Proverbial medical advice to self: It is better to indulge in books than in sugar

Twenty-eight weeks today! The beginning of my third trimester. I am really starting to brace myself for the months ahead. I know from experience that these last 3 months of pregnancy become increasingly difficult and uncomfortable, and I also know that it gets even harder when the baby arrives. There is joy amid the stress, but there is, no doubt, stress.

Last week I picked up the latest edition of Sheila Kitzinger’s classic, The Complete Guide to Pregnancy and Childbirth. The copy I pored over prior to Pearl’s arrival in 2005 was dated 1987, I think, so I felt justified in securing more up-to-date information.

I also bought a batch of books for Vi, anticipating the unwritten pages of summer vacation. I found a 3-for-4 deal on four books that had been recommended to me at the Festival of Faith & Writing:

Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O’Dell—This was one of A-Town faithful Auntie Jean’s favorites as an avid young reader. We actually have Auntie Jean’s copy in our possession, which I think Vi will come to cherish. However, for now, I hope she’ll be enticed by the slick new paperback version.

The Silver Crown (Aladdin Fantasy) by Robert C. O’Brien—Recommended by FFW author Sara Zarr. This one seems like the fantastical sort of subject Vi would enjoy, given her past faves.

Shug by Jenny Han—I can’t recall who suggested this one (was it you, Leena?), but I scribbled a note on my Festival notes: “Shug, Han, Vi.” Looks like an appropriately melodramatic pick for the summer before starting middle school.

Summer of My German Soldier (Puffin Modern Classics) by Bette Green—Another Zarr selection, which I remember reading as a girl, but barely recall its contents. I enjoy a good juvenile lit pick every now and again, so maybe I’ll relive this tale myself.

* * * * *

Since writing the above this morning, I have had a full day of work- and pregnancy-related transactions. Things really start to pick up as birthing day draws near. Last Monday I went for my gestational diabetes test. I “passed”—meaning my body is processing sugar appropriately and I don’t have to restrict my diet for the next 3 months to spinach salads and hard-boiled eggs. (Whew!)

This week I had to go for my Rhogam injection. As a woman with Rh-negative blood married to a man with Rh-positive blood, I have to get this shot during and after each pregnancy to make sure my blood does not attack my babies’ blood. This is a very oversimplified explanation. If you want to understand it better, Google it, but be warned: Googling medical information can be very scary and confusing (if you haven’t already figured that out). I have been through this Rhogam drill 3 times before with no ill effects (at least, none evident so far—3 healthy kids, ages 10, 6 and 4), but I looked it up again over the weekend. By the time I got to the midwife’s office, I was warily certain I would accept the shot, but not without qualms—and not without making sure it was mercury-free. (The brand my midwife used was—I personally read the specs.)

Still, I wonder if I made the right decision. So many health-related decisions are so daunting. There doesn’t seem to be a “right answer.” Doctors often disagree with one another, as do alternative health care practitioners. My chiropractor and my massage therapist, for example, are not philosophically “in sync,” as I assumed they would be. So what’s an Average Jane to do? Research some, pray a lot, and hope for the best, I suppose. If only life could be as clear-cut as Strunk & White’s.

One thing’s for sure—and I don’t need an expert to confirm what I already know: I gotta stop eating so many sweets! I’ve done it before; I can do it again. Now that Ben’s Star Wars cake is consumed, I am resolved to lay off the refined sugar. On that count, today’s check-up was painfully clear-cut: Up 7.5 pounds in the past 2 weeks—zoinks! Headline to avoid: “A-Town woman births 16-pound baby.”

A weird way to want to celebrate

It's Mother's Day Eve, and what are my dearest wishes for the 'morrow? Cleaning, of course! Strange, but true.

Star Wars according to a 3 year old.

Listening to the grown-ups

I could hear the droning discussion coming from the other room. I was fiddling around on Facebook, as usual, and Will was nestled, with newspaper, into his favorite nook of the couch. On nights when I stay awake past the kids’ bedtime, this is our typical wind-down routine.

The talking heads on the tube sounded dreadfully boring from where I sat, so it didn’t surprise me that Will was able to divide his attention between the TV and the Wall Street Journal. With resolve, I clicked my way out of the mesmerizing maze of the Web and turned off the computer. I waddled into the living room and approached the television. “You can turn it,” Will offered. “Or turn it off, if you want.”

I was about to stifle the conversation, eager for the “Golden Silence” my mother always raved about when she was my age, but then, to my surprise, I got sucked in. Or, phrased more eloquently, I became engaged in the scintillating dialogue.

It was the Bill Moyers Journal--the very last episode, apparently. Mr. Moyers’ guest was author Barry Lopez. Until last night, I had never heard of either of them. Within 90 seconds of listening, I was thoroughly engrossed in their exchange of ideas, and so I point you in their direction: http://www.pbs.org/moyers/journal/04302010/profile.html.

Watching the Moyers-Lopez tête-à-tête felt a bit like college again, in the best sense; an intriguing, intellectual breath of fresh air. I should stay up late more often, sans Facebook. (By the way, here’s my brother-in-law’s solution to FB addiction. I’m not that smart yet.)

Image: "Silence is Golden," by Carl Brenders

Pregnancy reflections trump ruffled feathers

I am bristling at someone’s churlish behavior toward me tonight and trying to let it go…let it go…let it go. (deeeeeep breath) “Churlish” was the best antonym I could come up with for “gracious.” I admire graciousness in a person. I disdain its opposite, whether directed toward me or others. What causes a person to behave tactlessly? Insecurity? Ignorance? Arrogance? Jerkiness? (Let it go…let it go…let it go…)

What I was going to write about—no, what I am going to write about—is a few observations about my pregnant state of being:

1) The baby moves around a lot. I seem to notice it more during this pregnancy than I did during the previous 3. I think maybe it’s because: a) I think this will be my last pregnancy, or b) This pregnancy took me somewhat by surprise. (Festival Note: I saw a book there, Surprise Child, that I’d like to read in the next few months.)

While I am very conscious of the baby’s movements, no one else seems to be—at least, not yet. Will sometimes holds his hand over my abdomen, hoping to feel the movements. But so far he’s only experienced a few “Oh, I think maybe I just felt something” moments with this baby. S/he seems un-inclined to “perform” on demand.

As I feel the baby moving inside me, I realize this is something that cannot be captured on film or audio file. Part of my packrat problem is that I feel driven to catalogue my life, for myself and for future generations. When it comes to throwing away fifth grade essays I wrote, for example, I think: “No, because someday my great-grandchildren might want to see how talented a 10-year-old I was.” So I save stuff—too much stuff. But this baby movement sensation is something I can only experience—and treasure in my heart.

2) I am about to enter my third trimester. (It officially starts at 28 weeks—12 days from now, but who’s counting?) In the past week or so, my body is reverting to first-trimester nap needs. As in, “I must get some sleep—30 minutes minimum—sometime between 3 and 6 p.m. Or else I might die.” The physiological demand is that strong. So I do my best to accommodate the urge. And when I can’t, I’m practically passing out by 7:30.

I am obviously pregnant to everyone I meet these days. There seems to be no question about the source of my added girth. Which is somewhat of a relief because for the few months leading up to now, I got the impression that some people thought I’d simply gorged myself on cookies all winter long. Not true. I only did that the first month of this pregnancy, before I even knew about this pregnancy. Thus, while the midwife’s office thinks I have put on just 18 pounds so far, I know it’s more like 28. Oh, well. Why should I think I’ll get by gaining less than 50 this time?

3) I am grateful to be sleeping well, still—7-9 hours a night, no problem. Usually only one bathroom break, and I’m able to fall back asleep right away. I am grateful that my bladder will allow me this much, because I know by the end I will be up at least once every other hour, as body, mind and soul prepare for the frequent feedings required by the small wriggly creature soon to effect a huge ripple in the peaceful pond that is our collective lives.

Passing it on

A good friend and fellow believer sent me this prayer today, and I share it with you:

O Holy Spirit of God,
abide with us;
inspire all our thoughts;
pervade our imaginations;
suggest all our decisions;
order all our doings.
Be with us in our silence
and in our speech,
in our haste and in our leisure,
in company and in solitude,
in the freshness of the morning and
in the weariness of the evening;
And give us grace at all times humbly
to rejoice in Thy mysterious companionship.

Amen.

John Baillie

My Untended Garden

I love things like this—lovely things that grow in spite of my inattention.

Things like these purple tulips that I bought from a friend’s daughter’s marching band fundraiser. (I felt somewhat obligated, in a “I loved marching band, so I should support this girl’s marching band” kind of way.) I bought them, I planted them (again, somewhat obligingly—I didn’t want to waste the money I’d invested in the overpriced band tulips), and then they bloomed. A miracle!

And then fall came, and withered leaves covered the tiny garden by the corner of my front porch. I didn’t rake them up in time. Snow fell, and I forgot about the tulips. And the leaves. And then spring came, more than a month ago—early this year. Not just by the solstice date, but by the temperatures. Mid-80s by late March is anomalous in A-Town.

I’ve had plenty of weeks to clean up the little flower bed, but I haven’t yet. “I’m too busy.” “I’m pregnant.” “We had a house guest coming.” All sorts of excuses. And guilt—always the guilt.

It didn’t matter. They came up anyway. Good, gracious tulips. (Thanks, God.)