Some Facts About Breastfeeding

This is part two of a three part series about my experiences with the aftermath of pregnancy. If you find stuff like this unsettling, come back some other time when I'm talking about something else, OK? OK!

The care we received when I was pregnant and when Lenny was born from the midwives, nurses and doctors at Toronto East General Hospital was exceptional. They did their job. It wasn't an easy one, and in the end she was safe and healthy and really, that's all that matters. Except that's only partly true. Because in order for me to do my job and be a good mother to her, I was going to need a little help from them. The mother matters too. Unfortunately, everything that happened to me during my postpartum stay at the hospital would indicate that these health care professionals (with the exception of my wonderful midwives) thought of me as little more than a pair of walking boobs. Modern day health care practitioners in a "breastfeeding friendly" hospital are, in a lot of ways like a lecherous boss in a Benny Hill Sketch.

I'm pretty sure I heard this every time they wheeled in the breast pump.

Fact

When you have a c-section, which is major surgery that involves cutting through eight layers of muscle in your abdomen, it's going to hurt. When you're in that kind of pain, you're going to need some serious pain killers. I've got friends who have given birth via c-section in other Toronto hospitals who were given narcotics to help them through the pain. If they were being brave, the hospital would allow them to then downgrade to Tylenol 3. Since I was in a "breastfeeding friendly" establishment I was offered my choice of Regular Strength Tylenol or Regular Strength Tylenol. I should point out that Regular Strength Tylenol won't even help me when I've got a headache, so you can imagine how effective it was after major abdominal surgery. If I took anything stronger, I was told, there was a risk it would travel through my breast milk and poison the baby. That's right, stronger drugs would travel through my breast milk that wasn't coming in and poison my baby who refused to latch on. Just a thought, but if that really is the case, don't you think someone should mention it to all the other hospitals in town handing out the good stuff like it's Smarties?

Fact

They refuse to feed your baby any formula until they've tried breastfeeding for at least 24 hours. Lenny got nothing to eat until they realized she was straight up refusing to breastfeed on day two. At that point we had to feed her formula from a tiny plastic cup (the kind used to dispense pills) to avoid "nipple confusion". From that point on, every time we attempted to breastfeed, she tried to sip from my nipple like it was a cup. I had the song Ball of Confusion stuck in my head for weeks. "Nipple Confusion...that's what her world is to-day, hey, hey!!!"

Fact

Seeing this from my vantage point of my (really uncomfortable) hospital bed was little to no comfort.

Why is that baby on the left only a head?  Whyyyyyyy?

Fact

Sometimes, the people who are supposed to be there to help you, will act like pre-programmed breastfeeding friendly robots.

Me: Is it OK that she just spit up like that?
Nurse: Skin to skin contact is really important.

Him: Am I swaddling her correctly?
Nurse: How's it going with the breastfeeding?

Doctor: If there's anything else I can do for you, please let me know.
Me: I need stronger pain killers.
Doctor: Would you like me to make an appointment with the Lactation Consultant?

Fact

The Lactation Consultant was about as helpful as a bag of wet socks.

Fact

When you go home and spend all kinds of time hooked up to the electronic breast pump, trying desperately to squeeze that precious colostrum out of your swollen breasts while watching Quantum of Solace, you will realize just how truly bizarre your new life is.

Fact

Everybody and his brother feel that it is acceptable in today's society to ask a new mother if she is breastfeeding. Strangers on the street, cashiers at the grocery store, a random woman next to me in the gyno's office (when I didn't have the baby with me)! Note to everybody: It's none of your god damn business.

Fact

If you are unable or unwilling to breastfeed, you will catch hell from your friendly neighbourhood lactivist. I've given this some serious thought. I've tried to put myself in their shoes. They are passionate about children and health and aren't they just trying to help? Yes, I've given it lots of thought and it is my personal opinion that they are narrow minded and full of shit. Be gone, breastfeeding nazi. No. Soup. For. You.

Fact

If your baby refuses to latch on but can still smell her food through your skin, being around you will frustrate her. The day you realize that you and your milky smelling breasts are making your baby cry you will ask her father to return the electronic breast pump to the drug store, buy a case of formula and never look back.

Fact

I knew this was the right decision, but I still couldn't watch as he took the breast pump out the front door. I felt so guilty and like such a failure, it was as if he was taking any chance I had of being a good mother right out the door with that breast pump.  I only got through it by averting my eyes and singing a chorus of "Nipple Confusion" to my angry, hungry baby.

Fact

Formula feeding was always presented to me as a worst case scenario. But you know what? It has worked out great for us. Lenny is thriving. She has never been sick and we had no problem bonding without the aid of the breast, thankyouverymuch. I have had more freedom than a breastfeeding mom and her dad has had the opportunity to get more involved that he would have otherwise, especially in those difficult early days.

Formula feeding isn't the end of the world. And that's a fact.

A Children's Treasury of Weird Ass Postpartum Symptoms

This is part one of a three part series about my experiences with the aftermath of pregnancy.  If you find stuff like this unsettling, come back some other time when I'm talking about something else, OK? OK!

I had a baby and a bunch of my hair fell out.  All over the house.  Everywhere.  Many, many, months later, it all started to go grow back.  So, now?  Now I have weird, fly away baby bangs framing my face.  While this is a small price to pay for the joys of parenthood and it goes without saying I'd do it all over again if I had to, it's still kind of...gross.  Don't worry though, there's PLENTY of gross to go around...

My head wasn't the only thing losing hair

There was, in the first couple of months after the birth, a lot of short, dark hair that was presumably left behind by the baby ummm...evacuating itself from my lady bits.  It's weird peeing hair, you guys.  Make no mistake.  This went on for what felt like forever.  How hairy was she in there?  Do all fetuses look like little thumb-sucking yetis?  Why doesn't that shit show up on the ultrasound?

While we're talking about peeing...

There is something very freeing about not having to pee every second like you did when you were pregnant. The thing is, for several weeks after the birth, instead of a normal peeing experience it kind of felt like I had a trap door down there.  A giant trap door that would slam shut once I was done peeing.  It was...roomy down there.  The kicker?  I HAD A C SECTION.  What happens to your lady bits if a baby actually comes out of them?  I shudder at the thought.

Control Freak

You know those Whoopi Goldberg ads about peeing your pants?  Let's just say, she ain't lying.

Shoe shopping isn't fun any more

My size 10 feet have spread and are now wide size 10 feet. Tragic.

A word about the boobs

Breastfeeding was a challenge and never really happened (just assume that's cause I'm heartless, careless and lazy - send your hate mail NOW).  Once I stopped producing foodstuffs, my breasts took on the consistency of bean bags.  Remember those little bean bags that they always made you toss around in elementary school gym class?  Now that I'm thinking about it, elementary school gym class was the last time I had to live through a series of events as unthinkable, uncomfortable and as seemingly random as being postpartum.

The Groban Effect

I used to have a visceral reaction to certain things in our pop culture.  I knew, when I was four months postpartum, sitting in a Starbucks practically in tears over the sheer beauty of a Josh Groban Christmas song that I had been changed forever.  I watch a lot of Food Network and E! now.  Crime dramas (I'm looking at you Law & Order SVU!) are a thing of the past.  The news often makes me yell.  Like, out loud.

Hot Flashes

I sweat a lot more than I used to.  I hope I get some sweat-free years between the hormonal rages of being postpartum and the hormonal rages of menopause.

Just when you think you're out...

When I was a FULL TEN MONTHS POSTPARTUM as in, I'm actually planning my baby's first birthday party, I came down with a postpartum hormone related skin infection.  Allow me to say that again.  A skin infection. See?  I told you there was plenty of gross to go around.  I'm currently on antibiotics and considering wearing oven mitts all day to keep myself from scratching the skin clean off my body.

If you think all this sounds like fun stay tuned for parts two and three where I'll fill you in on bizarre hospital practices and the weird ass things that happened to my brain!  Really.

Enter Lenny:

There's a very big part of me that would just love to gloss over this part of Lenny's story. The end of the pregnancy and the beginning of her time "on the outside".  It's messy and full of bodily fluids and emotion.  It would be so much easier to just say, "yeah...had the baby...really happy with her..." which, you know, I did and we are.  That said, sitting here with her on her 6th day of life, on what was supposed to be her due date is making me realize I should really tell this part of her story.  Because it is, in some way or another, going to colour the rest of her story.  Or at least how I see it.  SO if you want to avoid the bodily fluids and the emotion know that I TOTALLY UNDERSTAND and stop reading now.  The rest of you?  Buckle up, it's a long one.  

Let's get on with the Bloody Show!

Last Saturday marked the 39th week of the pregnancy.  It was also my friends Sarah and Ron's wedding day.  I had been hoping that Lenny would hang in there so we could make it to the wedding and she did.  It was such a treat to share in Ron and Sarah's day and to hang out with our friends, especially knowing that this would probably be our last pre-baby night out.  It was a truly wonderful wedding.

The Robeau and I with our dear friend Hutch pre-ceremony

Ron and Sarah exchange their vows

I had been feeling great all day leading up to the wedding and was completely energized by the time we got there.  Then, at the reception I started to experience some classic symptoms of what our midwife had told us to watch out for as "pre-labour".  The appearance of the aforementioned bloody show and some old school, "I forgot what these felt like" period style cramps.  Nothing to cause any concern, just an indication that she'd probably be arriving sooner rather than later.  It could still be a matter of days, or weeks even.  But there was light at the end of the tunnel, which was a very nice feeling indeed.  That night I slept better than I had in weeks.  A solid, restorative, deep sleep.

Sunday morning at 9am when I sat up to get up and go to the bathroom I felt what can only be described as a glug of liquid, umm, release itself from me.  And that's when the questions started.  Had I just peed myself or had my water broken?  It was a slow leak, that I couldn't stop or control but it wasn't clear like amniotic fluid should be, nor was it tinged with brown or green the way amniotic fluid containing meconium would be, it was sort of yellow, the colour of straw.  After about an hour of this I called our midwife who suggested I try a few things and track the progress of the leak.  She came over two hours later to check things out.  Turns out my water had broken and it was the colour it was because there had been meconium, but that it had likely happened a couple of weeks ago when the baby turned herself around to the head down position.  Old meconium is less dangerous than new meconium which can cause the baby difficulty breathing post-birth because it is so sticky and is quite dangerous if inhaled.  That said, old meconium is no treat either.  We were now on a clock - the baby had to be delivered within the next 24 hours.

We had to head to the hospital right away and induce labour.  "Meconium babies" need to be monitored closely during labour so I would be confined to bed with a fetal monitor and a contraction monitor strapped to my belly and an IV dispensing Pitocin into my arm. That sounds like fun, doesn't it?  After talking it over with our midwife we decided to get the epidural early.  My blood pressure, while not yet high, had started to "trend upward" and an epidural could help lower that.  Also, being strapped in and not able to move to help cope with the pain of medically augmented contractions seemed like a very, very good reason to get the pain medication asap.  We started the Pitocin (after taking over an hour to get the IV in, I have notoriously hard to find veins) and it took effect right away.  The contractions were uncomforatble, but totally manageable at this point.  This is when we met the world's most awkward anesthesiologist.  You might think that your anesthesiologist was more awkward than mine, but I promise you, that is not the case.  Having the epidural administered was a complete drag.  It was more painful and scary than any of the contractions up until that point, but what can you do?  It took effect right away, leaving my lower half totally numb...and my blood pressure dangerously low.

The Pitocin had to be turned off right away and the anesthesiologist spent the next couple of hours injecting some sort of narcotic into my IV line to help bring my blood pressure back up.  Eventually we stabilized my pressure through a combination of medication and having me lie on my left side, which became very painful after a while. The absolute best part about this portion of the day was that what had started as a lovely sun shower outside evolved into a thunderstorm, knocking out the power in the hospital room no less than SIX TIMES.  The generator always kicked in almost immediately but it suddenly made me feel like I was giving birth on the set of M*A*S*H.

Once that ordeal was rectified we turned the Pitocin back on to try and kick start the labour.  It worked, the contractions were making themselves known, but unfortunately the epidural had stopped working.  Oh, it was still on, but I could now feel everything. Truth be told, this wasn't the worst thing in the world.  I was glad to feel that my body was working the way it should be, it was just unpleasant that I was stuck lying on my left side and strapped to all those machines.  The contractions were strong, but they were short and after hours of this we had made very little progress.  I was dilating at a very slow rate and now, the baby's heart rate had started to decelerate with every contraction.  Apparently this isn't uncommon later in labour, but at this point I was only dilated to about 3 cm and it could be an indication that she was in distress.  After consulting with the OB on call we decided to give it another couple of hours and if things didn't progress at a more rapid rate we would opt for the C Section.  They now inserted a fetal heart monitor into the baby's scalp to get a better idea of what her heart was doing.  A couple of hours later we had dilated to about 5 cm and the baby, who was still showing signs of distress hadn't moved any further down the birth canal (she was still at -1 station).  A C Section at this point wasn't just inevitable it felt like the right thing to do.

Seventeen hours after first inducing labour I was being wheeled down the hall (getting knocked into walls and nurses stations all the way) to the Operating Room.  To say I was apprehensive would be the understatement of a lifetime.  Meanwhile, the Robeau, who had been by my side for the whole seventeen hours (and at every appointment for the 9 months leading up to this day) was held behind to get into his scrubs while they prepped me for surgery.  The OR was bustling and full of people, but I never felt more alone. After a while they brought him into the room, where he had a full view of the incision that they had already started to make in my abdomen.  Lucky guy.  Once they took him around to the other side of the sheet that was supposed to obscure the view of the carnage he said I looked like Sean Penn at the end of Dead Man Walking, arms strapped down, needles sticking out of my veins.  At this point I was on morphine and sucking on pure oxygen and feeling quite disconnected from the experience.  It was the worst kind of high.

And this is where it gets hard to talk about.

I could feel them tugging and pressing and pulling on my body for what felt like an eternity and then, over the din of the machines and the clanging of metal instruments I heard someone on the other side of that sheet say, "cord, three times" and then things just kept going they way they were.  A couple of minutes later the OB sticks her head over the sheet and says, "you have a beautiful baby girl, we're just going to clean her up", but instead of hearing her cry we hear two voices in unison chanting "ONE, TWO, THREE, BREATH...ONE, TWO, THREE, BREATH".  At that moment time stood still, the room started to spin and all I remember screaming through my oxygen mask was "no...no...no" over and over again.  After trying so hard to hold it together all day I thought we were going to lose her before we even had her and I lost my composure, hell, for a moment I lost my mind.  The Robeau was doing everything he could to keep me calm, telling me they were professionals and they were taking care of her and everything would be fine.  Even then, as high and as terrified as a I was I knew he was holding it together for my sake and I was so profoundly grateful to have a man who could set aside his own fears in that moment to try and help me get through what was, without a doubt the worst moment of both of our lives.

Finally, we heard her cry.  Our midwife came around to make sure the Robeau would be ready to hold her once she was cleaned up and when I got reassurance from her that the baby was indeed fine (despite having the cord wrapped around her neck three times, having new and old meconium and needing a vacuum to be delivered) I gave in to the drugs and the shock and spent the next 45 minutes or so while they stitched me up and moved me into recovery blacked out.

Eileen Agnes "Lenny" Clayton just after birth.  In addition to everything else, our midwife takes nice photos!

Meeting Dad

I remember waking up in recovery, shaking and chattering my teeth uncontrollably while I came down from the morphine.  The incision was very painful at this point and my mouth was so dry I could hardly close my mouth.  When the post-op nurse, who was impossibly beautiful, gave me a cup of ice I almost went all Double Rainbow guy about the wonder of that styrofoam cup of ice, but I couldn't stop shaking long enough to say anything but "bbbbrrrr" and "ow".

And then, about 90 minutes after she made her dramatic entrance, someone placed Lenny on my stomach and we finally got to meet.

I know you.

The craziest thing that happened now (and I wonder if I would have noticed this if I wasn't so high) was that as she lay they squirming around and kicking her legs her movements felt just like they did from the inside...only now they were on the outside. Trippy, no?

I'm only half joking when I say that after that birth I think I'm more at risk for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder than I am Postpartum Depression.  It was an awful, frightening experience and it's going to be with us forever.  That said, we received wonderful, compassionate care and the right decisions were made to protect our baby. The outcome, no matter how we got there is nothing short of perfect.  It's my hope that her rocky beginning won't make us over protective parents or prone to spoiling her, but that knowing how close we came to losing her will serve to make us appreciate her all the more.  The first 6 days have been, despite all the roadblocks of recovery and the lack of sleep the happiest of our lives.  We are one lucky little family.

Introducing Lenny!

Art Vandelay is here!  Meet Eileen Agnes "Lenny" Clayton who arrived on Monday, August 16th at 6:49am.  Named for her Grandmothers and Jerry Orbach's character on Law & Order, cause that's not weird at all.

Please forgive any typos.  It's not impossible, but typing with a 7lb 12 ounce baby on your lap can prove to be a challenge.

We just arrived home today from the hospital and everything is going beautifully.  So far Lenny is charming everyone she meets...even the cats seem almost fond of her.  Once we settle in I've got all kinds of stories to tell.  There never seems to be a dull moment with our Lenny!

Magnum P.I. and the contents of my uterus.

It occurs to me that I haven't given you a proper update on Art Vandelay since we discussed the much anticipated scheduling of the C Section, based on said baby's reluctance to turn around.  Well, to the surprise of everyone guess who went and got themselves turned around?  Yep.  There we were in the OB's office, setting the date for August 11th when he says "the baby's head down".  I laughed because I thought he was joking.  He'd been making with the wise cracks earlier in the appointment and the environment was, shall we say, lighthearted.  Let me put it this way...there was a framed poster from the 80's on the wall of this examination room of Tom Selleck playing beach volleyball.

No.

I'm not kidding.

It's a good thing I'm so terribly fond of and comfortable with our midwives, because I have to say, it's a little disappointing that Art isn't going to be delivered by someone who has framed Tom Selleck posters on their office walls.  I have it on good authority that there is a Burt Reynolds poster in one of the other exam rooms.

No.

I'm not kidding.

And now here we are, 39 weeks pregnant, exactly one week away from Art's official due date.  It took a little while for me to wrap my head around the fact that we weren't going to have to have the C Section.  I had come to be more than OK with the idea and going back to plan A was a little disorienting.  It's been a couple of weeks now and I've had time to sit with the reality and get things in order around the house (read: the packing of the suitcase and the diaper bag).  That's helped.  So did the in home appointment with our midwife two nights ago where she went through procedural things in great detail (when to call her, when not to call her, when to take two extra strength Tylenol and two Gravol and take a nap).  She also dropped some sports analogies on us for the labour process.  I imagine some people would find those analogies ineffective but man, do they ever work for me.  I told the Robeau when the midwife asks why I'm hurling myself against the wall in the birthing suite he's to tell her that I'm "giving my body up for the play" a la Derek Jeter on July 1st of 2004.  If squeezing a human being out my lady parts doesn't get me Team Captain, I'm demanding a recount.

Operation: Stop Ward 31 News UPDATE #9

I realize that it's been quite a while since my last update on the Stop Ward 31 News crusade. There isn't too much news to relay. I've been in touch with some local politicians who are being very supportive and with the BIA in the neighbourhood who I hope will get word out to potential advertisers that this so called "newspaper" is not the place to spend their advertising dollars. I have had ZERO response from any of Mr. St. Germaine's readership on his attack of me in the last issue. It makes me wonder who's read it? The truth is, this project is a marathon and not a sprint.

It's also true that my pace has slowed somewhat on this cause considering everything I've had to do in the last little while like wrapping up work for a year and preparing the house for Art Vandelay's imminent arrival. In a related story, do you realize it's impossible to find a pair of disposable diapers for sale that hasn't been branded by the Disney Corporation? Gross. The Robeau points out that if I find this practice so distasteful I should just keep in mind that the kid will be defecating all over the mouse so I should be pleased. I don't hate everything Disney turns out (don't worry, there's not another boycott in this blog's future) in fact, I appreciate and admire a lot of it. I'd go so far as to say I LOVE some of it. It's just the...omnipresence of the branding, the STUFF, and those damn Princesses. Maybe I should train the baby to poop on back issues of the Ward 31 News?

Breech of Contract

So here we are, 36 weeks pregnant tomorrow. That makes me officially 9 months pregnant and a month away from our due date. Say what now? As we come towards the end of this chapter and the beginning of the next one it has become apparent that Art Vandelay is beginning as Art Vandelay intends to continue. We discovered a couple of weeks ago that the kid was breech. That is to say, sitting the wrong way, head up. This surprised me not at all, partly because I myself was a breech baby and why wouldn't my kid also be backwards and stubborn?

At the time that we learned of our breech status I had been struggling with pretty debilitating back pain for about week and was on a reduced work schedule and a sort of semi-bed rest situation. Slowing down is HARD but having the Robeau to drive me around and make dinners sure helped (as did the kitties keeping me company). I'm a lucky girl.

Anyway, our midwives gave us a number of suggestions to try and turn Art Vandelay into proper birthin' position and we tried a bunch of them...inversions, hot and cold therapy, we even flirted with Chinese medicine. The method that is supposed to have the highest success rate is the Webster's Technique, a chiropractic thing. Now, I've never been to a chiropractor and truth be told I was quite skeptical about the whole thing. At that point though, trying seemed like the right thing to do. After my first appointment I had totally gulped down the chiro-kool-aid. Why? Because without any scary cracking but with gentle prodding I started to feel my S.I. joint (the source of all the back pain) along with my hips and pelvis begin to get realigned (I was quite a mess, apparently). I've learned about why I was in such pain and what I can do to help correct it. This morning, not even two weeks after beginning treatment with my chiropractor I'm getting closer and closer to being pain free and more importantly, I can actually walk. I can WALK without shuffling, wincing or clutching the wall. Believe me, this is HUGE.

That said, while the Webster's Technique has set my back onto the road to recovery it has done nothing to turn Art Vandelay.

After what had to have been our 342nd ultrasound yesterday, even our midwife, who you would imagine would be all "wait and see, try this yoga move" about this stuff was like "yeah, this baby's not going anywhere, go ahead and book a C Section". Which is exactly what we're going to do. I'm going to keep up with the Webster's, etc. but we're not going to stress out about it. I know there are a lot of folks out there who feel very strongly about not messing with the birth process, even with breech babies and I understand their point of view. In fact, the Society of Canadian OBGYN's is starting to train docs on how to perform breech births vaginally again because they've determined that C-Sections are in fact NOT the best way to go in this situation. HOWEVER, for the last couple of decades doctors and midwives have not been delivering breech babies the old fashioned way, which means there are no health care providers willing to go there today without implying huge risk. To that I say, "no thanks". I also say, "Hey, bring on the pharmaceuticals!" WHY NOT?

So it looks like the big event might be happening in two or three weeks instead of a month. We should know an exact date by next week some time. It's funny because I thought I'd be upset at the prospect of surgery but for some reason I'm liking the predictability of it (type A much?). Besides, I think at this point, we just kind of have to respect the fact that Art Vandelay's mind is made up, you know?

Meanwhile, Holy Cripes, do we ever have a lot to do before this all goes down!

Up and to the LEFT.

Reason number 4,567 that I need to stop reading things on the internet:

"You are 35 weeks pregnant. Your baby has pretty much taken over your entire torso by now. Over the past few months, she or he have squished and mushed all of your organs out of the way. Any day now, he or she will make a final move and shove your heart up and to the left to make more room for her / himself. "

Do you think if they warned people that their hearts would relocate (literally, not figuratively, don't get cute) our population would decrease dramatically? Cause I do.

Do. I. Ever.

The Rule of Threes

What's that ancient Chinese curse? May you live in interesting times? Things have been SO INTERESTING lately you guys. So very, very interesting. What I wouldn't give for a little boredom right about now. Been sort of preoccupied the last couple of weeks not just with work (I only have a month left before mat leave! What?!) but with local politics (the G20 debacle) and shooting pictures at the Jazz Festival. More on those things later...they're for different blog posts altogether. How about an Art Vandelay update though? Seriously, if I don't update now it'll be the kid's first birthday before I fill you in on the Third Trimester Madness. Third Trimester Madness is like Midnight Madness at your local mall but with less shoe sales and more hormone induced loose joints. That's right. Loose joints. All over your body. Thanks to a, I am sure sarcastically named hormone, "relaxin". No, you go ahead and refill your birth control prescription, I'll wait right here.

Let's go back about a month to May 30th when my Facebook status read "Well, one day in and the third trimester has been just as uneventful as the second. Hope it stays that way." Famous. Last. Words.

I had a midwife appointment scheduled for the next day and I called ahead of time to let them know that I had been dealing with severe itching in my hands and feet. Not only that, I had done a bad thing and I had googled "itchy hands and feet in pregnancy" and discovered that it could be a symptom of something more serious. Something liver related that could be ruled out with a blood test. So I called from my desk at lunch time to tell them that I had been a bad girl and had googled and could I please have that blood test tomorrow when I come in for my appointment. Just to rule it out. And by the way, had I mentioned I was sorry for googling? And my calm midwife says to me, over the phone, "how soon can you meet me at the hospital?"

Oh. I see. This is karma for not having thrown up at all during the first trimester. I had just learned about my friend's sister who threw up so violently and so often that she cracked a rib during her first trimester. I dry heaved once. And as a result I was now faced with "how soon can you meet me at the hospital?"

One absolutely hellish hour later The Robeau and I were at the hospital and I was strapped into some sort of fetal monitor thing undergoing the ironically named "non-stress test". After three hours in OB Triage we were assured that the condition, ICP, which sadly does not stand for Insane Clown Posse but for Intrahepatic Cholestasis of Pregnancy was very serious but manageable if monitored...and that they weren't sure yet if I even had it. The definitive yes or no would have to wait three weeks, as it turns out, because there is only one lab in the entire province that can do the necessary blood test.

I will omit the angsty hand and feet itching that went on for the next three weeks and tell you that all is well and Vandelay and I are Insane Clown Posse free. Apparently the test came back 100% normal. Sometimes you just have itchy hands and feet. I have to say though, how lucky I feel that we are getting the kind of care we are from our midwives and from the doctor who was on call at the hospital that afternoon (it took me a while to warm up to him, but in the end he was really great). The frustrating part was dealing with hospital bureaucracy. The day after the initial tests we were ordered to come in for an ultrasound and holy hell, what a bunch of finger pointing, do nothing right, take no responsibility a-holes we had to deal with. What should have taken maybe 30 minutes took all day. I love our health care system in Canada, I really do, but wow, that was an exercise in frustration.

Since that time things have been uneventful. There is the swelling and the heartburn and the loose joints and the lovely summer cold I've had for over a week - but really, I signed up for all of that. And at least I haven't cracked a rib.

Ahahahahaha!!!!

Because sometimes all you can do is emit nervous laughter.

Just now, my wonderful friend, who I share an office with reluctantly started an online bridal registry. She is getting married exactly one week before my due date. Boy, do I hope Art Vandelay hangs in there so I can go celebrate her and her wonderful fella! Anyway, she's been reluctant to get started on the registry and I've been goading her on. When she logged on they pointed out to her that her wedding is a mere 93 days away! Double digits people! We giggled nervously. Then we realized...93 days for her means exactly 100 days for me.



In other news, my productivity level is getting lower and lower as my to do list gets longer and longer. It's totally demoralizing. I've decided I'm going to start adding "Grow Human" to the top of my to do list everyday, so that I can cross at least one thing off.

Is It Safe?

So I know I got a little ranty in the last baby related post about mean-spirited, negative people who should keep their mouths shut around the knocked up. And as much as I detest the choruses of "just you wait" and "you think that's bad" there's another extreme that is, if not equally annoying, its own special kind of irritant.

I looked tired yesterday, apparently. This according to two co-workers, a TTC ticket taker and the waiter at the restaurant I had lunch in. Thanks for the honesty guys! The thing is, I did look tired. Cause I was tired! I've been busy, I hadn't slept well and I'm hosting a fetus...so yeah, I was tired. This is when I started hearing some pretty crazy things from some well meaning people. Things like "When you're pregnant your body is doing the equivalent of running a marathon EVERY day!"


As much as I would like to believe that, I'm sorry, but I call bullshit. Running a marathon? Do these people know how hard it is to run a marathon? I mean the sentiment is sweet but how do you even quantify something like that? Furthermore, I feel like that's really kind of insulting...to marathon runners.

But who knows? Maybe someday I'll train and run an actual marathon and then I'll be able to say to myself, "They were right! This was JUST like that one Thursday when I was in my sixth month. Pass the champagne and cookies!" Because if I ever did run a marathon following it with champagne and cookies would be, I'm quite sure, mandatory.

The Bladder as a Speedbag: My Continued Adventures in Gestatin'

Well, it's been a month since my last Art Vandelay update and things are still moving along swimmingly. I can't complain. No, that's not right. I shouldn't complain. I CAN complain. And I will. You bet I will.

OUCH

Just because things are going really well doesn't mean I have to relinquish my right to bitch and moan about the stuff that makes this whole process just a little bit icky. That's something I've had to work pretty hard to convince myself of. You see, I'm sort of wired to be stiff-upper-lip about everything and there are few things I love more than being a good patient. I am a trouper. The other night, I was whimpering to The Robeau about unrelenting heartburn and foot cramps and lamenting the fact that I wasn't getting any of the sympathy I felt I so richly deserved. Why was no one patting me on the head or telling me how tough I am? It was then I realized, I did this to myself. Let's call it..."troupergate". It's become pretty obvious that if she doesn't vent every once in a while this little trouper might just blow. So, in that spirit, there are a few things I need to get off my chest.

I EFFING HATE THE TTC

I spend roughly 90 minutes a day on the subway getting to and from work. The Toronto Transit Commission is a joke. Not a funny joke either. The TTC is like something Jay Leno would have read off an index card at the Correspondent's Dinner. The subway is crowded, slow and delayed almost daily. My fellow commuters are smelly, rude and just plain stupid. Old Tracey took most of this in stride and even laughed off the pushy woman shoving her on the escalator, the drugged out guy falling asleep on her shoulder at 9:30 AM and the perv grabbing her boob. New Gestatin' Tracey CANNOT STAND ANY OF IT. It takes me at least half an hour to phych myself up in the morning and at the end of the work day to even set foot on the train and another good hour to wind down once I get home, without, need I even mention, the aid of red wine. I hate it so much it's almost enough to make me understand people who move to soulless desolate communities in the suburbs. The worst part? I know it's going to get worse before it gets better.

HEY YOU! YEAH, YOU! SHUT UP!!!!

Feel compelled to tell the pregnant lady how crazed and sleep deprived she's going to be in a few months? Shut it. Tempted to condescend to her about about fat ankles, time management or child rearing? Shut it. Unsolicited advice of any kind? Shut. It. How about YOU enjoy yourself while you still can, Jackhole? The most interesting part of this little phenomenon is that the loudest and most irritating of the lot are the childless. I've noticed that most mothers I know have gained enough wisdom (no doubt after being patronized to by human megaphones themselves) to know when to shut it.

ALSO...

Sometimes my back hurts. Not to mention, round ligament pain isn't for punks. And? Oy, the heartburn. Please, let's not talk about the hormones. I might cry. And then yell at you. And then cry.

AAAAWWWW

By far the coolest development so far is being able to feel Art move around. I started to feel the "flutters" they tell you about at about 14 weeks but honest to goodness kicking, flipping and turning commenced about two weeks ago. Now that the sneaky fetus is weighing in at 2lbs we can feel the kicks on the outside and even see them. Which is one part awesome, one part totally creepy and a daily reminder that Holy Shit, There's A Baby In There. In fact, don't take my word for it, check out this video that a nice lady posted on the internet of her 24 week pregnant belly moving around. You've got to know I'm not going to be videotaping my belly anytime soon, but I am grateful to the nice ladies out there on the internet that have the gumption to do just that. If they do it, I don't have to.

PROOF

The other moments of proof are pretty cool. Getting to hear the heartbeat at the midwives and the ultrasounds. We had another ultrasound last week and while our technician had to be the MOST non-committal ultrasound tech in the known universe (She will admit to nothing! We think she's been sued.) What she showed us sure looked like girl bits. Or, you know, a hamburger. But she will not commit! The only thing she will commit to is the fact that it is "really hard to find VHS tapes these days" and "none of us had ultrasounds before we were born and we turned out fine", which begs the question...why are you in this line of work?! Anyway, she's a character. Here's some of her handiwork:

Oooohhhhh....soooo creeeeeepy.

Seriously. Pretty cute, right? Just LOOK at that round head!

THE BELLY

I've had a few requests for a belly pic. I was reluctant, but I figured since you asked nicely...


You're welcome, blogosphere.

The Halfway Mark.

Things are motoring along nicely here in New Orleans. This morning we're renting a car and heading to the Musicians' Village to drop off the gear that I was able to purchase with the proceeds of my photography exhibit in February. Between that, The Robeau's time in the recording studio on Thursday night and all the other fun stuff we've been doing (eggs benny poor boy!) it's easy to forget that this trip is also sort of a "babymoon". In fact, today marks the 20th week of my pregnancy. HOW one EARTH did THAT happen? You know what that means. We're already halfway there! Or...we're only halfway there...depending on which day (or hour, or minute) you ask me.

The second trimester really is all it's cracked up to be. Granted, I get tired more easily and when I need to eat, I NEED TO EAT. I'm not even going to mention the constant peeing. Oh, look at that, I mentioned the constant peeing. It's hard not to mention it when it's constant. Ask me about the best public restrooms in New Orleans sometime. I'll hook you up. Right now my biggest grievance is that my already suspect sense of balance has completely disappeared. My centre of gravity is all out of whack and as a result my equilibrium is shot. Which is, for lack of a better word, disorienting. Excuse me while I clutch that wall or lunge at your shoulder for support.

The Friday before we left on our trip we had our second ultrasound. It was at a different facility than the first one which meant a different technician and different rules. Remember how I mentioned that I had to pee constantly? Well, these nice people insisted that I drink enough water to fill my tiny, crowded bladder AN HOUR BEFORE my appointment and HOLD IT until half way through the ultrasound at which point I'd be allowed to empty out two cups. In fact, here's a paper cup. Fill it up twice and stop peeing, come back to the table and let me poke you in the abdomen some more. Sound good? Are you crying? Are your tears yellow?

I know the uncomfortable full bladdered pregnant lady is a tale as old as time, but it's 2010! Hasn't the technology improved? I didn't have to do this at the 12 week ultrasound. I'm not ready to admit that it has to be this way.

Turns out we weren't able to get any really good pics or find out the gender as Art Vandalay spent the whole hour we were there covering up his or her privates with his or her gangly arms. This is the best we could do. Be glad it's labeled.


In fact, it's such a poor likeness, please enjoy this Life Magazine cover from the mid 60's featuring an 18 week old fetus. There ya go. There's a kid that was ready for their close up.


So far, my mental state has been hanging in there although I am beginning to have moments where I worry that we won't have everything ready (hints of nesting?) and moments where I feel incredibly, incredibly anxious. Then I realize that no, I wasn't anxious at all, it was just gas.

The Awkward In-Between Stage

So here's the thing about being pregnant so far. I have no idea what to tell people when they ask me how I am. I mean, I'm FINE. And don't think I don't realize how lucky that makes me. I realize it. But when I say just that, "I'm fine" they look at me, wide eyed and tilt their heads, waiting for more. After the awkwardness hangs in the air for a little while I usually follow up with a somewhat manic "I'm GREAT!" cause obviously, being fine was not the answer they were looking for and I need to amp it up. Nine times out of ten, and I'm not kidding here, that's not satisfactory either and they follow up with "well then, how's the baby?"

Blink.

Blink.

I'm sorry? What? I don't know! Fine too, I'm assuming. I hope. I mean, I'm not getting any complaints from in there yet. How am I supposed to answer that? No. Really. How am I supposed to answer that? And no, my reaction to these lovely people's perfectly nice questions have nothing to do with mood swings, thankyouverymuch, I've always been this bitchy.

I really am fine. So fine in fact, there are days I forget I'm pregnant at all. I haven't forgotten long enough to drink coffee or diet coke or a bottle of red wine or go bungee jumping or anything fun like that but I do feel so good most of the time that when a day sneaks up on me like yesterday when the heartburn was a persistent mofo and it felt like a shot put was sitting on my pelvis I got really rather grumbly. Like I'd come to expect that the only truly irritating symptom I would have to put up with would be peeing every two hours all night, every night. Hell, I've gotten so used to that I don't think I'd know how to sleep through the night anymore. Which, come to think of it, is probably a good thing.

Another side effect of all of this feeling fine is that I haven't been putting any effort whatsoever in documenting this pregnancy so far which I'm sure will make me look back and shake my head someday. So. Let's recap, shall we?

Notes from the First Trimester

"I can smell everything"

"That tastes disgusting"

"Excuse me, I have to go read everything ever written on the internet about the first 12 weeks of pregnancy"

"Canada Dry Gingerale has real ginger in it"

"Even seeing another human being with boobs makes me think of my boobs and how much they hurt"

"I HATE the subway"

"Why don't my jeans fit so sooooon?"

"Boobs"

"That's a poor excuse for a pee"

"zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz"

And rinse...AND repeat. That was pretty much it for 8 weeks. I was tired the first 4 weeks too, but I just thought that was red wine fatigue from all those holiday parties. In fact, in retrospect, the hardest part of the first trimester was lying to everyone about why I wasn't drinking at all the parties after we found out. All of my acting experience really paid off, let me tell you. Although, faking being too hungover to drink isn't hard to do when you're dealing with even low grade morning sickness. For the frist 3 months, being pregnant basically feels like being hungover. Except instead of the greasy breakfast hangover food your body thinks it wants, you have to try and eat salad.

The mental trauma that I was expecting didn't kick in until after week 12 and the first ultrasound when we actually had to come out of the closet and tell people. For some reason that terrified me. Whenever possible I emailed instead of telling people in person. If a person absolutely had to be told verbally, I made the Robeau do it. Or if you were my boss, I made you guess. Cause I'm grown up and well adjusted like that. I'm not even going to try and analyze that one. That would be too much mental and figurative navel gazing for one post. I'll spare you the story of the tailbone injury I sustained during a pap smear too. That's TMI even for me.

So, here I am, stuck in the awkward in-between stage. Not fitting into any of my clothes, but just looking chubbier. Happy, but not yet filled with the anticipation that everyone seems to be looking for. Feeling fine, but with nothing to report. Still, thanks for asking...honest.

Out of the closets...into the streets!

Good grief. So much to catch up on and while I very much look forward to getting to that in the coming weeks I think there's something you should know. Bloggy McBloggerson, are you sitting down?


Meet Art Vandelay*. Well, Art Vandelay until August when we're forced to come up with a real name.

I don't want to blame an innocent fetus for my lack of blogging lately so let's just say that now that I've entered the second trimester and I'm no longer sleeping twenty hours a day I might just find the time to string a few sentences together. In fact, Caftan Woman (who slays me), upon hearing the news last week wondered if maybe, just maybe, this was something the Robeau and I cooked up just to give me something to write about. You know, like those sitcoms that run out of story line ideas. An intriguing theory, don't you think?

In all seriousness, The Robeau and I are very, very happy to have jumped the shark and I can't wait to share this exciting next step in my life with you.


*Serious bonus points if you get the Art Vandelay reference, friends.