Crunchy ‘Nanas

I have wanted a child for as long as I can remember. Which, at 32 years of age, is a long time. We had some hurdles to cross, but I was overjoyed the day I found out I was pregnant. And yet, it felt unreal. In the beginning, I was quietly excited. I remember looking out the window across the fields on the morning of the positive test, and just feeling calm. I didn’t want to be too excited, in case I miscarried, so I played it pretty cautious with my emotions. It was a bit of a rollercoaster, actually. After that first day, I didn’t really feel like I expected to feel, both emotionally and physically, until late in the pregnancy.

I thought I would love being pregnant. Foolishly, up until I became pregnant, I equated maternal desire with pregnant bliss. I thought I would glow, that I would be sick and tired but it wouldn’t matter because I was going to have a baby, so I would therefore be infused with energy and happiness. I now realize what a misguided notion that was. I was fortunate to have a healthy pregnancy, but man, was I wiped out. I didn’t really feel comfortable in it until deep into my third trimester. (Which, as it happens, coincided with my maternity leave. I love my job so much, but I was pretty worn out.) I get a bit nostalgic now when I see pregnant women, and I wonder if part of that is because I only felt at home in the pregnancy in the final weeks.

Besides feeling sick and tired in the beginning, I realized I had to come to terms with the impending labour and childbirth. This baby was going to have to come out of me somehow. But, even more than how the baby was going to get out of me after growing for 40+ weeks, it was the thought of the epidural that really freaked me out. The thought of a needle being inserted into my spine really scared me. I didn’t know if I could trust any anaesthesiologist enough. Before getting pregnant, I’d always put childbirth and epidurals hand-in-hand, the one came with the other. But now, I started to wonder if I would be able to weather the labour and delivery without one, or if I was foolish to even think I’d be able to tolerate the pain. This quandary kind of set my research in motion. I had until the end of March to figure out what to do, what to prepare myself for.

I took some good natured teasing in our NCT antenatal class about all the reading I did, but for me that was the only way to manage the fear of the unknown, to try to be confident and positive, to feel empowered and, above all, to feel as fearless as possible. It was the reading that started to help me feel like a natural childbirth, or at least one without an epidural, might be possible. (I definitely recommend Ina May Gaskin’s Guide to Childbirth, with the positive birth stories in the first half, to any pregnant woman approaching childbirth.) I decided I wanted to be active in labour and that I really wanted to labour, and possibly deliver, in water. I grew more confident about aiming for as natural a childbirth as possible. (An epidural wouldn’t allow me to be active or in water, and I just did not like the sound of pethidine for me or my baby. Although I was open to changes in my birth plan, these things were not things I went in planning for. )

So, I bought the natal hypnotherapy cds from the NCT shop, and was disciplined about setting aside time to do the hypnotherapy and relaxation sessions, even though I was skeptical they were actually working. I tried to make the antenatal yoga class a routine for me, and when I wasn’t doing yoga, I made sure to go swimming on that weekend instead. I tried to walk as much as possible throughout the pregnancy, which was difficult through the icy winter, but in the last 6 weeks of my pregnancy I walked a decent amount, trying to make sure I did everything possible to ‘make it easy’ on myself and to get the baby positioned well.

I felt ready, or I felt as ready as I could feel for something I had never experienced. Toward the end of the pregnancy, I really felt like I was training for a race, a longer distance I had yet to run. I was apprehensive, but also looking forward to the challenge of race day, to see how it would all pan out. I even did what I would do in training for a race - I made myself a play list - my birth energy play list.

And yet, I still had the niggles of fear of the unknown. I felt like I was waiting to take an AP test in high school. You can prepare your heart out, you can feel ready, but really you’ll never rest until you get that bad boy over and done with.

They say you should have your hospital bags packed by 36 weeks gestation. So we did, or mostly. We had my bag, the baby’s bag, Barry’s bag, the bag with the snacks and juice boxes all lined up in the front room. When my mom arrived, she laughed (it really did look like we’d be moving into the hospital!) and then promptly added her bag to the mix, never really dreaming the labour wouldn’t start until after she left for her cruise in Holland (12 days after my due date).

And then we waited. And waited. And waited. It became clear that I wasn’t going to have this baby before my mom left again, and it was probably going to take an induction. (In the end, I escaped the induction by about a day!)

The waiting’s hard. You know you are going to have to endure great pain, and yet you don’t know when. It could happen any time. And any time, in my case, lasted nearly 6 weeks.  With the exception of one friend, who was due March 26th (the same day as me), all the other expected March babies greeted the world, and I just couldn’t wait to meet my baby.  I also couldn’t wait to get my ‘race’ going. You know all along the due date’s just an estimate, but that makes no difference in the waiting game. It’s still hard.

On day 11 past my due date, the midwife attempted a cervical sweep, but I was still sealed solidly shut, so she wasn’t able to do much. She said even though she wasn’t able to perform it, it still might get things going.

And so I waited.

‘Cause I’m aching, I know you are too
For the touch of your warm skin as I breathe you in
I can feel your heart beat, through my shirt
This was all I wanted, all I want
It’s all I want

I’m not a huge fan of Snow Patrol, but I heard “Just Say Yes”, really heard it, about 36 weeks into my pregnancy, and all I could do was dream and get excited about my baby. It was a healthy, yet long pregnancy for me (more to follow on that once I finally get my birth story written), but I finally felt at home in it, right at the end.  It was at about this time I was reading and listening to, drinking up, anything that made me feel confident and empowered approaching the coming birth, to help me tackle the fear and anxiety of the unknown. Every time I heard this song afterward, I just wanted to touch him, to squeeze him, to love him through my belly, I couldn’t stop anticipating the day I’d be able to adore him in life.

I’ve been a lousy blogger, but I’m now a very, very proud mom!

Yesterday, 3 weeks old

At the hospital, a couple hours after birth

Back in September, my 12 week ultrasound had me entranced. I was at the stage where I knew I was pregnant, I felt pregnant, and yet I still had moments where I’d look at Crunchy husband and say, “I am pregnant, right?” When I sat back and had the gel smeared on my belly, I was excited, but I just wasn’t prepared for the first image I ever saw of my baby to be that of its beating heart.  I didn’t expect movement, there right in front of me, of the baby growing inside me. Once I got over pinching back my tears, I just stared and stared. Or, stared and stared until I had to start performing acrobatics, and feats of unimaginable human skill - yes! I half emptied my bladder!- to coax it to move into position so the sonographer could take its nuchal measurements. I know medically that is why I was there, to make sure baby is healthy, but it doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy seeing the life growing inside me, the visual-emotional connection with what’s inside.

Back in September, I had to wait about 35 minutes before being called into the scan room. Yesterday, at my 20 week scan, I was called in literally 1 minute past my appointment time. That should have been my clue that yesterday’s sonographer meant business. And business she meant. As I laid back, I said, “we don’t really want to know if it’s a boy or a girl, but we might ask you to write it down, if you can tell.” She responded with a bit of a smirk and that was the end of all chit chat. She turned her attention toward her screen and to the lady who we can only assume was training, and explained each image as she went. This flap here, that liquid there, arm bones, ribs, heart connections, all normal and healthy.  Even though it wasn’t really directed at me, it was nice to hear the explanations. At one point she had us turn our head to measure the thigh bone, just in case other bits might be showing, if present. Though her brusqueness was a bit off putting, I am grateful to know the scan was done correctly and seriously, and that I can trust the results sheet when it says, “normal”.

Though this check was much more clinically driven, a check list of body parts and measurements to tick off, it still was magical for me. I realized pretty soon into the scan that the sonographer wasn’t really talking to me, and so I just sat back, tried not to laugh when the baby kicked or moved its hands, and just let her do her thing. She spent a lot of time looking at the heart, and that just amazes me, to know that there is another heart beating inside me right now. One moment, baby looked so peaceful, just chillin’, sitting back and relaxing, taking it easy. And then the angle changed and you could see it was clenching its fist, you could count the knuckles, ready to punch mommy. Cool. My kid’s got balls.

Or, not. We don’t know. Turns out the sonographer didn’t look. She was closing up shop, wiping my belly, and I was like, “um, well would you mind looking and writing it down?” You could tell she thought that I was really silly, but with a hint of exasperation, she did it. I tried explaining that while we like the anticipation now, we are not sure we are going to want to wonder for another 20 weeks.  I had a feeling she wanted to say, “that is not what we’re here for,” which I understand, but thankfully she did it anyway.

So, though we don’t know the baby’s sex, we could know. The answer rests in the sealed envelope inside my maternity folder, right next to the scans of my baby looking this time much more like a baby and less like I had a fling with an alien.

The envelope’s sealed, mom. We’ll know if you peak when you come for Christmas.

I woke up this morning thinking about my mom and my grandma. I have no idea why, as I don’t think I was dreaming about them, but I was just thinking about how wonderful a caregiver my mom was to my grandma for the last 15 years of her life, and how important it is to be close to family.

When I first met with my midwife in August, buried within the “do you smoke?,” “when was your last period?” and other various medical questions, she asked me, “do you have support?” Without hesitation, I replied, “oh yeah.” And she looked at me, and I thought a moment more and said, “it’s all about 5,000 miles away, though.” And then I started making the excuses, the provisions on why that didn’t matter: my parents will be coming around the time of the birth, my husband’s great, we’ve wanted this for so long…All true, yes, but still don’t necessarily mean that support is not needed. Yet, it was silence that needed filling, and I didn’t really expect her to magically build me a community.

But, the fact still remains that community is lacking. Web cams are awesome, amazing even, but they are no substitute for being in the same room.  Not when video calls are the norm and actual physical closeness is the rarity.

I am not whining or complaining, or I should say, I don’t mean to.  I take full responsibility for every choice I’ve made in my life that’s led me to this point, and I don’t regret a thing. I can’t wait to have a child, I don’t care where in the world, and am looking forward to the rest of my life. But, it doesn’t mean it’s easy.  Crunchy husband’s been great, outstanding, the poor guy has had to deal with the fact that I am having so much difficulty functioning, but sometimes I need someone else to call and hug when the sight of a left-hand drive minivan sets the tears streaming (oh, if only I were making that up).  I want to share and celebrate with people too.  This should all be so fun, so exciting and yet it’s lonely as ever, and it’d be nice if we were able to share it with people who care.

I know that on top of exhaustion from pregnancy, the crazy hormones (I mean, minivan?! I don’t even like minivans!) and a lot on at work, I am coming up on my wall. It’s the wall I hit whenever it’s been longer than about 5-6 months since I have seen my family and girl friends. I am hoping that wall will be surmounted with ease or distraction by the fact that my parents are coming for Christmas (!) and also it’s really only 20 more weeks till baby (!), but only time will tell. As will how all this pans out. I keep telling myself that we will not be in England forever, and that tends to keep the crazies down, but I need to get better at accepting the uncertainties. This child will be born in England, after that, who knows how long we’ll be here. Just not forever.

I hate leaving day. Whether I’m leaving California, or like today, my family or friends are leaving England, I hate it. I know they are essential; they walk hand-in-hand with arrival days and I would never wish those to end. But even though I’ve been doing this for four and half years now - longer even if you count Crunchy husband’s leaving days before I moved - leaving day never gets easier and it always goes pretty much the same.

I wake up with the “first day of school” knots twisting my stomach. I feel agitated, but don’t want to be grumpy in the final minutes until I part from the people I love. Thinking about this and trying to correct it, the pendulum swings to emotional and weepy. I get myself out of bed and allow myself to cry in the shower and then once the water’s off, tell myself “that’s it” and try to act normal.  Which doesn’t really happen, but we all pretend it does, so that’s fine. I manage to keep it together, or together enough, until we get to the security line at the airport and then, without fail, the together starts to leak salty tears. Which usually get stifled fairly quickly (or in today’s case, quick enough anyway), and I hold it together again until I get back into my car and allow myself to collapse into sobs for a couple minutes until I talk myself into enough composure again to hit the M25 safely.

That was pretty much my day, in a nutshell. The one thing that didn’t go quite as usual, but was a welcome laugh was breakfast. Halfway through breakfast my mom stood up from the table, walked into the kitchen and started cracking up. Last night Crunchy husband cooked a fine chili. A chili with chili powder. Chili powder that was placed back on the shelf in front of all the other spices, including the cinnamon.  This morning, following her usual breakfast routine, my mother grabbed the spice marked with a large C and laced her sultana bran with chili powder instead of cinnamon.  Which was funny in itself, but even funnier because it took her half the bowl to realize her mouth was on fire and even longer to connect up what had happened.

Thank goodness for comic relief. It makes leaving day just that little bit easier.

I know four months is not that long. I’ve done longer, maybe not happily, but I’ve done longer. But, still October feels like ages ago. Christmas was hard. It was always going to be hard, but with my Grandma’s death a week before the holiday, it was even harder for me not to be home.

Today I get to do the fun bit: I get to stand outside Heathrow arrivals, eager in anticipation, waiting to breathe that little bit easier once I see their plane has landed and easier still when they walk into the arrivals area.

I can’t wait to give my mom a hug.

We were listening to Flight of the Conchords over dinner the other night, and Crunchy husband looks up from his sprouts and says to me, “do you think your parents would like this?”

I thought for a moment, and said, “I’m not sure. It might be too random for them. And they may not get all the references.” The song was Mutha’Uckers and, perfectly timed to make my point, shouts of “on AP, yeah you know me” came from the kitchen speakers. “Like ‘O.P.P.’ They wouldn’t get it.”

Blank stare.

Disbelieving stare back, “you down with O.P.P.? Yeah, you know me!”

Nothing.

I love moments like this. It’s one of the many benefits of marrying a slightly (ahem) older man, who grew up across the world from me. I believe we enrich each other’s lives, give each other glimpses of a completely different worlds. Even if my contributions happen to be tales of Hot 97.7 on the bus to school, middle school dances in the early ’90s and a really, uh suggestive (I can guarantee you when I was 13, I did not get all the references to various meanings of that second P!) Naughty by Nature rap.

We got our Christmas tree last night. I abstained from insisting on the tallest available. It probably helped that I had just spent £32 on international postage for Christmas cards. But, I was a bit proud of myself none the less. So I “compromised” with a 6 footer. (I know, not much of a compromise, but it saved us £10, so that’s good.) It is short, but what it lacks in height it makes up in girth. It’s a bit wonky, but I love it!

Besides having beautiful greenery in the house, the Christmas tree brought a much needed surprise. We were unpacking the Christmas ornaments and we came across a cookie tin. Crunchy husband asked what was inside, and I said “ornaments, I guess” and continued with the box I was working on. When I got to the tin, I was a little confused as I had pretty much brought out all the ornaments - we don’t have very many. I opened it and was greeted with all the ornaments from my Grandma Alice. I forgot I brought them back to England after last Christmas at my parents’ house. I almost cried, but didn’t. (The season’s been a little touch and go already. 1 point for holding it together when Last Christmas came on the radio, but no points for falling apart while writing cards to my family.)

I looked at Crunchy husband and said, “these are very special, we have to be very careful.” He looked at me like “duh!” My Grandma died when I was 11, so he never got to meet her, but he knows our relationship was close.

We are remembering special people, as today would have been my mother-in-law’s birthday. This month was always going to be hard: first birthday, first Christmas and the anniversary of her death closely following, along with not being with my family and friends this Christmas. I didn’t realize it would, but having the tree has helped. I know it’s just a tree, but it makes me think of family. It makes me feel warmth and love. It’s beautiful. In its own short, wonky way.

Shots from my niece’s 1st birthday party: