The kids are all (except for the one I'm gestating) at camp for a solid twelve hours today. Oh, the thrill of watching them drive away on a bus, sunscreen pre-applied, immunization forms in hand! They won't be back until 4:30 this afternoon! Callooh! Callay!
If this is such an amazing experience for me, why are we having another baby? Like, totally-on-purpose, I mean?
This is a really hard thing to explain. I can't speak for other mothers, whether they have large or small or medium-sized families, but I happen to live in a conflicted state of momhood. This state is especially impossible to describe to a person who isn't sure whether or not to have any kids at all. If I can't wait for the chillun' to be out of my hair so I can spend a summer's day internetting and/or trying to decide whether to make a trip to Walmart to get a haircut, then how can I possibly claim to love my job as a stay-at-homer? How can I be stoked or even slightly willing to tack on at least another 4-5 years before all of my kids hop up the steps of the camp bus with hardly a backward glance?
The 'conflictedness' of being a mother of young kids is one of those things that doesn't translate well in English or any other language of which I'm aware. If you are not a mother (and, perhaps, even if you are) I can only speak in the Jabberwocky-Lewis-Carroll-ese of my ambivalence. It sounds like English, but it is nonsensical when you examine it. Or possibly German. BTW, the Germans have some excellent and difficult-to-translate abstract words, such as kummerspeck ("grief bacon").
It comes to this: having kids is utterly mimsy and frabjous at the exact same time. And when they all grow up and fly out of the parental nest, this experience will taste exactly like grief bacon.
****Update**** It has come to my attention that Lewis Carroll, a.k.a. Charles Dodgson, apparently enjoyed drawing and taking pictures of naked children and is widely considered by modern biographers to have been a pedo. Oy. This is NOT the undertone I was hoping to have with this post.
First of all, I am so, so sorry for all of the stress hormones. I hope they do not shape your tiny, developing brain into something that only soaks in sadness once you are born.
You are wanted; you are loved. All of our kids were (are) wanted and loved deeply, but judging from the amount of crying I have been doing during this pregnancy with you, one could easily be forgiven for thinking it's not so.
I am worried, and probably depressed. Depression and anxiety don't have to have a reason, but there are many. For starters, what if your brothers and sister don't feel like I care about them anymore once you arrive? What if I can't be my best mom self to you? Your dad is, blessedly, gainfully employed in a field he loves. But for twelve hours a weekday, it is all me as far as parenting goes. So I am frankly and panic-strickenly terrified that I won't be able to do what I was once so confident I could do--smile into your face, and cherish you and the three kids who came before you to the full extent that you deserve it.
That list of affirmations in the bathroom--I am writing and reading and re-reading them for me and you.
One thing you could do, if you are so inclined, is to happily comply with swaddling and breastfeeding (or bottle-feeding) and sleeping. Ideally you would do these things in perfect tandem with your siblings' needs. And in perfect harmonic oscillation with the times the Helper Lady is going to be around in the afternoons. But in the mornings, when we drop off James and Will and Elise and whomever we are carpooling with this fall, perhaps you could ramp up your hunger, thirst, diapering needs, and needs for stimulation within the time period between 8:20 am and noon, wherein I will shotgun a Red Bull and deftly exceed your wildest baby dreams.
Also, could you please not have anisometropic amblyopia that requires glasses and occlusion therapy in your infancy? The pediatric opthalmologist down in the valley who treats James and Elise wants to see you when you are a newborn to determine whether you'll need infant glasses and/or a patch over one of your eyes. Oh my God. I know it's probably entirely my fault, anyway, were you to have the condition. But maybe you can, like, wait to develop it until you are about twelve months old, and then we could neatly discover it at one of your siblings' regularly scheduled checkups. That way, you may be old enough to be bribed against clawing at your own face to remove any foreign devices.
Furthermore, maybe you could figure out how to induce lactation in your dad with your infinite cuteness. Yes, that would be very helpful.
"Some people are that--more than a parent, more than a role model, more than anything less than a religion." -Margaret Cho
"There is no agony like bearing an untold story inside of you." -ZNH
"I don't use drugs; my dreams are frightening enough." -M.C. Escher
"I was born without the gland in my asshole that makes me care what your political affiliation is, so this...isn't meant to be partisan in any way. Morons should offend us all, not just those of us who vote the same way morons do, or those who vote against them." -Felix Clay
"Only those who attempt the absurd can achieve the impossible." -Albert Einstein
"I just saw all the animals in the neighborhood running in circles, so I guess that means your mother will be arriving soon." -Dan from Roseanne
"Love begins at home, and it is not how much we do...but how much love we put in that action." -Mother Teresa
"I'm on low-battery right now." -James, when he woke up this morning
"I am confident that nobody will accuse me of selfishness if I ask to spend time, while I am still in good health, with my family, my friends, and also myself." -Nelson Mandela
10. When a toddler swallows a raisin and it makes its journey through the digestive tract, the raisin "arrives" completely intact, waterlogged, and approximately the size of a kidney bean. Don't be afraid; nobody secretly fed beans to your toddler in his Cheerios.
9. Elementary-aged boys (and girls! But, extremely often, boys) will find it important to caveat their affection for others. I don't care how sexist it is to point this out; it's true of my sons--and my statistical sample size is growing every day--so clearly it is true of yours, your neighbors' and everyone's. Take, for example, the following letter written by my eight-year-old son:
"April 25, 2013
I can't beleav [sic] we thought of the same business journal. Well I want to have a playdate on Saturday, after the Star Test.
Love As A Friend,
8. Coffee or other mood-improving substances (okay, legal ones) are required for functional parenting. See also: Regular Breaks From Your Children. Don't try to be a hero. People who strive for absolute purity in parenting, people who never, ever compromise on anything, people who never, ever separate from their kids for even small intervals, in my experience, tend to be assholes of the tightest order. I used to try to be one of those people, and a wise pediatrician once took a glance at me and offered to write me a 'prescription' for getting the hell away from my children for a few minutes per day. They were infants and toddlers at the time. I finally listened to her and we hired some helpers. Was I significantly happier? No. Happiness has a different definition when you have toddlers and infants. But at least the kids were exposed to someone else, not all whose neuroses coincided with mine. That turns out to be important.
7. On the Other Hand...People who can't be bothered to hang out with their kids for more than a few moments a day, on the account of it being hard and everyone needing to recharge one's batteries after a long, hard day at work, etc, etc, etc, and it happens this way every day, are also assholes. The floppiest, most emotionally bereft ones. Your career, your triathlon, your favorite sports team and text messages and mojo are all important; so are your kids' feelings! Take more than a minute to look them in the eyes and recognize that they have souls to feed, not just mouths or brains.
6. The carpool is the deep end of your parenting resource "pool". If someone is willing to carpool with you, especially to preschool, early elementary, or KinderBasketWeaving Class, glom onto to that fellow parent like a remora to a shark. Swim alongside them! Bask, bask in the commensalism! This person is a better friend to you than most of the ones you made in college.
5. Childbirth kind of sucks. It's supposed to be all 'spiritual' but honestly, in twelve months you probably won't remember it. And that, my friends, is a good thing. If you feel the need to write down your baby's birth story, that's great, but just realize there is probably an evolutionarily favored reason that your brain is burying all recollection of the intense pain and other (*cough*) indignities. A hypothesis for future investigation: If you try to thwart the childbirth memory snatchers, you'll be less likely to do it again.
4. Note to would-be hipster parents, or maybe just hipsters in general: Read Dan Zevin. Specifically, Dan Gets a Minivan. Even more specifically, the chapter entitled, On No Longer Giving a Shit.
3. Speaking of giving a shit, in human infancy, all fluids exiting the body have the potential to be projectiles; plan ahead.
2. No matter how heroic or great your own parents were, you may discover that, upon the closer examination that comes with parenting, your folks were actually astonishingly incompetent. This is especially poignant and disorienting for those who were emotionally abused as kids. Please note, however, that there is hope. There are self-help books and therapists and things you can do to nurture your inner child, and there is also the rare friend who is candid enough to admit that she hates her mother, too. Plus, it will be years before your kids realize the extent of your suckitude.
My husband and I are playing an epic game of Name the Baby. Here's how it goes: I suggest a name, he shoots it down by suggesting a rhyming or otherwise ridiculous middle name to go along with it. Or just a negative association.
Joe: Teddy Rup-skin. [editorial note: he means Teddy Ruxpin]
Joe: Arthur Barthur [Last name].
Me: And Andrew is out for sure?
Joe: I don't really like Andy.
Me: Well, what about Drew?
Joe: It's kind of...douchebaggery.
Joe: Mmmm, maybe.
Joe: Richard is Dick.
Right now I really like Matias (or Mattias, or Matthias, as long as you still pronounce it with a "Tee", not a "Thigh", in the middle). Matias Charles. That's my pick right now, as of this very moment. Meets all the major requirements, as far as I'm concerned. Family names? Check. Fairly traditional? Check. Mostly pronounceable? Check. Gives me a good feeling? Check.
But Joe says that he can't tell what the spirit-of-the-baby is calling himself yet. This is an inside joke. For those of you who aren't from California or have never overheard a conversation between new-parent hippies, the spirit-of-the-baby is an unintentionally hilarious construct that tries to suss out a newborn's....I don't know....spirit? Like, in early infancy, or even before the baby is born. In any case, it's when they're still at the cherished, sleeping paperweight stage. Without having too much derision for the idea, I can say with some amount of confidence that babies are notoriously difficult to get to know deeply until they're at least a few months old. Before then, they don't do much except eat, sleep, poop, pee, and require things. From my fuzzy recollection, there is one defining characteristic of a newborn: they often get pissed off and cry a lot, just because it is developmentally what they are supposed to do and for no other reason. All of them do, not just some babies.
Naming a child, then (at least for us), is a blind act of faith, as is bringing a child into the world at all. Who could have known that James is undeniably a James, even though my first reaction to that name when Joe suggested it was, "Uh, no! That was the name of a strange neighbor kid who stuck two green M&Ms up his nose!" Or that Will would be perfectly named because of his absurdly strong will? Little boys grow into their names as gradually and irrevocably as they grow out of a squished, impossibly small, and frail infancy.
In other news, we have our anatomy scan tonight. (They took a peek last time, and that's when we saw peen). Hopefully all is well with this little one.
I turned 30 the other day and finally feel like a grown-up, despite having been initiated into suburban middle-aged life over nine years ago. Now that I am celebrating my 'white & thirty' (as in, 'white & nerdy' by Weird Al) birthday, I can appreciate that this particular mundanity is awesome, and I could not be luckier.
Laura's List of Other Things That Are Decadently Mundane, Nerdy, and Awesome:
-Will and Joe's competitive hand-clap games, during which Will never says die
-James and his excitement over starting soccer, as he kicks his new ball around the house in his socks
-the fact that our babysitter is engaging and reliable (knock on wood)
-Elise and her willingness to wear an eye patch for four hours a day, so her weak eye gets stronger
-the kids' total enthusiasm over buying me a rice cooker for my birthday
-the fact that we have good health insurance
-the fact that we've met a great local postpartum doula
-the fact that the pool is open for the season, and it's April
-the price of red delicious apples today (97 cents a pound!)
-my blood calcium level, which is currently stable (knock on wood)
-talking with the kids about baby boy names
-the wonderful, hardworking teachers at our kids' school
-Joe's stable, rewarding job
-the good health of Joe and the kids
-the new brakes on our minivan
Elise: Mom, am I Jewish?
Elise: Well, what am I?
Me: Hmmm.....I guess, if you want to call us something, you could say we are UU's.
James: I know what that means. Ultimate Underpants!
Will: No. Unexpected Umbrella!
Elise: Haha! Unexpected Underpants!
Me: UU's means Universal Unitarians.
Elise: What does that mean?
Me: We pray for people to be kind to each other?
In other news, it's a.....BOY! We found out today, kind of unexpectedly, at my (17 week) doctor's appointment. They had warned me that they would probably make us wait until 19 weeks, but I harassed them to take a peek. Peen and balls!
We found out fairly early with James, at 16.5 weeks. Will, I don't remember exactly, but I think it was around 16 weeks as well that we knew he was a dude. Elise was like 20 weeks by the time they even saw me, for some reason, so it took forever to find out her sex. This time around, I am shocked. Not that I really had an inkling either way with our other kids, but the pregnancy with Elise seemed different than the first two, with worse nausea. And this one has been way more along those lines. Apparently that's no indicator of sex, though!
We told James tonight when we got home from the appointment, since he was still wide awake. He was absolutely beaming when I went in to kiss him goodnight. Will was passed out, still wearing today's clothes--must've been that kind of night. But I am assuming he will be somewhat pleased, because he has been suggesting boy names. We haven't told Elise yet, and she has been requesting a girl so she might be disappointed. But we've talked about it lots of times, that it's pretty much up to God, so hopefully she isn't too mad at us.
"You may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automo-minivan,
You may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful fam'ly,
You may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?"
A Capital-C Confession: Once, I wanted to have a child because I longed for my mom to take delight in something I had done, someone I had made. I wanted my parents to love me and nurture me, and maybe they would care deeply for me like I'd always hoped if I had a baby. Was this healthy, and did I admit it to myself at the time? Not remotely. But I did, we did; we had three children.
They are exquisite. And much of the time, I can't imagine how any of them actually came to be. I am not talking about sperm and egg, friends. I am talking about longing for someone who is yet to be, hoping for someone who isn't here yet, wanting someones, and these people actually coming true.
The gratitude I've felt lately doesn't have words, especially since I was such an undeserving asshole in the first place for trying to fill an unexamined void with innocent human beings. And so, the usual platitudes like "children are precious" and "children are a blessing" are almost irritating in that they are so inadequate.
My astounded gratitude takes the amorphous "shape" of what the Double Rainbow Man might try to express if he saw a triple 'bow (and wasn't wacked out on wacky tobaccy). Or Kate Farrell's unclassifiable but universal imagery in anticipation of her wedding:
"The Cosmos was Laughing with Lasting Love and Light".
Lasting love and light? It is only in ourselves, and we can't find it when we project it onto babies. But still, I found something better than what I was hoping for all those years. I figured out how to love people other than sad, needy self-absorbed me (not that needy, self-absorbed me didn't deserve love, but this was no longer my only goal). Some days I am more successful at demonstrating this love to my kids than others, but most of the time, I make good work of mothering them. And I figured out how to accept, along a dynamic, grief-filled path, the regrettable fact that my parents will never love me the way I had needed as a baby, as a child, or as a young adult. The latter realization wasn't from the kids, directly, but has come from therapy and lots of work and searching that was inspired by them. This is the miracle--the goddamned miracle!--I am talking about.
I'm going to be super dee duper surprised if this baby is not a girl. Like, Barney the purple dinosaur flaps his feeble little arms in the air surprised.
"Hey there little baby! You have different genitals than I expected!"
First of all, in case I have not been whining about it quite enough, the NVP (nausea and vomiting of pregnancy) is outrageous. With James and with Will, it was just a matter of a little queasiness. With Elise, the nausea was similar and terrible but not quite this bad. So if I didn't know better--read: weren't getting ultrasounded every two weeks--I would go so far as to be convinced it was g/g twins or g/g/g triplets. Thrice the symptoms, thrice the babies, right?
And then there's the chinese gender chart thing. I do not believe for one hot, hormonal instant that this thing could possibly be accurate, even as I type this. But it was tripping me out today, as it correctly "predicted" (postdicted) all three of my previous kids' sexes based on age at conception and month thereof. And so when it decreed that this one will be a girl, too, I kind of sort of believed it.
I brought James and Elise to the eye doctor the other day, in one of the first times I've ventured out of our neighborhood in awhile. While we waited for the doctor, the kids were making requests as to the baby's sex. James wants a boy; his top name picks are Phineas and Ferb. Elise is demanding a girl baby. (Will didn't get to vote because he has freakishly good eyesight and was at karate, but he seems neutral.) I told them it was "up to God, and daddy's sperm". In hindsight, this was not the best answer. I think they came away from my confused, rambling, overly-caveated explanation with the idea that there's some kind of godlike quality to Joe's sperm. Not that I personally disagree, or that sperm are taboo per se, but it might be slightly wrong to talk about daddy's particular splooge.
There's this new Indian food place by my house; it's so close that I could bike there if I were nonpregnant and nonlazy.
So much appreciation do I have for this food. I went there twice yesterday, and made a lunch date with my friend for future deliciousness. Their food is currently the only real-meal food that doesn't make me violently ill, and I start sweating when we run out. This is progress, though, from an entirely cracker-based diet of the last few weeks.
The compulsion to Google search 'intense food craving pregnancy' led me to discover that there is a blogger (Heather Flett of RookieMoms) who has already addressed the funny premise of naming one's child after the particular cravings that prevailed (ruled!) during the gestation.
James would be Colby Jack Cheese and Matzoh (nn Jack).
Will would be Campbell's Chicken-with-Rice Soup, or perhaps, Funfetti Batter (I don't have a good nickname for that one. 'Fetti?).
Elise would be called McDonald's Hash Browns Right This Minute (nn Mickey Dee).
This baby shall be known as Chicken Tikka Masala with Basmati Rice Oh Dear God Please It's So Good.
Another gem unearthed in this Googling: Wikipedia claims that there is something called Taste Addiction Disorder, which is:
"a psychological condition with a biochemical basis in the brain where the person develops an obsessive/compulsive relationship with food...the brain produces more dopamine, which drenches the brain in 'happy hormones'. Other [non-food] ways of giving the brain a dopamine bath include, but are not limited to, singing, running, dancing, laughing with other people, or engaging in sex."
Ehhh, sex? Kind of a tall order right now. At this point I could be more easily encouraged to do a full reenactment of The Sound of Music.
I can't wait for this to happen when I am able to eat a reasonable amount of food again and get fat, fat, fat:
"Wesley, get Mama's pryin' rod" -Lisa Simpson as a fatty
No, I take that back. When I have energy again, I resolve to not lay around anymore. I resolve to do all of the fun things ever thunk-up with my kids. They deserve an embarrassing overcompensation of fun in their lives for putting up with my current lethargy.
Once upon a time, we were pregnant with our first. And in the final, early summertime weeks of my college degree I dragged Joe to the MSU main library and forced him to watch this video with me.
We were so young and clueless (well, at least I was). I thought this PBS video, as it contains footage of actual childbirth in its later segments, would somehow prepare us for parenthood. LOLz!
Instead, we snickered at the footage of pasty, beachgoing men in speedos and pretended we had it all under control. We even talked about how funny it would be to go into Olin (if you went to MSU, surely you'll remember Olin--only for pregnancy or mono!) and say "we think she might be pregnant, she hasn't had her period in awhile". I was visibly, obviously, like seven months pregnant at the time.
I gave my last BMB lab report, the one upon which my graduation rested, a lick and a promise; we moved to Seattle exactly a month before James was due. Joe met me at the airport in his '88 Jetta with the muffler that sounded like an afterburner, and swept a gigantic, tear-streaked me off my feet. We lived in the Totem Lake Inn in Kirkland for the next two weeks, so that I could waddle the quarter-mile to my doctor's appointments at Evergreen HMC while Joe took the car to his new Boeing job. I would even get up with him before work and make him a sack lunch (but that only lasted about 3 days).
My mom called and said, very helpfully, "well, if you go into labor early, you can always use a laundry basket for a crib!" Thanks, Mom.
The lab report eventually got finished and baby James got himself borned, but not until some fairly dramatic shit went down.
We moved into a little apartment on Mercer Island. Why Mercer Island, the rich folks' playground? Joe wanted to live there for some reason, probably that it was fairly close to Boeing field, and he liked the death-defying daily drives on its floating bridges. A hilarious aside: we eventually tried to buy a house there, and our realtor thought that idea was SO cute! For 23-year-old Joe and 21-year-old me, it was kind of like driving innocently through Westwood or Bel-Air and saying, "this is nice. Let's live here!" (Later, we ended up right on the border of Shoreline and Lake Forest Park, close enough to Lake Washington so that we could the watch the descents at the Sea Plane port. James would, as a toddler, double-finger-point and shout "airplane" in our backyard several times an afternoon.)
Anyway, about a week before our EDD, the Boeing-sponsored moving truck came, straight from my dad's garage, and filled up our 800-square-foot Mercer Island apartment-hole with stuff. Like, everything my hoarder parents thought we might find useful (two or three kitchens-worth of utensils!), and then some. Our tiny place was filled with boxes from floor to ceiling, and we STILL didn't have a crib. We had to tunnel through the boxes to get from the front door to the kitchen. Joe was miserable and insisted on bringing fully 70% of the stuff to Goodwill.
From there came the biggest drama of all. Joe had been working on his first major project as a manufacturing engineer, and it seemed to be going pretty well. Then, one day, he came home from work with a headache. A big one. He started vomiting from the pain, and even hid under the little dining room table like a cornered muskrat. I begged him to go to the ER, but he refused. He went to the nurse practitioner a day later, and she was pissed that he hadn't at least gone to urgent care. "Stress does funny things to people!" was her diagnosis.
Then, it was Joe's dad's turn to say something helpful: "I knew a guy who had that happen, and that's how they found out he had a huge brain tumor and was dying! He was dead, like, six months later." Thanks, Joe's dad!
The next night, I went into labor. Twenty-six hours later, James was born. For some reason, he looked Asian (as did our other two kids when they were born in the following years, and not that there is anything wrong with that!). This prompted some serious questioning from Joe, but the paternity was, unfortunately for him, never in doubt. Joe was stuck with us.
With James, looking slightly less-Asian, in the Cascades
James informed me yesterday that he has started a business with his "coworker" friend from school. His products are whimsical, accordion-legged pieces of origami that he calls "hubbies" which he sells in his classroom for 20 cents each. He proudly poured a pile of change on the table today as proof of his first income, and he claims to have a list of peers who eagerly await these wares. A backlog demand! We should all be so successful and enterprising. I do not know whether these hubbies are an original idea, but even if it turns out to be something for which he should be paying royalties to the makers of Pokemon, the whole thing is pretty darn cute. He is introverted and creative and somewhat of a benevolent weirdo these days, but he has a few good friends and a teacher who is enthusiastically supportive of his ventures. Ask him what he wants to be when he grows up, and he says, "An inventor!"
Will was righteously indignant this evening, as we were climbing into the minivan to take James to trampoline-&-tumbling. First of all, he had to sit in the back-backseat. (Someone always does, and by our family's rules it is always the last person who gets in the car.) The second grievance was that there was a banana peel back there with him. He put the banana peel in the spot where the trash can goes, but the trash can was not currently there (it was actually in the house, next to my bed, so I could puke into it). Throwing the peel away as best he could, he was inspired to call his siblings some names. "YOU'RE a rotten banana buttcrack!" Will roared at James, for some reason. James laughed good-naturedly, as did Elise. I couldn't help it, but I couldn't stop laughing either, and this infuriated Will. It got so bad that tears were rolling down my face, which was very distracting because I also happened to be driving and gagging at the time. Poor Will! I tried to tell him that it wasn't funny that he was upset, but what he had said was funny (and mean). He was not having it. But generally, Will is doing wonderfully these days, and has many friends, a second-degree orange belt in Tae Kwon Do, and an abundance of near-perfect grades.
Elise is a daisy girl scout now. She can sell a mean cookie, that girl! Not that this is the point of GS, or anything. She is also doing trampoline and tumbling, and seems to have scores of best-girlfriends. She was getting in trouble frequently for talking to her friends in kindergarten, to the point where the teacher had to rearrange the classroom so that she sits with all boys now. We have had lots of talks about this, and she seems to be improving a little. She is basically the opposite of me as a child, and I could not be more surprised or proud.
For those who didn't know, my husband is a saint. Here is approximately what we said to each other this evening.
Joe: So, what do you want for dinner?
Me: The Sheik! Chicken shawarma, with a mountain of rice pilaf with little, baked almonds in it.
Joe: Uhh. Isn't that that restaurant in [mid-western state, 2,000 miles away]?
Me: Yes. And their cucumber salad, and only their hummus and tabbouleh, NOT the kind you can buy at a store. And I want ice water out of a glass with a picture of an American flag on it.
Joe: How about a baked potato?
For some reason, this situation reminds me of a stanza of one of my favorite cynical poems:
"If Thou be'st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,
All strange wonders that befell thee,
Lives a woman, pregnant and reasonable."
-John Donne (1572-1631)
Okay, maybe that wasn't how it went. But, my VERY-favorite cynical poem contains the most hopeless of all language. It takes mad skills to be this hopeless:
"The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house*"
-Philip Larkin (1922-1985)
*his actual words
Why the cynicism? And why is this, Philip Larkin's Aubade, the best cynical poem ever? I will tell you. To answer the first question, I have been trying for four days, and not necessarily succeeding, to NOT plaster the walls with my vom. As it turns out, Reglan is not the wonder drug I was anticipating, and back to Zofran I've gone. To answer the second question is trickier. Maybe I am bitter that a doctor isn't coming to my house. How cool would that be, if they still did that? In fact, my doctor's partner seemed kind of pissed when I called her for a refill of the anti-vomit pills today ("If you have a problem, call back tomorrow when it's regular business hours and not a holiday!"). There is little question that Larkin is writing about death. But I am not dying, just feeling like death.
In this "intricate, rented world", morning sickness "is no different whined at than withstood" (Larkin, 40). Whoops, I am still whining, though!
How about this:
"Busy old fool! Unruly fetus!" -John Donne
How about this:
"I imagined holding you close,
watching you make faces as you dreamed"
Today I'm going to beg one of my doctors for some Reglan (anti-nausea nectar). Now that I've had a taste of its sweet, sweet efficacy through an IV in the ER on Monday, there's no going back. Short version of the story: horrible nausea and scary headache, emergent but uneventful MRI of the brain, with the verdict of absolutely nothing besides mommy's first migraine.
This doc is interesting. He is widely considered to be the best, best, best when it comes to high-risk OB care, but his bedside manner is hilariously lacking. He basically talks to his computer and the ultrasound machine, directing the occasional grunt toward me, but usually talking directly to the nurse. "What are we complaining about now?" was the closest he came to addressing me two weeks ago at my last visit. Haha! So funny, so reassuring, this man. But as long as he keeps the images of a happy little fetus coming along, I don't even care that he runs 2.5 hours late or thinks I am a complainer (it's true).
Joe is saying he doesn't want to do this pregnancy thing again, and I can't blame him. I am a hot mess. Today, we fetched my car from UCLA in between rounds of vomiting, and I started crying when the following song came on the radio: A New Day Has Come by Celine Dion Once in a Lifetime by Talking Heads. Yeah, it's that bad.
He's pretty much pushing for me to sign something that says I do not want any more kids after this. Oh Joe, I am so sorry how hard this has been for you. And kids, I am sorry I have been sick and distracted. I know this stupid nausea will not last forever, but it has sucked for all of you.
But here is where I'm an insufferable asshole (okay, one of the places where!): I'm scared to NOT do this again. Not so long ago, I used to narrow my judgmental, easy-pregnancy, beady little eyes and say, "I don't believe in [psychological-] only children", which was a convenient stance for me, because our first three were so rapid-fire in succession we could hardly get their basic needs met for awhile. But they are getting their needs met now, and then some (if I do say so myself). And I had my heart set on two more, and my husband sort of agreed.
But it will be okay, if this is our last (and hopefully he/she makes it)! Right?! Tell me it's not bad that our older kids are basically going to be 9, 8, and 6.5 when he/she is born. Tell me he/she won't be bratty and chronically trying to catch up to the big kids. I know I'm being irrational here. I know plenty of absolutely AWESOME only-children, psychological or otherwise. One commenter here has one that I remember being particularly cool and well-nurtured. But I know several non-awesome ones, too, who never, ever learned to share their whole lives or got along with or gave a crap about other people. And I believe so much in the importance psychological sibs; I am loathe to imagine growing up without the developmental trials of having a brother who was 2.5 years younger than me (and often wiser and better at everything).
We will have to see. I am not giving up hope for anything, now that I have managed to keep down a girl scout cookie this afternoon. Sweet, sweet nectar.