Back in the thick of things

My parents left today, ending what was two weeks of 'vacation.' Mom did laundry, cleaned my house, and held the baby while Dad took charge of clipping up branches and mowing my lawn. At forty years of age, I find that I still need my parents! I wish I could keep them for a while.

The other side of labor and delivery is a wonderful place, sleepless nights notwithstanding. Beforehand is all anxiety and self-doubt, discomfort and impatience; after is glorious! I've never run a marathon or climbed Mt. Everest (nor will I, either), but I think that feeling of I AM THE WOMAN! when those feats are accomplished is the same as the one I get after managing my own labor pains without any anesthesia. (Please sit down! No really, all that applause is just embarrassing! Autographs will be AFTER the celebration gala.) And besides my ego inflating, there is that tiny, soft little person to love and hold and share with grandmas and aunties. Yes, the view is much better after birth than before.

Happy ending, blessed beginning

Living proof that pregnancies do end, after all!

Losing marbles, such as they are

I used to have a very good brain. I was very proud of it. Now it is only a shadow of its former self, with most of its splendor leached out by seven pregnancies.  In the ninth month of this pregnancy, I have had to dumb down my nightly sudoku puzzle to an easier level, which has been very painful. I found that I had five in a row of the toughest puzzles completely ruined, so I turned back to the previous section in defeat and humiliation. This is only one example--the usual air traffic control job of getting kids to their several activities has befuddled me of late, so Matt has had to be both brains and brawn of this operation. Good thing he's up to the task.

Still waiting and wondering on when this little person is going to show up. Of course, I haven't even reached the due date yet, so I have no business being so antsy. And yet we do get antsy, all of us, for every long second between the 38th week and the time the baby comes. My mother claims that she didn't want the baby to come on time, because she had too much to do to get ready. I don't know that I have complete confidence in her memory on this one (sorry, Mom)--"this is the time that Mommies start to get anxious," as my friend sagely put it to me the other day. The contractions keep coming, and making slow progress (due to a cranky uterus, according to the nurse practitioner).

This nurse practitioner was not my friend today. Besides accusing my uterus of being cranky, she also mentioned that having a baby at forty was practically elderly. I think she was trying to be funny, but I find I didn't laugh. She discovered that there was more cranky about me than she had originally guessed. If my brain had been up to firing off a sharp retort, you can be sure I would have given her one.

Waiting

You'd think I'd know better by now. I do know better--I've resisted all attempts to move the due date closer; when the doctor says, "Could happen any time," I plug my ears and hum "Battle Hymn of the Republic;" when friends tell me they think I'll go early, I change the subject to how they think the Padres will fare this year. Psychologically, I know it is best for me to think that that baby will come two weeks after the due date. And yet, when the pre-contraction contractions kick in, I am the one getting prematurely excited. I think, "Well, maybe," and then just end up grumpily resetting all my psychological defenses.

Meanwhile, life plugs along without worrying about baby's timetable. The 17-year-old pulls an almost all-nighter for a gigantic AP project, waking me up at four, curse him, to tell me his plan. The fifteen-year-old falls dead asleep on the couch for five hours in the afternoon because he is growing like a weed and needs his beauty rest. The thirteen-year-old wrestles at school, bikes home, eats several pounds of food, and dashes off to rugby practice. The ten-year-old makes earrings, since she has no homework, then goes off to basketball, which is only an acceptable way to pass her time if one of her friends is there. The nine-year old and five-year-old, also known as flint and steel, play together happily, much to mother's surprise and delight, before starting their homework.

At least waiting for baby does have a predetermined end, unlike many things we wait for and chew our nails over in life. In two weeks, one way or another, I will be able to tie my own shoes again, walk without a waddle, and switch to my other side in bed without a three point turn.