and while dealing with small children with poor listening skills--that says: Just let ME do it, for the love of god. It'll get done better and faster.

And don't even get me started on when they give this thing to us...just GIVE her to us, like: "Here, take this home with you, and don't break it." We have no idea what we're doing. That's when Charles' inner control freak alter ego will take over. Believe me: if his body could produce milk, he'd totally nurse her himself.

I had to do several zen breathing techniques this morning in the shower (my last shower with no baby around...at least no baby I can see and hear around). They did not really help. Whoever came up with these breathing techniques for different stressful and/or painful scenarios clearly never met someone like me. I bet this is why the Universe sent us the power of western medicine.