Shaken Mama and Baby V are coming home!

A quick update...Shaken Mama is feeling much stronger, Baby V got released from the NICU Thursday, and the whole lot is headed home tomorrow, Saturday! Enough of the fluorescent lighting and lousy food. Apparently this more natural-childbirth-friendly hospital has excellent everything else, but lousy food. The closer to our house c-section-happy hospital has better food, but sections 1 in 3 women. Oy. Nearly everyone I know therefore had their babies at the more natural-childbirth-friendly hospital, if they wanted a natural childbirth, even though it was a longer haul.
(I, Gruppie Mama, was the contrary one who refused to even use a hospital, and had our kiddos through a birthing center with midwives (3 rooms). Well, OK, the first one forced me into a hospital transfer, but the 2nd was a hippie water birth at the little cottage.)

Anyway, Shaken Mama didn't exactly get the water birth. But she still got the real prize. Baby V is a total love, and just likes to be snuggled and held. A whole new experience, since that was NEVER Chebbles bag.

Shaken Mama should be taking over from here, I think. Peace out wonderful friends and family of Shaken Mama!

Baby V is perfect, of course.

So A, her son Z, Chebbles and I enthusiastically raced on off to the hospital today to see Shaken Mama, Hub-D, and Baby V. Chebbles seemed reasonably interested in meeting this mysterious baby, who was now OUT of Mama's tummy. I, Gruppie Mama, left both of my energetic progeny (ages 2.5 and 5) in the care of their preschool. So we were 2 on 2, which everyone knows is better than 2 on 4.

We each slung a 2 year old on our hip, and marched on up to the 4th floor of the hospital, and spelled our names and got badges to go to Shaken Mama's room. Except nobody was in there. Being the brilliant people we are, we surmised that meant they were all in the NICU with Baby V. That involved another set of sign-in's. Remember us, we just signed in two seconds ago. See our names are right here on your list. Then we had to each surrender our driver's license, and get a NICU badge, AND a sticker with a number. But Z wasn't allowed in, and we didn't want to bring in Chebble's without warning Shaken Mama. A. went in first and rounded up Hub-D, and got to meet Baby V and hang with Shaken Mama for a while.

Ever tried entertaining two 2 year olds in a hospital waiting area? New one on me. We looked at pix on my camera, we climbed furniture. We drew on random flyers. Z decided it was a good time to pee on me. (everybody is in the process of potty training in some fashion or another). At first I thought, why is the top of his jeans wet? Then I realized. BOY PLUMBING. Did I mention I only have girls? So off to the bathroom we go, to see if there's more pee in there. Chebbles announced she needed to go too. I figured Chebbles was bluffing, as she hasn't really taken up potty training as a full sport just yet. In fact, Chebbles peed like a racehorse, which I cheered. Z. on the other hand, had really drenched himself. Much like my own S. does on a semi-regular maddening basis. So I sent Chebbles out with her Dad, where she proceeded to chow on a Clif Bar, and wasn't ready to see anyone till she was done thankyouverymuch. I stripped Z, and got him into some dry underwear I found in A's bag.

A emerged from the NICU, and I got to go in. Hub-D had already taken Chebbles in, who seemed pretty fascinated with Baby V. She wasn't keen on the "Big Sister" moniker. But believe it or not, she shared MIMI, her lovey with Baby V. Mimi is very sterile too, as you can imagine. The nurse politely suggested Mimi might need laundering before returning, which we are working on. Sharing Mimi is far more meaningful than any old "big sister" name. She also adorned Baby V's hospital issue pink/blue striped hat with stickers. And patted her nose, and her head and her hands. Eventually Chebbles moved on to checking out Shaken Mama's IV, and that had to stop when she wanted to man-handle some of it. That sort of deteriorated into a Chebbles style fit, so Hub-D had to march her out. Shaken Mama wasn't quite up for huge hissy fits just yet, for obvious reasons. Plus the other NICU babies/families might not appreciate it.

I got to hold Baby V, and I tell you, a 9lb. 3oz. baby does NOT feel like a newborn, compared to my twerpy 6lb. 3oz and 7lb 13oz munchkins. Baby V seems like she's doing great. She was a bit snuffly yesterday and last night. She apparently has been nursing like a champ, and had spit up some. The NICU nurse said Baby V was looking good today. I believe she should be released from the NICU tomorrow. Let me tell you, she is 2x-3x some of the other NICU babies.

Shaken Mama is doing well. They glued her incision with something called DermaPlast I think, she's in good spirits, considering. She's in a fair amount of pain, unsurprisingly, and was being switched from the morphine to vicodin this afernoon. This made her nervous for Baby V, but as far as my research could tell, it's standard for c-sections, and all should be fine. Shaken Mama needs to heal, of course! And of course, there's the inevitable post-partum hormone dump. I told her (and Hub-D) that this was normal in proceeding from pregnant to un-pregnant. Not fun, but normal.

And Baby V is very perfect, and clearly precocious like her big sister Chebbles. She's mastered nursing already.

Baby V is here!!!!!!!!!!! Born 4:09pm Pacific

OK, I JUST got off the phone with Shaken Mama. (A. called me at 7:30pm, but I was out to dinner. Sorry. I'm back.)

SO. Shaken Mama had a great non-stress test appt, yesterday, Baby V did fabulously, as you'll recall.

Somewhere along the line today, Baby V went into serious fetal distress due to Shaken Mama spiking a placental-infection induced nasty fever of 102.4 at one point, and it was going up up up. Baby V was no longer tolerating the contractions. After discussing everything carefully, and convincing Shaken Mama that this was NOT due to the epidural or anything else, it just WAS, an emergency c-section was consented to. Shaken Mama was getting sicker, the baby was in distress. The infected placenta and the baby needed to get out (authors note-I don't understand this infected placenta thing, but I'm reporting!). The drugs for the C/S made our fearless mama tremble uncontrollably, and having her organs smooshed around was not her idea of a good time.

However, this endurance game has a prize. Baby V arrived, looking absolutely perfect, tipping the scales at 9 lb. 3 oz., 21 inches long. (for the record, yours truly Gruppie Mama, and Grandma R were the only ones who guessed ~9lbs!!!) Baby V has a huge patch of dark hair, her mama says she looks like Chebbles with a dark wig. Shaken Mama is convinced Hub-D has VERY POWERFUL GENES, since all his progeny are his clones. Mama is now hopped up on some nice morphine recovering from having herself sliced and organs shoved to and fro etc. Baby V has a great latch breastfeeding, and seems to be wonderful with the world, she needs to spend 2 days in the NICU due to the infection, as a typical safety precaution.

The bright sides direct from Shaken Mama: No elephantitis of the nether regions, no fear of elimination (all you mom's out there know what we mean), and no baby conehead.

Hub-D is swoony in love with the lovely Baby V, as is Shaken Mama.

Tomorrow, A and I are planning to go visit the peeps. We'll report in!

Still Waiting- 11:34am Pacific + 1:50pm

A and I are leaping every time either of our phones ring, but so far no baby yet. Or not that we know of 11:34am Pacific! Apparently Shaken Mama got an epidural, we're guessing she's worn out after not sleeping for 2 nights, and then being in labor.
Having done that (not sleeping for many nights before labor), I can attest to the fact that it does not make it easier. Come on Baby V!!!!!!!! Go Shaken Mama Go!

UPDATE: I talked to Shaken Mama just now 1:50pm Pacific. She's cheerful, and 90% effaced but still at 2 cm. After a crazy painful morning and certainty the baby was crowning (which would have been good!), she got an epidural and some pitocin, and they've broken the water. The doula is doing pressure points on her, and hopefully this baby will EXIT soon. It may not be the plans Shaken Mama had in place, but Baby V has her eviction papers.

The Baby is Going to Meet the World!

The 2 year old in our house, Chebble's friend S, has announced: Shaken Mama's baby is going to meet the world!!!!!!!!

Yes, you read that right. This is Gruppie Mama. Shaken Mama has LEFT THE HOUSE! She's on her way to the hospital as of 7:15am Pacific. There was some discussion as to whether they'll MAKE it to the hospital. Our friend A. has picked up Chebbles and taken her home to have breakfast with Z.

Side bar: We know of a mom in our mother's club who nearly delivered in her car last week, and they ended up having to skip their designated hospital, call 911, and be raced to the County Hospital. She delivered HER 2nd daughter 5 min. later.

Anyway, back to Shaken Mama. The doula will be there. The famous and beloved Dr. W, unclear. Even the ANSWERING SERVICE didn't answer. Not very confidence inspiring. A tried calling the hospital, after picking up Chebbles, to warn the hospital of her impending arrival. They said they'd call Dr. W once he arrives. I'm not betting he makes it. At least the doula will be there!!!!

Stay posted friends!

(NOTE: Just added a pic from this a.m. that A took!)

You know things have gotten ridiculous when...

I saw one of my friends driving down my street today. She doesn't usually drive down my street to get to her house, but she's apparently joined the "drive-by-brigade" of people stalking my driveway to see if we've left for the hospital.

She caught me as I was pulling out of the driveway on the way to the OB appointment, and we idled our cars next to one another's to talk. I told her where I was going, and she took out her two pointer fingers and made a curving gesture while she said, "Are you gonna get your MEMBRANES STRIPPED?"

I told her NO WAY! And she scoffed that I shouldn't be afraid of a little membrane-stripping pain if my intention is to push an eight-pound baby out of my body later this week. But it just sounded so terrible and unnecessary, membrane stripping. Almost indecent.

She continued making the gesture with her pointer fingers, until finally I said, "Hey, if I don't get out of here, you're going to strip my membranes YOURSELF, aren't you?"

"I could!" she offered.

I pulled out of there in a jiffy. Get away from my membranes!


Oh, and in case you were wondering what the OB said at my appointment:

* Baby V. looks GREAT -- I got a quick ultrasound view while he measured our amniotic fluid. "You've got enough fluid in there for three or four babies!" he declared triumphantly. I couldn't identify any of her body parts, she just looked like a chubby ole babe from various random angles.

* Her heart is perfect -- they measured her response to my ongoing contractions, and her heart rate spiked appropriately after every one. She was moving around so much, thanks to the hot chocolate I'd guzzled in the parking lot, they had to move the monitor several times to chase her down over the fifteen minutes of the nonstress test.

* I'm dilated almost 2cm. This is a glorious thing. Just 8cm to go, right? And a whole lotta pushing? No problem.

Funny jokes

* Hey, do you have a BASKETBALL under your shirt?

* Whoa, I don't want to get in the elevator with YOU!

* You'd better serve HER first, it doesn't look like she has much time.


Hahahaha. You guys are hilarious.

The Stuff I'm Bringing

Today I got up from a "nap" (a.k.a. lying around feeling sorry for myself) and felt so much PAIN in my perenium that I was inspired to finish packing my "going to the hospital" bag and put it in the trunk of the car.

But then the pain abated completely. So here we are, almost a week late.

There are a few advantages to this delay, and they are:

* All the illnesses of winter are beginning to abate in our community. So Baby V's chances of getting RSV are diminishing with every day.

* The baby runs an ever-increasing chance of having the coolest birthday in the world: February 29. It's a birthday you can legitimately celebrate for two whole days -- and once every four years, you can go completely NUTS.

* She's getting bigger. And bigger babies are happier babies -- chubbier and all-around better suited to life on the "outside."

* I'm getting madder. And you can't tell me that all this anger isn't going to help push the baby out.

And a note about packing the bag for the hospital...

When I was due to give birth with Chebbles, I brought a whole bunch of clothes for me, and her, and about a dozen things I never needed.

This time, I've just packed:
* The cord blood collection kit
* A list of relatives' phone numbers and a calling card
* A bunch of ponytail holders
* A juicy stack of unread "Wondertime" and "Family Fun" magazines

And that's it.

No underwear, because hahahahahahahaha. Oh, excuse me, it's still funny to me how I thought I'd trot out of the hospital in my own underwear. No, I'll be sporting the crazy net underwear with the massive pad for the first week, and the hospital will hook me up with those fashion statements.

No lactation books because OOWWWWW, it makes me hurt just to think about breastfeeding again. I think I've got the basics down, and I'm sure our hippie hospital will sic several lactation consultants on me before I leave.

No nightgowns because EWWWW, they get gory. I might as well ruin hospital gowns instead.

I do want to bring make-up and shampoo again. The postpartum shower is a glorious thing. When I took the shower after I gave birth to Chebbles, I found the ponytail holder that I'd worn to the hospital three days prior. It had formed a kind of organic dreadlock on the back of my scalp.

So I'd like to spruce up, at least for the first photos. It's a favor for Baby V, so she doesn't think she was born to a middle-aged Sissy Spacek.

Sunday Summary

* Cookies run afoul. The baker who usually makes my favorite fought-over farmer's market cookies just didn't show up today, due to the inclement weather. I stood in the empty space in which her stall usually is, clutching on to Chebbles' stroller, having contractions of grief while the rain spattered our faces. Pathetic. Really. She should have her license revoked.

* Why were we at that school? Something else I should mention about Chebbles' school, the one we just quit. In their latest evaluation of her, the teacher said, "We'd like to see her play more independently." Has she ever met my daughter? This is a kid who insists on privacy during most of her play sessions, and who is currently serving tea to a moose in her bedroom. "In PWIVATE, Mama." Anyway, I'm so glad and relieved to quit that school.

* Pain and anguish. I am now falling into miniature weeping fits with the pain and puffiness that has besieged my body. I'm six days overdue now and I'm not clear why or how Baby V is staying in my womb. She feels enormous. I remember when Chebbles was born (10 days late), I thought, "Haha, that's the JOKE BABY that they pretend to pull out, it's so BIG!" I also couldn't remember my name or pee in the toilet to save my life, so my judgement was a little... off that day. But I never thought I was capable of birthing a person so gargantuan. It looks like we've got a sequel.

* Oh, and anxiety. Baby V is moving a little less these days, which for HER is a big change. This is a kid who was practicing her Olympic gymnastic routine thirty times a day up until a week ago. Now she just occasionally runs her elbow against my gut reassuringly, or head-butts my bladder in a display of shackled determination. I miss all the cartwheels and backsprings -- I found them so comforting throughout the day.

* The big 4-1. Tomorrow, I'll be officially 41 weeks pregnant, which means I qualify for another ULTRASOUND. I haven't had an ultrasound since I was 20 weeks. I've missed spying on my unborn daughter, but I have to remember that I won't be able to see much, as she's jammed in there like an East German refugee in the back of a Trabant.

* Spasms of love. I am swooning with sentimentality for Chebbles right now. I see these as her last days as an only child, as our treasured little Cheb. Within a week or so, she'll be transformed into the giantess older sister, our baby no longer. She asked if I could hold her hand when we were driving down the road today. HECK, YEAH! This is why God made automatic vehicles, so that Mamas could hold the hands of their Chebs while they shake off the heartbreak of the cookie-free farmer's market.

Arrrrrgh

I am so dang tired of being pregnant, and this morning I woke up in the foullest of moods. Five days overdue... I may still have (at least) five days to go.

I'm so uncomfortable, and I cannot sleep between the hours of 3am-5am. Chebbles didn't go to sleep until 10pm last night, due to some late-night clothing-removal action, but woke up crabby and demanding at 7:30am anyway. Tonight, I'm duct-taping her into two layers of backwards PJ's. Just watch me.

I know that waiting for the baby to decide her own arrival date is the right thing to do. But Christ Almighty, it's difficult. Dr. W. would induce me as early as next Tuesday if I just said the word. And I'm not planning to go that route, but I just feel so unbelievably crappy -- a bad mom, a bad wife, a bad friend -- and all of those people who would deny me the Pitocin are NOT OVERDUE THEMSELVES.

Please say a prayer for any of the nice people who try to call me today and see if the baby has been born. Take pity on their souls.

We quit!

We quit Chebbles' preschool today.

I'm so excited about this, I don't know where to begin.

I started Chebbles in preschool last spring because I was so sick with my pregnancy -- I needed a safe receptacle for her, and she did thrive there, painting and sharing and goofing off with the other kids.

But I finally realized that the school isn't that great. And she's not learning anything new. She knows her colors and animals and is well-socialized -- but now she is more interested in letters and maps and numbers and BIG KID things.

(Plus, there are idiot children chucking sand in her face.)

And now that I won't be sick anymore, I can more fully engage with her intellect, until it comes time for her to start big girl preschool in the fall.

I can't wait! I'm so excited. I didn't have her go to school today, so we could goof off together (in preparation for the imminent arrival of Baby V... or maybe not-so-imminent), and we've had such a marvelous time. It makes me a little sad to think about the time we missed with her in school throughout my pregnancy.

But it's all good. She had a good time, learned some cool songs, and we're just... not going to go anymore.

Anyway, today for us is like Ferris Bueller's Day Off -- this is Chebbles' Day Off, and we're making the most of it. PLUS we get to quit school until September. (Imagine Ben Stein calling out, "Chebbles... Chebbles... Chebbles...")

Did I mention that we're ready?

This is The Chebs loving on our friends' twin girls. At six months old (today!) they are the elder statesladies of the baby community. Happy half, kids!

Still here

I know I'm getting irritable. But I once heard a quote about PMS, which said that sometimes PMS inspires you to get angry about things that you SHOULD be angry about!

Today's gripes do not include anything to do with my unborn and gorgeous child, or my puffy body, because I had eight hours of sleep a dreamy prenatal massage so I'm feeling great!

But these two things are annoying the heck out of me:

(1) The screamer in Chebbles' ballet class. There is one child who has been screaming her head off during class for FIVE MONTHS. What in the world is this mother thinking?

She interrupts all the other kids' enjoyment of the class -- Chebbles stops and stares at this girl's behavior rather than leaping around and dancing. PLUS the mom is always late, so the whole class comes to a screeching halt when this unhappy child is shoved into the studio. It's just shitty that she continues to do this to the teacher, to the fellow students, and to us.

Today, the mom left the studio to go grocery shopping during the class. But her daughter continued screaming such that the teacher couldn't stand it anymore, and brought her outside to where the other moms were waiting. So we were tasked with cheering up this inconsolable, red-faced child, who just hollered in grief when informed her mother had left. CRIPES!

After the class, and after that family had left, we had an impromptu confab about the situation -- the teacher confessed that it's making her increasingly angry that the mother continues to do this, month... after month... after month. JEESH.

(2) My neighbor's dog keeps barking. My neighbors (yes, the same ones who kept Stanley alive way past his expiration date) have adopted an adult dog. They do not discipline him. They do not let him inside the house. And, most tragically, they never, ever walk him. He's a 115 pound German Shepherd/Bloodhound mix and he never gets any exercise. So instead, he barks at everything. He barks when we go outside to get in our car. He barks when any dog or person walks down the street, when a squirrel walks on the back fence, when a leaf lands near him. He barks. He has a loud, howl-like houndish bark that breaks my heart and pecks away at my nerves, particularly when I'm trying to sleep.

I've called the neighbors about it four times now. The first call resulted in their putting him in the garage at night -- so he doesn't bark from 9pm until 7am every night, which is a blessing. The second call resulted in their building a fence so that the dog can no longer bark directly into our new baby's window. (Still very loud...)

But the subsequent calls about daytime barking have had absolutely no effect. My annoyance is exacerbated by their answering machine, which allows people to leave a maximum 3-second message. They never pick up the phone (Why? Are they too busy walking the dog??) so I only have three seconds to blurt out that "Chebbles is sick and can't sleep because your dog is barking.")

I've gently made suggestions about leash training and the need for exercise and how unhappy he sounds, but it's to no avail. They are an extremely shy family and walking the dog is a little too social for their comfort, I think. But in the meantime, this is a YOUNG DOG with plenty of years of barking ahead of him.

I think I'm going to go NUTS if I'm trying to nap after the baby is born, and I hear that barking. I won't be able to sum up my feelings in three seconds on the answering machine.

So anyway, I'm physically happy and the baby is kicking as I write this -- but I feel like I've got more vendettas than the Sopranos right now.

Sharks afoot

Have you ever noticed that it's the parents of the most aggressive children that promote the concept of the kids "settling it between themselves?"

They've got to be tired of intervening every time their kid gets rowdy and grabby, but when it's my precious daughter who is injured or deprived in the altercation, I want JUSTICE. I at least want some intervention.

OK, to be honest, Chebbles can be a total jerkwad, particularly about her toys in her house, claiming dominion over objects she hasn't cared about... ever. She will holler or wheedle or grab, and it's embarrassing, and if/when I'm not marooned by my gargantuan gut, I do advocate intervention. We've had some of our most impressive tantrum/time-out/screamfests over these situations.

But she never ever hits. She doesn't harm other kids on purpose. She seems to feel a form of toddler remorse when she's been responsible for making another kid cry.

Meanwhile, there are some real psychopath kids roaming the preschools, playgrounds and group classes out there -- and it gets annoying to me when I'm trying to look into their soulless shark-like eyes and advocate the safety of my child. Where are their parents? Can't they put a warning sticker on the kids if they're going to let them roam unattended?

OK, I'm still pissed that someone threw sand in Chebbles' face at preschool last week. It really burns me up because it was a deliberate act -- she wouldn't relinquish a toy she had been playing with, so the girl grabbed a bunch of sand and chucked it into her eyes. Shark.

But in that case I could talk with the teacher (and others at the school) to ensure they keep a better eye on the predator.

With other parents though, I'm torn. I know that being a mom is hard, especially when your kid is being "that kid." But when your sharklet is hogging all the cool instruments at Music Together and aggressively fighting off the younger children, you've got to roll up your sleeves and mete out some real justice, I think.

Or are we all blind to our childrens' foibles, including myself?

Baby V watch continues

See, Baby V? The Boppy Pillow has been tested by Chebbles for maximum softness and support. We're ready for you! But apparently, you're not quite as ready.

I just came from an appointment with Dr. W. My cervix is tight as a drum, and the baby is high up in there -- ain't nothing happening that points toward labor. My blood pressure is, as usual, very low, and my massive belly is now measuring 42cm. "Nice big baby," said Dr. W.

I'm going in again next Monday, when he will perform the nonstress tests and watch her heartbeat to make sure she's still thriving in there. He has offered to induce me anytime next week if I really can't stand it anymore. Then on March 3, he will definitely induce me, because no one gets to hang around more than two weeks late nowadays.

I'm determined to hang in as long as I can. I think Chebbles benefited from the 10 days she stayed "late" in the womb. She was the most robust kid in the nursery (maybe everyone thinks that), rosy and ready from the word "go."

But I have to admit how wildly tempting it is to show up and ask for a Pitocin Port five days from now. I'm paralyzed by puffiness. I can't sleep more than two hours at a time. My husband has been driven from our marital bed by my monumental snoring.

It started so romantically, I can still feel the train pulling out of the Paris de l'Est station, just after my OV-Watch switched to say "OV-DAY 1" and my side twinged, signaling the last ovulation I would have for the next year.

Yes, Baby V, that was YOUR EGG! And then you were a zygote, then an embryo, now a fetus, and it's HIGH TIME to graduate to being our baby. See, doesn't that Boppy Pillow look cozy? It's all warmed up for you!

What Not to Wear

We were reading Richard Scarry's "Best Picture Dictionary Ever" together with A. and Z., when Z. noticed a "beautiful" hat on the page. Chebbles offers her opinion as to its alleged beauty.

Overdue like an eight-pound library book

*Beep* You have FIVE new messages.

"Hi guys, it's me K., you can run but you can't hide. Did you have the baby yet!!?"

*Beep*

"Oh hey, it's your doula. Happy Due Date! So, call me and let me know how everything's going. Anything yet?" [I'm not calling her back.]

*Beep*

"Are you not picking up the phone because you're at THE HOSPITAL??? It's me C. Just checking!" [NB: C. has had four children (all late) and knows better. I did call her back, purely for sympathy.]

*Beep*

"Congratulations on making it to the end! It's been a long hard journey and you've gotten to the end, hooray!" [It's not the end. The end might be in March.]

*Beep*

"Good morning. It's your acupuncturist. Just wanted to confirm that I cancelled Hub-D's appointment, and, uh, well, I was also curious, did you have the baby y----"

*BEEP* (click)

"Baby, Come Out!"

This is the prevailing sentiment around our home right now. Chebbles has taken to shouting it right at my abdomen, when she's not listening to the baby's heartbeat with her Fisher-Price stethoscope.

We just went to the park, and as we left she asked if I could carry her to the car. "NO WAY!"

But after some hot negotiations, I agreed to carry her on my shoulders as a last resort. And now I just want to collapse on the carpet right here and fall into a coma until I go into labor.

We traipsed around the Farmer's Market* this morning, and I should have known not to push the whole outing with a stop at the playground. But the weather is so sunny, and we saw some good friends of ours, and got caught up in playing and talking and gathering sticks and broken kite pieces. The next thing you know, I've got a thirty pound Chebbles latched onto the back of my neck and a forty pound Baby V pregnancy hanging onto my gut, and I'm thirsty and wrecked and trudging to the car at a snail's pace.

Thank the LORD for Hub-D, who right now is playing with Chebbles, getting the last drops of her energy expended before naptime. How do single mothers-of-two survive?


* At the Farmer's Market, I once again found the last package of my desired cookies, only to have another woman start fighting me for it! The bag was sitting there on the table, not in front of her or anything, but she alleged to be the true owner of that exact last bag of peanut butter chip/chocolate chip cookies. "But I'm pregnant!" I whined. She was immovable. Finally we split the bag, but not before the baker and both of our daughters got involved in the altercation. (The baker was on my side, good lady.)

Gruppie Mama Makes a Visit to the Sidebar

I wanted to fill you guys in on the change on the left sidebar of the blog. Specifically, my friend Gruppie Mama has offered to seize control of the "Shaken Mama" blog once I go into labor (could be as late as March 3!).

She plans post a few updates for everyone while I'm busy doing other stuff, including, but not limited to, pushing a child out of my body who will in all likelihood look nothing like me.

Thank you Gruppie Mama! Here's hoping you'll have something to post before too long!

And now for the long wait...

My official due date is in two days, but I don't want to get my hopes up.

I don't know if you can tell from this picture, but I've gotten ridiculously puffy in the last week.

My rings no longer fit me (I jammed them on for Valentine's Day, at least), my shoes are all uncomfortable, and I'm generally sausage-like. Perhaps it was all the Skipolini's Pizza? But I itch all over as my skin expands into fully bloated status and I yearn for the day I will become the zaftig mother of a newborn instead of the Sausage Queen of the East Bay.

I'm making plans throughout the coming week, letting go of the notion that I could become a mother of two at *any moment*.

Because really, no I couldn't. This baby feels firmly parked in my uterus, enjoying a steady diet of apple juice and cookies (I've now moved on to iced shortbread cookies. Sorry peanut butter cookies, our glorious affair is over).

Hub-D is incredibly patient with me, feeling my stomach rolling and rumbling with Baby V's gymnastic routines and listening to my repetitive grievances. He took Chebbles for a long excursion to the zoo and a burger joint this morning, so I could lie listlessly on the couch, alternately snoozing and obsessively studying the Law & Order DVD's

(NB: Did you know that Six Feet Under's Lauren Ambrose was in THREE separate episodes of the original Law & Order? It's true! (1) She makes fun of Claire Danes' legs as a schoolmate, (2) She has an older brother who beats up her dad, and (3) She's a sexually precocious retarded girl. Talk about a L&O "repeat offender!")

Anyway, about The Chebs... she's enjoying a sort of benign neglect under my care now. Leaning down has become almost impossible, exacerbated by a head cold I picked up from her preschool, so things like baths, toothbrushing, and/or changing a Pull-Up are nearly impossible. So unless she seems particularly green and moldy, toothbrushing, bathing and timely diaper changes are rare, I'm sorry to say.

But that's A-OK with her, and she's delving deep into her imagination, creating new imaginary friends and long-winded tales of adventure. I feel bad that I'm not trekking through India with her right now, filling her eager brain with sacred cows and her iron stomach with exotic foods. She's a kid who would enjoy hiking, and big cities, and throngs of fascinating people -- except that she's stranded here with Big Mama, just peering through her books and creating crayon masterpieces.

So I tell myself that once the baby is born, we will start going on wild adventures. I can just strap the baby into a sling or some kind of carrier, and we can head off to Nepal, right?

I love The Chebs

Have you ever heard that saying, "The more people I meet, the more I like my dog?"

That's how I feel about my daughter. The more two-year-olds I meet, the more I am grateful that I am The Mother of The Chebs instead*. Does every parent feel like this?

Chebbles is just so grounded. OK, she's passionate about certain things, and throws irritating fits when her will must be bent. But she's so adaptable and self-sufficient.

For example, unlike every other kid her age, she never falls. She has very wide feet, excellent balance and she just doesn't fall. At the playground, when other moms are having heart attacks, trying to keep up with their stumbling charges, I just kick back and wait for her to climb off whatever precipice she's dangling from and return to me to have her nose wiped.

She's also a schnauzer, sticking by my side anywhere we go. I can balance two bowls of hot soup in my hands and walk through our local buffet restaurant, and I don't even have to look behind me to know that Chebbles is trotting two feet behind me.

And she's not annoying. She adapts to new circumstances and rules -- not without trying to see if she can get around them first -- but she rolls with the punches, she entertains herself and keeps her own counsel. She'll sit at a restaurant table and make up a game with her rice and chopsticks, and Hub-D and I can have a lively adult conversation while she passively listens and plays.

Plus she has interesting stories to tell. Some kids just babble, but The Chebs has tales to tell. Yesterday, she regaled us with stories of her brother Larry, who is "The Farmer ON the Dell." He has a barnyard and horses and cows who moo. Just as I was ready to blow off her story as the imaginings of a toddler, I realized that (unbeknownst to the Chebs) my mom DOES have a brother named Larry, who really was the farmer on the dell with horses and cows who moo. Huh.

Anyway, she has a joyous spirit, and laughs her head off so easily. I am in LOVE with my CHILD. And I suspect the feeling is mutual. As I was putting her to bed, I said, "I love you, Chebbles," and she looked me straight in the eye and said, "I love you, Chebbles."

So yeah, she's pretty cool.



* With some notable exceptions of children I would adopt as my own in a heartbeat. You know who you are, kids.

You want fries with that?

Prince, the Slim and Loving Cat, twin to Otto the Magnificently Lazy, killed a chicken yesterday.

My neighbor called me tonight to tell me the story, under the auspices of "perhaps he ate some chicken bones and we should watch out for any vomiting, etc." but I suspect she really just wanted to unload the story on me.

See, in our neighborhood, some people keep chickens. Our neighbor's kids left their pen open yesterday, and their chickens ran wild and free through the backyards. Prince, ever on the alert for such situations, collected one of the pullets for his own consumption.

Somehow, he made off with this bantam hen and traveled over two tall fences, and consumed his prey in another neighbor's yard, in full view of a group of children. It was a white and grey chicken, apparently, and when the kids tried to separate him from the chicken, he got rather agitated and wouldn't be scared off his kill.

This is rendered more ridiculous by the fact Prince weighs just about as much as a bantam hen himself. And while I tried to nap this afternoon, he licked my hair and scalp... with his CHICKEN LIPS.

Hub-D is kind of proud of the little guy. Felling and eating a chicken like that. At dinner tonight, he spotted a poster of a tiger, and said, "We should hang a poster like that over the place where Princey sleeps, to celebrate his fierceness."

Port in a Storm

No baby yet, although she's been really active, swooping around the womb and sticking out... something... feet? elbows?

I feel so READY, and I'm just kind of treading water while I wait at this point.

On a bizarre note, all of the sunshine and warm weather we've been having makes me nauseated. The last time we had the sun shining so brightly through our windows and the birds sang so merrily, I was barfing my guts out.

So, just as whatever clothes I wore, and whatever food I ate makes me gag -- now when I swing open the doors to the back porch and take a deep breath of the flowers of spring, I want to vomit.

I don't think this is a permanent effect, but kind of comical in a way that makes me want to reach for my old pal Zofran.

Oh, and speaking of Zofran, I have an acquaintance who the same wicked hyperemesis gravitas that I do. Now that she's (accidentally) pregnant with twins after two death-defying pregnancies, she's weathering a perfect storm of vomitous horror. As a result, she got a PORT in her arm to administer fluids and Zofran.

And I am actively jealous of her -- if that tells you how sad and sick we hyperemesis gravitas people are. MAN, I would have loved to have had a port! This opens up whole new possibilities for me. If we are lucky enough to get pregnant again, as soon as I see that second line on the pregnancy test, I'm going to insist on a PORT.

Can you imagine how much more functional I'd have been with a port? Instead of choking down ginger ale all night and throwing it all up every morning, I could just plug in my dang port. Anyway, I'm so getting a port. Then maybe I can also "happen" to drop some Pitocin in it when I'm 39w3d.

Miles to Go

I'm still pregnant. Sorry for not posting yesterday and causing mumbles of speculation, highlighted by Chef Alekka calling from Chicago this morning, "ARE YOU OK????"

That is such a loaded question. I AM OK if you look at all the bright sides -- I'm pregnant with a healthy baby girl. I'm five days until my due date. I have a beautiful crib and a beautiful sister just waiting to meet her. My husband is my Valentine and our home is warm and sunny.

But oh CRIPES am I ready to be done being pregnant. I'm now puffy all over my body, including my sinus passages, so I can't sleep, I can't don my wedding ring, and the only socks that fit are some silly Easter socks I have that feature white pom-poms on the bunnies scattered all over them.

I DARE anyone to make fun of my socks, or even to notice them. I can't guarantee that person's safety.

In other news:

* I finished "Pillars of the Earth" by Ken Follett and it was a highly satisfying 800 pages of well-considered historical fiction. And I was lucky to have Hub-D handy when I came to historical issues... (me, from my bed) "Hubs! Was the Archbishop of Canterbury named Thomas in the 12th century?" ... (him, through his foamy toothbrush) "Yes, that was Saint Thomas." ... "Thank you!" -- See, it's OK that I blew off all of my history classes, I married a historical encyclopedia.

* I am into the third season of "Law & Order" DVD's. Who knew that a very young Claire Danes made an appearance back then? And I play games as I watch it -- "Spot the Soprano" is my favorite. I think I've found everyone now except James Gandolfini, who I suspect never made an appearance. Really, every last "Sopranos" character shows up in "Law & Order" at some point. Every time they needed an Italian character, they clearly called on the same casting agent.

* Chebbles woke up at 6am this morning, which is totally unacceptable. Hub-D partied with her, good man that he is, although it's completely impossible for me to sleep while the two of them are rocking out. Bottom line: I'm already exhausted, and the constant contractions are taking my last two drops of energy.

* I saw the OB again yesterday, and after he ascertained that I haven't dilated one millimeter, I made a completely depressing appointment for the 20th. He advised that I enjoy my last few days without a crying infant. Hahaha. Bring it on.

Contracting for no good reason

I had a huge series of contractions last night from around 1am until 5am. They drove Hub-D from our bed, who, by 2am, assumed that this raging hot thrashing moaning entity had nothing to do with his wife.

"Call exorcist in AM," he might have typed into his BlackBerry before drifting off to sleep in the guest room.

Now I'm doubly tired -- from not sleeping last night, and from all of the contractions. It was really draining. And it pissed me off that it didn't LEAD ANYWHERE. Come ON, people.

I was inspired to get everything done this morning, thinking that I may be heading to the hospital sometime before Leap Day. I made a frantic series of phone calls and ran errands this morning, getting our jewelry fixed, our art framed, our hot tub troubleshot, our new furnace and air conditioning units ordered, and purchasing a huge bunch of little kid hangers, so we could get Baby V's closet in order.

The highlight of my morning was discovering, at The Children's Place, pink striped footie PJ's that come in sizes 3T AND size 0-3 months. Dressing my daughters in matching PJ's will be my greatest accomplishment in life. Starting a successful business? Meeting and marrying the most eligible bachelor in SF? Transitioning from suit-wearing executive to Gymboree-yodeling mom? All this is PEANUTS compared to having two children in matching pink striped footie pajamas.

All Baby V has to do now is muddle through the last X days of gestation, and all I have to do is push her straight out of my body. Then we can get down to the serious business of matching our daughters. ASAP.

Sunday Summary

I now understand that I should post at least once a day, so as not to engender suspicion about whether I've gone into labor.

So, nope. I've had a few fancy contractions, but they're little cul-de-sacs of labor. They don't go anywhere, and they're safe to walk around in.



Here is the latest from the Land-o-Chebs:

* We still have no clear front-runner for a name for Baby V. I wonder if it's connected to my miscarriages, such that it's hard for us to envision a child before she's born and wriggling in our arms, let alone NAME one.

* Baby V's crib is now set up (Thanks to Granddad and Hub-D). It's much nicer than Chebbles' crib -- it's a glorious solid maple palace. I didn't mean to get such a nice crib, but when I cancelled our original crib order, I purchased this fancy model in a fit of desperation. It's so beautiful, I feel obligated to have a third child, just to keep it in use as long as possible.

* OK, I'm having another cul-de-sac contraction. Stop teasing me!

* My peanut butter cookie craving will NOT BE SLAKED. I purchased a new package of these beauties at the farmer's market today, and as I approached the stand, I saw a woman PICK UP THE LAST BAG OF THEM. I was so pissed, and ready to fight her for them. Then, perhaps out of a psychic moment of self-preservation, she put the peanut butter ones down and chose a package of chocolate chip. Smart lady.

* My biggest form of entertainment has been sorting through DVD's of the original "Law & Order" episodes -- from the beginnings of Michael Moriarty to the end of Jerry Orbach -- scouting for episodes that are not aired as reruns. So far, halfway through the second season (thanks Netflix!) I've found two episodes that aren't aired as reruns, so I've never seen them before. It is such a THRILL to ponder why they may not be authorized to air. Which actor made a stink? Which scene was too gratuitous?

* My second biggest form of entertainment has been "Pillars of the Earth" by Ken Follett. I'm speeding through to the end as fast as I can. At first, all of the medieval cathedrals and historical background information made me wonder why it was an "Oprah" book. Then things got naughty. So yeah, I getcha Oprah.

* There, another cul-de-sac contraction. I'm not even going to hope I'm dilating here. Disappointment lies down that little road.


(Note: the painting I used as an image for this post is by a woman named Ellen Wixted and her compelling art is located here: http://www.sevshoon.com/wixted.html)

Prego Pizza fails again

Last night I found myself at the famous Skipolini's restaurant -- they are known throughout the land as the pizzeria that created the "Prego Pizza."

This is a pizza so disgusting, so laden with processed meat garbage, that full-term babies throughout the East Bay choose to initiate labor and remove themselves from their mothers' greasy, onion/garlic reeking bodies. Yes, this is THE pizza that women eat in order to go into labor.

I've now had two well-meaning friends drag me to Skipolini's and order the pizza, perhaps for the sheer sport of watching me eat it -- which involves a lengthy process of my removing the top layer of meat products, giant chunks of onion and olives, then trying to choke down the remaining pound of meat and the few delicious mushrooms that lurk amidst the foulness that is the Prego Pizza.

And I KNOW I'm just 38w5d, but this baby is welcome to come out ANYTIME, thank you very much.
She's full term, I can already feel that she's as Hulk-ish as her sister. I'm also impatient for the whole process to be at an END. Pregnancy once felt like a glorious journey to motherhood, and now it feels like a Halloween haunted house populated by clumsy teenagers wielding real weapons.

If I could just push this child out and hold her in my arms, I would feel so much more control over the situation, as misguided as that may sound to any mother of a newborn.

So last night found me pounding down the Skipolini's, and half of a glass of sangria, for which I heartily blame Holly, who lives in Argentina and posted a series of gratuitous shots of sangria last week, leading me to crave the lethal concoction. It is also her fault that Chebbles sucked down some of my sangria as well, crying when the glass was taken away.

This morning? Lots of indigestion (surprise), but no labor signs at all. Looks like we're hunkering down for the long haul.

So I'm interested, what do you guys think?

When will Baby V be born?
	Tomorrow (February 10)
	Valentine's Day (February 14)
	President's Day (February 18)
	Some godforsaken day in the distant future
pollcode.com free polls

Here it is, the latest photo of Chebbles-n-Mama, taken last week at our local Clix studio. I took advantage of their $10 special, and successfully fought them off when they insisted that I do a few nude belly shots because they would be "tasteful" and "beautiful." No thanks! Dude, my navel alone would scare anyone off pregnancy for all time. Not to mention the impressive array of blue veins I'm sporting.

In other news, my father (aka Granddad) and stepmother (aka Grandma N.) have arrived here in our wee 'burb for a weekend of hard partying with The Chebs. Unfortunately, their arrival coincides with Chebbles' latest "testing" period. She's currently testing us on issues of politeness. In other words, she'd like to know...

"Do I HAVE to be polite? I mean, like, what are you guys going to DO if I don't say thank you?"

Up until now, we've prompted her to say "Goodbye" and "Thank you" to teachers and party hosts, plus we've asked her to use "Please" in a full sentence in order to get what she wants. But she has gradually devolved into NOT saying anything by way of niceties (hiding her face in my pant leg and feigning "shyness"), and we're in the process of correcting it.

It may seem extreme to give a toddler a time-out for not saying "Goodbye" when prompted, but when that toddler is Chebbles, the law has got to come down HARD.

I fear how off-the-rails our discipline of Chebbles will get after the new baby is here. Will she ride rampant all over the house, peeing in the corners and painting on the floors, putting address labels on the cats and spreading reams of Scotch tape throughout our home? Wait a minute, she's already doing these things.

I just don't want us to slacken in any way, during this time that Chebbles needs us to take a hard line about politeness, and the correct placement of urine, paint, address labels and tape. But I'm afraid I'm going to devolve into one of those couch-yellers, hollering, "Just wait until your father comes home! He doesn't have a baby on his boob. He will give you the time-out of your LIFE!"

Or perhaps I'll become a video mama. Chebbles will sit absolutely stock still if there is a video playing in the Xbox, so will I resort to repeated showings of Mary Poppins rather than allowing her to continue her creative campaign of self-entertainment? Yeah well, maybe if I have to take a shower, OK?

Duh

I could have told them this.

My friend A. found this article. I would have participated in the study too, but I kept forgetting their phone number.

It does feel good to see some scientific proof that I've slowly morphed into a moron throughout this pregnancy, as I did throughout Chebbles' pregnancy.

It was harder last time, when the memory loss was new, and I was trying to run a public relations agency. ("Who are our clients again? They are? When did that happen?")

But now it's old news.

Ash Wednesday

My friend A. reminded me that tomorrow is Ash Wednesday, so it's time to figure out what I'm giving up for Lent.

No, I'm not Catholic. This is another perk of growing up Unitarian -- you can hop on the bandwagon of whatever religion has the most compelling rituals. Rosh Hashanah? Ramadan? Lent? Sure, why not? (My friend K. and I also adopted Passover, due to the wine-flicking and storytelling elements. Jewish people have all the coolest holidays.)

Anyway, it's terrific that A. reminded me of Ash Wednesday, because every year I try to point out to someone that there is a big smudge of ash on their foreheads. This year I'm going to write a note on my hand: "Ashes are On Purpose."

But what does a woman who is nine months pregnant give up for Lent? In previous years I've given up chocolate, swearing, meat. But this year I'm going to need all three of those things... a LOT. Can you imagine giving up swearing just before going into labor? "Darn it! Darn it! Oh dang it all to heck! When will this frikkin' baby come the heck out??"

So I think the best thing I can do is stop complaining. Oh, not about everything. I have so much complaining to do, it would be impossible to stem the tide. (e.g., I just found out I'm Strep B positive again. So annoying.)

I'm just going to stop complaining about the fact we only have one car.

I sound so whiny every time I bring up this subject to Hub-D: "But everyone ELSE has a second car!" And he is so gracious about leaving the car with Chebbles and me every single day, even though the walk to the BART station is arduous. Cars are expensive, and truth be told, I'm proud that we will be a family of four with one medium-sized sedan, not a monster SUV. (It kind of balances out our massive gas/electric bill.)

Sure, it can be frustrating when we only have one car, but we get extra minutes with Hub-D in the morning when we drive him to BART. And my husband and I never meet up away from home -- we're always together in the same car, which is a terrific place to hash out any accumulated issues. (e.g., What the HECK should we name our second daughter?)

It's got to be grating on Hub-D's nerves, the way I harp on this subject. So I'm going to quit complaining about having only one car. Well, at least until Easter.

The Babysitter's Here

I don't want to jinx it, but the new babysitter is actually here, and she's a huge hit with Chebbles so far. Apart from some bossiness (on the part of Chebs) and some tears about trivial stuff (I bailed her out... for today), they are thick as thieves.

They have already done coloring, Play-Doh and fingerpainting, and now they're at the park. I thought, as they strolled down the block away from me, "Oh wait, I don't even know this person and she's walking away with my child." But, well, her purse and her car are here.

In celebration, the Dar Williams song "The Babysitter's Here" is going through my head.

I adore this song, the lyrics are below and the video should pop up at the very bottom of this post. Join me in a toast of apple juice to the new sitter!

Tonight was just great, she taught us the sign for peace.
Now she's made us some popcorn, we've turned out the lights and we're watching movies.
I don't understand and she tries to explain how
A spaceship is riding through somebody's brain and their blood and guts...

She's the best one that we've ever had
She sits on her hair, and she's tall as my dad
And she tie-dyed my shirt, and she pierced her own ear
And it's peace, man, cool, yeah, the babysitter's here.

Her boyfriend is Tom but we call him the king of romance
He wears an American flag on the butt of his ripped up pants
And will they get married with kids of their own? He says
"Not if she's going to college we won't"
And he kisses her, oh...someday I'll have a boyfriend just like that...

She's the best one that we've ever had
She sits on her hair, and she's tall as my dad
And she got mad at dinner when Tom drank a beer
But peace man, cool, hey, the babysitter's here.

And we all went to see her go dance at the high school
We made her a big card
And she told us that she'd be the unicorn wearing the pink leotard
And there she was leaping up just like she said,
With a sparkling horn coming out of her head
And she's oh...oh... I can't wait to give her the card, I can't wait to give her the card

She's the best one...

But it's Saturday night, I can't sleep, and we're watching the news
She says "Do me a favor, don't go with a guy who would make you choose,"
And I don't understand and she tries to explain
And all that mascara runs down in her pain
Cause she's leaving me...

You're the best one that we've ever had
You sit on your hair and you're tall as my dad
And I'll make you a picture for college next year
So hush now, peace, man, the babysitter's here.
The best babysitter's here.

The Babysitter Saga

What is wrong with us that we can't hire a babysitter?

I started out idealistic -- and found the perfect German nanny who famously dissed us for a family closer to her house. I moped for a couple of days, and wondered what it was about us that made her NOT want to work for us. Weren't we nice? Wasn't the house clean? Wasn't Chebbles cute and engaging?

But I moved on. Even though I'm only looking for 11-16 hours/week, I hired a local nanny-finding service and started getting intriguing resumes from capable women who had been "Trustlined" and fingerprinted and tested for TB, women with enthusiastic references and at least three years of experience as nannies.

I felt I was really covering my bases by interviewing my three favorite candidates for this part-time position.

The first one was clearly a professional, capable nanny, but she was dull personally. I asked her what she did for fun, and she came up completely blank.

The second was a grandmotherly type who didn't comb her hair for the interview and had a frenetic energy about her. She so resembled Margot-Kidder-in-the-Woodpile that I had to keep looking.

The third woman seemed like a real winner! She was younger than the others, had a lot of energy, and Chebbles liked her style. I felt I could hold a real conversation with her and she had worked extensively with troubled kids in our local school system. Plus she was kind of cool. So I tried to hire her.

First, she balked at the salary I offered her. (Dude, $16/hour, come on.) I raised it to $17/hour. Then she told me she suddenly couldn't work any afternoons. I adjusted my expectations to include morning help only. Although she seemed to be copping an attitude about these things, I scheduled her to start this past week -- we agreed (through the nanny service) she would do a trial day last Monday.

I left her a message on Thursday evening to confirm the trial day hours, and relate my enthusiasm for her joining our household. I heard nothing.

I left a message on Friday, reiterating these things, asking for a call back. Nothing.

I left a message on Saturday, saying that if she wasn't going to show up on Monday, to please call me so I could make other arrangements. Nothing.

At ten minutes to midnight on Sunday, I got a chipper e-mail from her, confirming that she'd be at our house at the appointed time, and sorry she didn't call earlier, but she was "soooooooo busy."

Yeah, no. Beat it. After consulting with Hub-D, who is aces on these matters, I called the nanny agency and told them that their candidate was sucking on the follow-through, plus the attitude, and we had to keep looking.

I was optimistic, though, at this point, because a nice-sounding woman had responded to an ad I'd placed on Craig's List. She gushed about how much she loves working with infants, how she would be happy to be at our house at 6 o'clock in the morning, and how she had a ton of local references and was very excited about the job we'd posted. So I scheduled her for an interview on Thursday.

I raced home from playgroup to make the interview time, and prepared Chebbles to meet this nice lady. But she just didn't show up. Three hours later, I got this e-mail:

I am so sorry. My work scheduel suddenly changed today. I forgot about our appointment due to the scheduel change. I am sorry, I became discombobulated due to the scheduel sudden change. I am at work and will be leaving tonight to go out of town. I will be back on Monday. I guess the best I can do is to call you on Monday. I have had this out of town plan for 6 weeks--it's something I have to do. Sorry for the inconvenience.

She had forgotten about our appointment, then she e-mailed instead of calling, revealing her tragic inability to spell the word "schedule." And anyone who is going to get "discombobulated" in any sort of professional setting is NOT the person I need taking care of Baby V and Chebbles so I can go get my darn legs waxed. As the nursing mother, I am allowed discombobulation, not the person I'm paying $16/hour.

Now, to me, she smells like a serious Craig's List flake.

But I did not despair! I had another candidate who seemed the best for the job. One of my very good friends had a babysitter who was looking for more hours -- and you can't do better than someone who has worked for years for a friend. We had spoken on the phone, and arranged to meet tomorrow. Then I got a regretful message from her on Friday, saying that her current job has offered her additional hours, so she is no longer "on the market" as a babysitter.

This just made me want to cry. What is the problem here? Are we weird? Are all potential part-time babysitters weird?

Luckily, the nanny agency connected me with two more candidates, both of whom seemed fine. Are my standards lowering? Maybe! The first candidate was just 18-years-old and was a somewhat nervous person (nail-biting, lip-biting, really tightly pulled-back hair). Unfortunately, Chebbles feeds on this kind of Nervous Nellie, so I was relieved when the second candidate showed up and seemed perfectly suited to the job.

She loves make-up and girl things (Attention Chebs!). She's about to get married. She's very involved with her church. And she is also willing to show up at my house at 6am two days each week and relieve me of my children so that I can take a nap or a shower or take in a session of scream therapy.

But that's where we are now -- I've offered her the job over her voicemail. The nanny service seems to think she's apt to take the job. Our hours jive, and she will allegedly work for our "paltry" $16/hour. Will she call me back? Will I never hear from her again? Or will I find her hiding out in a woodpile in our backyard?

Who knows. But I'd really like to have a smiling face in place before coming home and feeling swamped and overwhelmed on my return from the hospital.

Almost-Sunday Summary

* Chebbles found a stray pacifier in the baby's room today, and obsessed over it, talking about it, talking to it, "showing" it to her unborn baby sister, then gnawing on it for hours. I feel mean and cruel, but after she went to bed tonight, I hid it good. I know from bitter experience that it only gets worse and she becomes more obsessive the longer she holds onto a pacifier.

* I am having a lot more contractions than I did with my pregnancy with Chebbles at this point. I'm just 37w5d now, so it's very early for labor (for me). But every time I stand up, and sometimes when I'm just minding my own business lying down, I get a huge series of contractions. Two nights ago, I had an hour of thrilling cramps -- and I really did find them thrilling! -- but they passed.

* We don't have a name for this baby. We have a list of possible names, but we're not committed to anything. Nothing has the perfect "ring" to it that Chebbles' name did. But I tell myself that it ultimately won't matter -- Chebbles' perfectly beautiful name is so rarely used in favor of, well, "Chebbles" or "McPie" or "Princess Beans" or "Cakers" that the given name is of little consequence in our household.

* It's raining like crazy here. That didn't stop us from taking a family dinner adventure tonight -- dashing through the rain and onto BART, then back through the rain to a crowded burger joint in Oakland. Chebbles was enchanted with the whole journey, and made herself perfectly at home on BART, engaging in a long and meaningful discussion with her panda-headed umbrella, feeding him imaginary bamboo and letting him look around the train.

* Everyone I know is having their labor induced. When did this become the standard? I completely understand the impulse, and the fact it's sometimes medically necessary, but it's remarkable to me how 100% of the women I know who are at term with their babies are being induced. I'm still clutching the dream of another natural childbirth, despite the new mom's comment to me at the burger joint: "I did it natural the first time, but getting the epidural with the second was the best thing I ever did. You don't get a medal for going through all that pain!" But seriously, a needle up my spine? And then the resultant catheter and blood pressure medication, etc.? I've got to try it "my way" first.

* My husband is paging me. I'm going to go take advantage of his mind for a minute to help decide between babysitters. I'm going bananas with this torturous, ongoing process!

Lend me your ear

It almost killed us, but we signed our wills and living trusts and health directives tonight. I feel like a real PARENT having accomplished these things.

Afterwards, as we walked out into the night, we had to cross the street, and we joked that we were finally OK to be hit by a car, now that Chebbles is provided for. I'm sure we aren't even the first thousandth couple to make that unfunny joke.

I picked a mediocre attorney somewhat at random so that we could get these boilerplate documents DONE, and she and Hub-D rubbed each other the wrong way. So they squabbled over the definition of trusts and call options and blah-blah-blah while I sat there gestating and drinking mint tea and wondering what body part was sticking out of my gargantuan uterus now. (Elbow?)

One way I amuse myself lately is I feel deep down by my pelvic bone and I can actually fiddle with my unborn child's EAR. Her ear is sitting right there, cute and curly. But I thought it would be obvious, as Hub-D and the lawyer yammered on, if I absentmindedly poked at Baby V's ear.

So I just held the pen and signed on the correct lines. I'm so big now, and the baby's so low, that I couldn't even lean over the lawyer's desk to properly read the documents. All I know is that we have something called a Family Trust now, and this doesn't mean I get to lord power over our finances or anything fun like that. So it didn't hold my interest.

The ear, however, is darn fascinating, don't you think?

High-May?

I'm working on typing out instructions for anyone who might be caring for Chebbles while Hub-D and I are occupied with the birth of her sister.

I laughingly told my dad that I never realized how "high maintenance" my kid was until I typed out these instructions, and he said, "Well, she is that way because you LET HER BE THAT WAY."

I took immediate exception to this characterization. Sure, I baby The Chebs sometimes, but she just has her druthers. She was born with druthers and I like to think I strike a balance between catering to them and laying down the law.

So anyway, let me know. I can take it. Is my dad right, am I letting The Chebs be high maintenance?

Here are the instructions...

CHEBBLES' Bedtime/Naptime Routine

* Turn on the heater in her room. Tap the top, circular button three times, and it should read a desired temperature. (To turn off, when she wakes up, tap the circular button twice.)

* She gets a half-sippy-cup of soy toddler formula (small canister on the shelf to the left of the kitchen sink) before bed. She may no longer take the milk into bed with her. She is to finish what she wants of her "warm milky" before brushing her teeth.

* Brush her teeth. She likes using her little purple toothbrush, or "Daddy's Blue Toothbrush." Either is fine, but don't be tempted to brush her teeth while she's in the bathtub, as she likes to dip the toothbrush in the soapy water and back into her mouth repeatedly. She also uses adult (pink tube) toothpaste because she likes the mint taste better than the "kid" toothpaste. Just use a tiny amount, and insist that YOU do the first brushing, then she may continue brushing her teeth. She may not leave the bathroom with the toothbrush, and she's quite adept at rinsing the toothbrush and putting it away, so you can let her finish up.

* Get a nighttime diaper on her. The only diapers that hold in the nighttime pee are the Size 5 Huggies Overnite Diapers. They are usually stacked underneath the drawers in her closet, and they feature Micky Mouse sleeping on them.

* Dress her. She is currently wearing her pajamas backwards, because she's been taking off her pajamas and diapers during the night. She has two pairs of adulterated (feet cut out) PJ's that she wears backwards -- her polka-dot and "princess" PJ's. Even if she complains about this arrangement, do it for your own sanity -- just zip them up the back. If it's a cold night, you may want to put one of her little white undershirts or smaller T-shirts on underneath the PJ's, even though she'll complain about this. (Note for naps: she can usually sleep in her clothes and leave them on. USUALLY.)

* Close the blinds AND the drapes as thoroughly as possible (I tuck the curtains into the blinds by her crib, to block out passing headlights coming into her crib). A note about the blinds -- we wrecked several of the cord-shorteners before we learned not to pull on the little plastic squares themselves. When you're pulling the blinds up or down, hold onto the cord, not the cord shortening mechanism. In order to shorten the cords, just pull on the little plastic tab on the little plastic square, and it will automatically retract.

* Put a sippy cup of water (filtered water from the fridge) in her crib. This is her new nighttime beverage (as opposed to milk). Show her where it is when you put her in her crib, so she knows.

* Pick out a book with her, and find the timer. The timer is usually located in the book rack next to the red chair in her bedroom. It is already set at five minutes, so all you need to do is hit the middle (big) button to activate it and make sure it's counting down. Then get serious about reading for the time allotted. As soon as the timer goes off, turn it off by hitting the same button, and then she is to go straight into her crib -- carrying her is the best option here. And then covered by a blanket, make sure she has Mimi and her baby, and any other animals she's asking for, then sing a lullabye, turn off the lights and walk out of the room.

* After you leave her room, turn off the central heat in the house (the thermostat is right there in the hallway) or else her room will roast.

A note about crying: Sometimes she will cry as you leave the room. If it is because she needs something legitimate (Mimi, blanket, water), we'll turn around and make sure she has it. Otherwise, if it's general complaining or a request for something that won't be granted, we just let her cry and calm down and go to sleep.

During the night, she'll sometimes utter a sharp, sudden cry that dies down almost immediately. We ignore these little "squawks." But if she cries for more than five minutes, or is calling out with a specific, legitimate-sounding complaint, we will go in to her.

In addition, she often poops while she's sleeping, or just as she's falling asleep. It's important to get these cleaned up before she sleeps in them (otherwise, we're in for terrible diaper rash), and also sometimes she won't fall asleep if she's pooped, but she'll bounce around singing for a long time. This can be a tough judgement call, and a quick sniff test (opening the door of her room and popping your head in) can ascertain whether you're dealing with one of these "sleep poops." So if she's crying a lot in the middle of the night, or if she won't fall asleep in the first place (particularly for her nap), it's worthwhile checking.

If you do go into her, do not play with her or talk to her -- just go about the business of changing the diaper with an expressionless face, and give her a quick hug and put her back into her crib, tucking her in and singing a song as you walk out. Any friendliness or playing tends to exacerbate the nighttime wake-ups.

THE SLEEP SCHEDULE

She usually wakes up between 7am and 8am. We do not go to her before 7am.

She usually naps starting between 1pm and 2pm, and for about three hours.

Her bedtime should fall three hours after the time she's woken up from her nap, at the latest 8:15pm.


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So, am I letting her be high-may?