overtime

When I was on the last night of my 38th week with Annabelle we went to the Rajun Cajun. I felt very odd, like I was inside of a jar and everyone around me was outside of the jar. My friends were talking and laughing and having a good time and I was watching them with a hazy, detached interest. I had some boudain balls and then we went home. I took a bath, called my sister and we chatted for a bit and then I settled into bed. I was wearing my navy blue flowered pajama bottoms from the gap. I felt something moist between my legs and got out of bed, thinking my mucus plug had come out (sorry to any squeamish readers, but it is totally natural and probably happened to your mom, so get over it). I hopped out of bed and there was a trickle coming down my legs. It continued as I walked to the bathroom and I realized that my water had broken. It was at 10:30 at night. Twleve hours later, we had a baby on the first day of my 39th week.

I am writing this at 10:30. On the last night of my 38th week. Tomorrow is the first day of my 39th week.

Okay, now it is 10:32. We are in pregnancy overtime according to my way of looking at things.

into every pregnancy a little rain must fall

1. completed baby room? check
2. house in order? check
3. presents to annabelle from Tallulah? check
4. big sister t-shirt? check
5. dilated half a centimeter? check
6. 60 percent effaced? check
7. mom who broke her ankle in three places and now cannot come to take care of me and Annabelle?

check.

rain, monsoon, tsunami, whatever.

stangers and neighbors and insensitive people

1. Strangers:
I have had three people in the past week tell me that I am going to have my baby any day now. Two of them worked at whataburger (yes, I have been to whataburger twice this week, screw you judgy people, I am gestating dammit!), one at HEB and with each one of them the conversation went exactly like this:

stranger: "when's your baby due?"

Me: "nov. 20th."

stranger: "nu-uh girl, that baby's coming next week."

Me: "you think so?"

Stranger: "that baby's already dropped. look how low you are. No, that baby's coming next week."

I told this to my OB in a futile attempt for her to change my due date back to it's original day, and not the one she devised using her fancy ultrasound machine--oh, excuse me, scientific instrument. But apparently she felt her medical degree trumped the motherly wisdom of the whataburger ladies and wouldn't even agree to split the difference with me. I am beginning to get on board with H's assessment of most doctors --western science does not understand the eastern man-- except mine mantra is something like this "skinny OBs whose kids are 12 and 8 forget how some people start to feel as if they have been pregnant for their entire lives." Well, at least my entire mid to late 30s.

2. Neighbors.

My parents have really nice next door neighbors who they spend a lot of time with. This weekend, I was in town so grandma and grandpa could visit (babysit) with Annabelle while H and I went to a wedding in Dripping Springs ( a place where we now want to move). The neighbors came by the yard to say "hi"

Brenda: "oh, you look great, you don't look that big. Your face looks perfectly normal. From the descriptions I was getting I was expecting..."

Me: "Jabba the Hut? Because that is what my sister said she was expecting. God--what is that woman saying about me?"

Brenda(nervous laughter, like "oh shit, I got Toni in trouble"): well, you look beautiful.

I left and went to check on my mom and sister and the twins, who were also visiting.

Me: "moooommmmm! what are telling people about me? Brenda said "you don't look that big." what are you saying??? And she said I look perfectly normal."

3. Insensitive people

Mom: "sweetie, she is just being kind."

this card allows you 5 minutes bitching time....

I would like to take this opportunity to complain......

I remember the last time I felt normal, and I remember it because it was also the first time I started to feel not normal. It was the last week in February. I loaded up the van, drove to Austin, picked up lunch for Audrey, Annabelle and I, helped out with the twins, got groceries, made dinner, cleaned the kitchen, went for a walk, bathed Annabelle and put her to bed and watched tv with Audrey, did the 3:00 a.m. diaper changes and woke up a grumpy mama bear so she could nurse babies. But I felt tired. Now, after all of that, maybe I should have been tired. Except that I used to feel really good all of the time. I never had any aches or pains, no shivering rectum, no sneezing 50 times in a minute, no diarrhea after I eat Asian food. I used to wake up cheerful and went to bed the same way most days.

That was until I was pregnant. In my current delicate condition I have suffered from the following: Nausea, vomiting severe fatigue, bloating, heartburn, constipation, diarrhea, swollen extremities, joint aches, depression, malaise, back pain, reflux, sleeplessness, swollen lymph nodes, allergies, urinary incontinence, brittle nails, numbness in my fingers, irritability and the inability to get off the floor without grunting. My legs are unrecognizable--there is cellulite on my shins. I have stretch marks on top of my old stretch marks. My face looks like it has been stung by several Africanized bees and I have a spare chin. I now have cankles, my toes resemble Vienna Sausages and I haven't worn my wedding ring since April (let the record reflect that Hyphen's fingers are so chubby he hasn't been able to take his off for a few years). I can barely reach the sink to wash the dishes and Annabelle can no longer sit in my lap. The number on the scale has reached an unmentionable mark. My family is taking bets to see how long I will last and no one has put any money in November (my due date is 11/20) due to, as my dad put it "your healthy appearance."
[The record shall also reflect that if you use the phrase "your healthy appearance" to your very pregnant daughter, she will silently tell you to f!#* off and outwardly ask to talk to her mother.]

But since the card has only allowed me 5 minutes of bitching time, this is all I can say.

My baby is healthy. I am healthy. I am a healthy pregnant woman. And I am blessed.

God Punishes

God Punishes--that is one of the religious theories I grew up with--that if you were too cocky, or rude, or impatient, or proud, you were going to get yours. It's a Mexican Catholic thing. I was playing at a friend's house (they were Episcopalian) and I said to my little friend "God punishes" when she did something to annoy me. Her mother, who never yelled, always wore patent leather sandals and who we called by her first name, Duffy, took me aside and said "Stella, you know, God does not punish, He is a loving God." Okay, so maybe they were Baptist, but whatever. It is a theory of retribution to which I have become accustomed.

Today, while at school Annabelle had an accident, the kind where your Dora underwear gets tossed. Then after she came home she told me she needed to go to the potty. She went to the bathroom and started to hide from me behind the towels. When I finally "found" her and got her on the toilet she had peed a little bit on her panties. Costume change. Then tonight after dinner she said she needed to go potty. I took her to the bathroom again. And again, she let some pee out before I could get her on the potty. And then I told her "you only get two costume changes a day, we are going to take a bath in a minute, so you are going to be a naked baby until bath time."

And then I sneezed. Twice. And I am pregnant with my second baby. And I am not the greatest with my kegels.

God Punishes.

pregnancy the second time around

First off, there was morning sickness. And that was just no fun. I can remember every time in my life that I have vomited, and now I have a few more notches in my belt, my personal favorite, being on the road, while driving, in a H-E-B sack, on the way to a 2 year old's birthday party in Austin.

Secondly, there has been much, shall we say as delicately as possible, wind. I burp and fart like nothing anyone has ever seen, sometimes over 50 burps in an hour, each eructation scandalous in its volume and ferocity.

That being said, there is no preoccupation with pregnancy. I can scarcely remember what week I am in and I have not even once looked at the Internet to find out what appendage or organ my baby is growing this week. I eat turkey and blue cheese, suck down ice tea, and routinely pick up a little squirt that weighs more than 20 pounds.

There is no baby's room in the works, just a small corner in the guest room,that I eventually get around to sometime in October.

But this baby is far more loved than the first one, because this baby has a "big 'tister" The big sister kisses the baby and tells anyone else who might get near my tummy, "be careful of my baby." The big sister is going to share her "cribby" with her baby and says that she and the baby are going to have lots of cuddles when the baby drinks "my mama's chi-chis."

This baby is more real to its father too. The first time around he showed zero interest in what was happening, and frequently told me that "pregnancy is no excuse." His only sign of husbandly concern was to seem mildly tense the whole time, snapping to if I ever stubbed my toe or bumped into something and said "ow." In fact the only true interest he showed the first time was to pronounce one Sunday morning "What is wrong with the name Annabelle, I like the name Annabelle, and if it is a boy, then Cowboy." Thankfully, the Good Lord was watching out for me on the issue of gender and names.

Pregnancy the second time around and Hyphen are very different. I awoke one morning to his hand on my belly. He drives out of his way to get me a pepperoni pan pizza from Pizza Hut after his dinner of Chilean Sea Bass and broccoli made me gag. He does as much heavy lifting as Annabelle will allow and cautions me not to "over do it."

And he told Annabelle one day, "what do you think about the name Tallulah? That way there can be a mama named Stella and two sisters named Annabelle and Tallulah." I wasn't too sold on the name until I heard that explanation.

This time, though, I am picking the boy's name.

Henry. Let's hope I get my way.