Having done a recap of LB's pregnancy journey, I figured I'd do the same for The Deuce. I have to admit this is pretty much a snooze for anyone not me, so, in an attempt to appease you for coming over here, I am providing a terrible joke. Enjoy!
Baby: My Father's name is Laughing and my mother name is Smiling.
Teacher: You Must be Kidding ...
Baby: No, that's my brother, I am Joking.
Since this pregnancy was wonderfully similar to the first one, as in easy peasy, there isn't much to say. But I am a talker, so I always have something to say. I wrote those last two sentences several months ago when I decided to recap this journey ... and proceeded to jinx myself circa week twenty-five. Say it with me, I'm an asshole. Carrying on.
A few months after LB was born (a/k/a when I no longer needed to get drunk to have sex for fear of something bad happening to my lady bits), we decided to try for another kid. Everyone knows that you get pregnant on the first try when you are going for number two so we look forwarded to a summer baby. Nothing happened. I started taking drugs for my PCOS. Nothing happened. Well, I mean something happened, hell, it happened at least five time a month, but the proverbial payoff was lacking. For the next eight months we tried. Again and again. My math skills suck and every other month, I would think I was late. I was not. I was a math-impaired tool. When we eventually got knocked up, it was quite anti-climactic as I had already had a Oh-I-think-I-am-pregnant-why-is-this-test-negative-oh-wait-Aunt-Flo-isn't-due-for-another-week moment. After repeatedly testing in one month because I can't add, the eventual positive test was regarded with a "Sure. Whatever."
Eventually there was a sense that maybe, just maybe, we got lucky again. Since I felt fine, as I did last time, I took it as a good thing. I was somewhat chipper and optimistic. Until I noticed The Rage. Well actually, RRRRAAAAGGGGEEEEE. I was ready to lose my shit at a moment's notice on anyone. I was surrounded by idiots and imbeciles and dickheads that talked about stupid shit and wouldn't shut up. At one point my husband was talking on and on to a cabinet salesman regarding cabinets we could not even come close to affording and I got so annoyed that I actually could see the word RAGE flashing in front of my eyes. I realized that it was hormonal, well somewhat, but it didn't make me any less angry. I kept wondering, why is everyone on the planet so fucking stupid and more importantly, WHY DO I HAVE TO DEAL WITH THEM? I decided that I was so angry because there was no baby; the pregany tests were lying. Obviously I was drinking from the crazy juice. So my first "new" symptom was The Rage; crazy and denial, they were old friends.
Eventually though, The Rage subsided and all was smooth and dandy. Well until I woke up in the middle of the night, sick as hell in the middle of the first trimester. I had food poisoning or a 24 hour stomach virus which caused me to puke. Repetitively and often. I called my OB and he gave me a nausea drug for cancer patients. It worked. I no longer tossed my cookies, but oh the stomach ache. I figured if there had been a human forming in there, it would have been evicted via vomit. My next doctor's appointment happily proved this theory wrong.
The repeated theme of, "Whoops, there goes the baby!" was present a lot in the first trimester. After the vomitathon, there was the tumble down the stairs in which I started at the top with Lady Bean in my arms but landed at the bottom alone, at some point seeming to have ejected her from my safe embrace with a mental, "Every man for himself!" I figured that if I was willing to ditch the, up until then, perfectly normal human in my arms, the one that I bonded with and love a whole lot, there is no way the pre-human inside me stood a chance.
When we finally made it to the second trimester, having seen ultrasound-ing proof that there was something moving (maybe a weather front) inside of me, I relaxed enough to agree to tell people that there is a slight chance that come November, I would be certifiably insane, or rather a parent to two.
Since I maintained my workout schedule and followed (sort of) my low carb diet, all things looked well and I was hunky dory. The second trimester was gonna be great! Up until the twenty-fifth week when I hit a bit of a rough patch. It started when I slid into the baby gate and broke my foot. I had to decide which was less undesirable: never walking again or nuking my baby with x-rays. I went with the x-rays and felt incredible guilt. More so than when I ate swordfish while pregnant with LB. Two days after I broke my foot, I was basically paralyzed from walking with a gimp. Broken foot + pregnancy back issues = paraplegic. As if that wasn't fun enough, at week twenty-six, I woke up with the most excruciating stomach pains ever. It hurt to even have the sheet on the bed touch my belly. An early morning trip to the doctor's revealed that I was a puss. I had musculoskeletal (the hardest word in the whole wide world to say) pain but all looked well. For what it is worth, I AM a puss, BUT the baby had moved from sideways (positioned from head at one of my hips to feet at the other) to up and down (normal). I hypothesized that this is what killed me. Nonetheless, later in week twenty-six I started to perk up. I was able to "walk" and get around. Which meant it was time for the next thing ... hello fever! For three days I ended up with a fever around one hundred-three degrees and was convinced I was cooking the The Deuce. As soon as we determined I had not cooked The Deuce, and that my health was returning to normal, my husband took a trip down the stairs. On his ass. He managed not to break anything but ended up with a bruise that looked like a tramp stamp tattoo of angle wings spanning his entire lower back and butt crack. And then he caught a cold. By the time week twenty-seven finished, I had been the antithesis of "second trimester easiness and glow" and I welcomed the third trimester with open mouth kisses and promises of illegal sexual acts if only we could get to November with no more shite. Apparently these promises paid off (though my lady bits are scared and fear having to pay up) as the third trimester rolled along smoothly.
And by smoothly I mean no major catastrophes. Did The Deuce flip over so she was breech? Yah. Repeatedly. In fact with all of her flipping back and forth, I suspect she will have a future in politics. Did I have excruciating sciatica in my ass cheek? Yes! Did I end up seeing a physical therapist who felt up my ass more than anyone other than my husband, so that I could, you know, move? You betcha. Did I feel ungainly and frumpy? Yes! But I stayed healthy and so did The Deuce. Well mostly. There was the whole SKIN CANCER thing at thirty-three weeks. Well not skin cancer, I am being dramatic, but you know, a mole that was hinky and had to go and then was still hinky and take a good chunk o' my knee with it. Which incidentally never happened because there are no surgeons in my state who are not booked months in advanced. So, as a fun post-partum treat, I have a large chunk of knee flesh removal to anticipate. And there were more colds because apparently I am a goddamn petri dish of funk. But in the grand scheme of things, all was well in the third trimester.
At thirty-five weeks I went to Rhinebeck and did not give birth amongst the sheep. The Deuce did make herself know and performed Tae Bo on my cervix, but she didn't fall out. She did maybe cause some dilation as I came back from Rhinebeck with a gaping cervix. I did mention to the doctor that I AM ONLY 36 WEEKS AND NOT READY TO HAVE A BABY YET and she said that was okay. She also said that The Deuce may have flipped over again and that if so, whenever we caught her positioned properly, they might just go ahead and induce. I said, WHAT? and then, I AM ONLY 36 WEEKS AND NOT READY TO HAVE A BABY YET and she said that was okay. I suspect she thought I was a bit unhinged and was appeasing me. So, you could say that at thirty-six weeks, I realized I was going to have a baby and um, maybe I should dig out some clothes for her, and get her sleeping quarters put together. I didn't do any of this, but I did realize I should. The following week I took the Deuce to Stitches East, twice, and she only caused my loosey goosey cervix to gape another centimeter. Incidentally, in case you couldn't tell by the over use, gaping cervix is fun to say even when it isn't your first pregnancy. Anyway, at thirty-seven weeks, my doctor scheduled my induction, on the chance that I did not go into labor before then. Given my gaping cervix, there was a chance that I could go into labor on my own. But I like order and predictability so I vetoed this idea. Which was actually a little hard being that my induction was scheduled for five in the fucking morning. REALLY? I asked the doctor why he did not like me and he laughed. I was not joking. I was nice, I made sure to bathe before appointments and I used breathe mints. What more could a girl do? Five a.m. Bahhhh.
Five a.m. notwithstanding, me and the gaping cervix were quite content to go forth with the status quo. At thirty-eight weeks, I had my final ultrasound (where the estimated weight was eight pounds, six ounces to eight pounds, ten ounces, or in my parlance - BIG) and a regular check up and all was fine. Incidentally, the appointments were on November 2, the day my physical therapist predicted I was going to go into labor. Being that she cured my sciatica by simply groping my ass, I feared her witchdoctor powers and spent most of the day with my legs tightly closed. I also seemed to realize that I was going to have a baby in SEVEN days and um, I REALLY should dig out some clothes for her, and get her sleeping quarters put together. Since I did not want to unseal my legs, I didn't do these things but I did locate the bin with the small clothes so that was something.
Over the next week I ended up going about my bidness with my four centimeter self. Well, except for the gym, I was quite paranoid about my water breaking as I was ellipticizing away. The baby never fell out, and I had a big whopping three contractions (though it might actually be two as I ate too much one night and may have experienced digestive ailments). A friend pointed out that Superman might have been the man of steel, but I could claim the cervix of steel! During this last week, my body decided it was done being pregnant and everything ached. The couch crippled me, the desk chair crippled me, even my bed crippled me. I couldn't find s single position that was not painful. It was awesome.
Which brings us to today, at 3:30 a.m. when I woke up (well, actually got out of bed, as I was unable to sleep from 2:00 a.m. on) and prepared to get ready to have a baby. Being that it was still dark out and my brain was not functioning, I was not too stressed. It also helped that it wasn't my first time at the proverbial rodeo.
Overall, I can't complain. I think this pregnancy was a lot harder on me physically. Probably because I am older. Knocking on the door of "advanced maternal age" and all. Or because I can't walk without falling and I spent the first two-thirds of my life baking in the sun. These things tend to negatively affect one's physical well being. Emotionally, it was somewhat easier. I still missed having family. but I did have LB's pregnancy as a barometer of what I could expect and I did not have as much time to dwell on my missing family as LB kept me on a short leash and liked to crack the whip. MORE MILF NOW! MORE! MORE! MORE MILF!
Also, my concerns and nerves and fears have not been on the pregnancy and birth so much as LB. I went through a period where I was extremely annoyed at my in-laws for not offering to help us out with LB during our delivery time. When friends offered help, I said thanks but didn't commit because I was sure some family member would offer to help. They didn't and I was pissed, mostly on my husband's behalf, but a little on LB's and mine too. I am going to do everything in my power to make sure LB and The Deuce don't have this type of relationship and are instead more likely to drop everything to help each other out. It did turn out okay as I'm really fortunate to have friends that were willing to help and even watch LB for an entire day at a time. I've concentrated on that, and managed to let go of any in-law angst. Also, I have centered my angst on LB and not fucking her up with our new addition. There is definitely a part of me that feels like we are about to ruin her life. She is going from one hundred percent attention to less than fifty. She is going from being doted on and humored, to, well, not being doted on and humored nearly as much. It is going to rock her world and that totally has to suck. As an only child, I suspect that I feel nervous about this a lot more than my husband, who as the youngest of six was on the flip side. Hopefully LB is young enough that it won't send her into therapy for the rest of her life. And if not, well, universal health care should cover her phyche bills, right?