Squall, On The Big Screen

Yesterday Husbeast and I went to the Big Hospital for our 12-week ultrasound! (This meant an early release from work for both of us, which was a marvelous little change from the usual.)

I will admit to you, ladies and gents, that I was a little nervous. What if there was something seriously wrong? What if the placenta was covering my cervix (placenta previa)? Not that it's a death sentence or anything, but I hate surgery. I'm very afraid of being cut open. What if, what if, what if?

As it turns out, Squall is growing nicely. S/he has all the necessary bits, and was easily as squirmy as his/her brother was, back in 2000. S/he did not want to be bothered or photographed or otherwise prodded. In fact, I'm quite certain I felt Squall kick the sonographer's wand several times, most likely in protest. S/he IS Husbeast's and my child, after all.

You know, after going through this process with me, three times, I kinda thought all this would be old-hat to Husbeast. But it turns out he didn't really pay attention during my pregnancies with Wiggle-Worm, Tempest and Nugget; so all this is completely new and fascinating. During the scan yesterday, he informed me and the sonographer - we'll call her the Raven-Haired Beauty, since she's done the last three scans - that he hadn't expected Squall to be this developed. Thought it would still be an amorphous blob. SURPRISE!

Lil Man has informed me that he hopes Squall is a boy, and that he plans to whisk the baby away to become his apprentice. He says that Squall will be named "Dude," will be born with the knowledge and motor control to care for himself, and that I will never see "Dude" again because he will become a little troglodyte in Lil Man's room.

Anyway; I'm sure the family (biological and otherwise) is anxious to see the photos, so I must oblige.

Here we have Squall in profile, just before s/he turned away:

Here we see Squall's tiny right foot:

Here we have a full-frontal, in which we get to see Squall's brain, left claw-like hand, and some other random bones which, being an accountant and not a sonographer, I can't be certain I can specify:

And one more wiggly profile:

Bleary-Eyed Post

Fair warning: Today’s blog post may be a little “off,” as Husbeast and I drove Lil Man to visit a friend not far outside Boston last night, and didn’t get home till 1:00 this morning.

I got to leave work early yesterday, to attend my first official, scheduled OB visit yesterday. Unfortunately Husbeast wasn’t able to come – I hadn’t given him enough notice for him to be able to request the afternoon off. But we agreed that I’d schedule appointments several months out, so he can go to the rest of them.

I’ll call the doctor I met yesterday, “Dr. Sweet.” This is not to imply that she’s anything less than highly professional and knowledgeable; but she was very reassuring and very compassionate, and that was the first thing that struck me. Don’t get me wrong; all of the doctors in OB at The Big Hospital are wonderful, but since I don’t use real names, I have to distinguish them somehow.

Anyway, Dr. Sweet went through my pregnancy history, asked about my spotting and said she’d check the size of my uterus. She mentioned that minor chorionic hemorrhage is not uncommon, and that as long as my uterus was still growing appropriately for gestational age, she wouldn’t worry overmuch. We talked about exercise, diet and appropriate weight gain for pregnancy, and she did a basic physical  and pelvic exam.

As it turns out, my uterus is about the size of a grapefruit – appropriate size for being ten weeks along – and my “What to Expect” app says that the Baby is about the size of a prune. We also discussed prenatal screenings for abnormalities (because of my age), and scheduled the blood work for it. I also have an ultrasound in two weeks, to check for development and nuchal translucency.

On my way out to the waiting room, I got a chance to chat with my friend, the Kickass Nerd, who works at the desk in OB. She's always so much fun, and so supportive and encouraging. I was also completely flattered to learn that she's read this blog! Whee! 

As I finished scheduling my appointments, I heard someone call my name. I turned around to find my friend BAMF, who’s due to have her baby in a couple weeks, standing right behind me! She’s an adorable, badass little preggosaur, who I’m confident will power through labor and delivery like a machine!

Roller Coaster Ride

What a rubbish, panicky month it’s been. No joke: It's been a total roller coaster, guys and dolls.

Not even two days after my last post, I started bleeding. Well, spotting really, as it turns out: but I panicked. I called the doctor and they said to lie down and rest, avoid lifting anything heavy and don’t overdo it. Of course, anyone who knows me knows I’m rubbish at sitting still for long, but I did as I was told.

The bleeding STILL hasn’t stopped (I'm nine weeks along); and I went to and from the emergency room and doctor’s appointments and been stuck in bed during the last two weeks (excluding this week.) I’ve had another ultrasound confirming Baby’s heartbeat which was good and strong, so that’s an upshot. We also confirmed that yes, my due date is exactly what I had calculated: February 15, 2017.

I cannot tell you what a horrid feeling it is to find yourself producing bright red blood when you’re not supposed to. The doctors have reassured me that as long as I’m not meeting a significant threshold, then it’s probably fine, and that plenty of women spot during their pregnancies. The problem is that I have NEVER, EVER spotted. I had a single scare with the last baby I birthed, but it resolved itself and that was the last of it.

I have an appointment on the 20^th with one of the younger OBs at the Big Hospital whom I have yet to meet in my various pregnancy adventures. I hope things slow up by then and I’m able to have a normal rest-of-my-pregnancy.

Husbeast and I have also decided that, given all these scares, we’re not going to try for a home birth after all. I’m sure that the midwives would tell me that this is not out of the normal range and that I’m still a good candidate, but I’ll feel much more at ease in the hospital, I think. Thankfully, hospitals here are much less intervention-happy than other states. They try to stick to a laboring woman’s birth plan as closely as they can; they don’t push drugs, and elective cesarean sections are absolutely out of the question.

More after my doctor’s appointment.

Catching Up

Wow; I guess I've been really, horribly remiss in keeping my little blog updated. Where to begin?

Clearly I did not get pregnant last August; else I'd have been posting long before now. We did have something of a (re)birth last summer though. Pooka informed us that she would like us to refer to her in the masculine. Therefore "Pooka" is now "Lil Man," and I shall henceforth refer to my child using the pronouns: he, him and his.

Back in February we nearly lost Catbutt to hepatic lipidosis, or fatty liver disease. We had taken on a foster kitten for a friend who needed a temporary home for this cat, and a several-evenings-a-week babysitter for her giant, snuggly, adorable American bulldog. How could we say no? Anyway, Catbutt (aka. Catbutt Fatbutt, aka Fatty - yes, his name really is Catbutt. He chose it.) really liked Pickles the cat. Pickles, however, did not like Fatty. Her human found another human who we all agreed would be a fantastic match for Pickles (and we were right), so in Pickles' best interest, we re-homed her.

Unfortunately this led Fatty into a legitimate depression. He stopped eating. Neither Husbeast nor Lil Man nor I noticed, as we all assumed that one of the other two were feeding him each morning. Finally his weight loss became visible, and we rushed him to the vet. He was prescribed anti-nausea pills and special treats to encourage him to eat. No dice. He wasn't having it. We were referred to a specialty clinic for ultrasound, where we were told that yes, he had hepatic lipidosis. Another doctor came to meet with me and offered several treatment plans; all with ASTRONOMICAL price tags. Tearfully, I had to refuse the doctor.

Now here's the really disgusting part: When I refused both treatment plans, the doctor asked in a tone I can only describe as callous, "Do you want me to just take him out back and euthanize him for you, then?" Lil Man was out of town, and Husbeast was at work. Appalled, I told her no, that we needed to prepare Lil Man for this, and have time to say goodbye.

Several days later and with heavy hearts, Husbeast and I packed Fatty into his carrier for one last car ride. Our regular vet's staff were supportive and sympathetic as they led us into the exam room. When the vet came in with Fatty's chart in hand, he asked, "I'm sorry if this comes out the wrong way, but why are you putting Catbutt down?" We explained that the specialist had told us that Fatty was dying and that the only hope for him was a feeding tube in the side of his neck, which was going to cost multiple thousands of dollars, and only had a 20-30% chance of actually saving him. The vet balked and said he could do the same procedure for a literal fraction of that cost, and that his chances of survival were actually quite good.

Relieved beyond words, we agreed and I brought him in the next day for surgery. Over the next (I don't actually know how long, but it seemed like months), Husbeast and I took turns feeding him every 4-5 hours, cleaning up the vomit when he couldn't handle the liquefied food, taking him to the emergency vet when the tube insertion site got infected, and fretting over whether or not he would actually recover.

The vet suggested, as we neared the end of his recovery period, that Fatty might do well to be given a new companion; to encourage him to eat, to stay active and to keep him from being lonely. An old friend who works at the emergency vet's office mentioned that she knew of a one-eyed kitten that needed a home. Being HUGE fans of Terry Pratchett and envisioning Nanny Ogg's cat Greebo, we eagerly agreed to meet the kitten and see if she was a good match for us. She was, but she's definitely no Greebo. This little miss is most DEFINITELY a prissy princess with her floofy tail and her prim and proper way of doing everything. Husbeast and I call her Small Cat (to which she responds), and Lil Man calls her Hime (hee-may, which is Japanese for Princess; to which she also responds.) She has been hugely therapeutic for Fatty, who is now really living up to his nickname.

In other news...

Lil Man has just finished up his sophomore year in high school (how the hell did that happen?), and will be starting a graphic arts and design program at the local Tech Center. He's very excited, as apparently it's not easy to be accepted into this particular school. Husbeast and I are so proud of him, and can't wait to see what kind of amazing artwork he comes up with next year!

I left my job at the State, for a position with a private sector company nearer to home. Wow, what a mistake. They're really a fabulous company, but I am just not wired to get excited about corporate profit. I'm built for public service, so I start a new job tomorrow with an adult education program - counting beans as usual, but I'm breathing a huge sigh of relief to be back in a service-oriented position again.

Oh... And I'm pregnant. Finally.

Last Saturday (the 18th), I got up around 6:30 to use the loo and had noted a decided lack of menses for a couple weeks. Having had more disheartening negative tests than I'd care to discuss over the last year-plus, I was loathe to get my hopes up. I was just about to toss the home pregnancy test in the trash and give it up as another "no," when I noticed a second pink line in the window. Shrieking, I ran to the bedroom and jumped on the bed, startling the hell out of Husbeast. We snuggled for a bit before we had to get up and go to our respective jobs (Right! I forgot to mention: I left my previous second job as well, took a couple months off and then wound up picking up a weekend gig at a similar place - we have way too much fun there). Something else went wrong around 11:00 that morning and I had to rush out in a hurry.

Saturday night I started having some significant pelvic pain on my right side. I had been told to lay low and take it easy for the rest of the weekend, but I made an appointment to see the OB's at the Big Hospital on Monday morning anyway.

Monday morning, Husbeast and I got up early and headed in for an ultrasound. The tech found a massive Corpus Luteum Cyst on my right ovary. (I learned something new already! The Corpus Luteum Cyst grows from the ovary that produced the now-fertilized egg, and secretes progesterone to maintain the uterine lining until the placenta develops to support the embryo in the uterus.)

What the ultrasound tech DIDN'T find, was an embryo.

The doctor sent me downstairs for blood work to test for beta hCG (pregnancy hormone) levels. Now, for reference: my initial levels around this time[ish] for Wiggle Worm were 563. For Tempest they were 89. For Nugget they were 176. Last Monday, my beta hCG levels were 1,700. Needless to say, there was no doubt that I was pregnant.

The question was: Was the pregnancy too small to see just yet, or was it ectopic (in the fallopian tube, and therefore not one that could continue, else it could kill me)?

Husbeast assured me that it was just too small to see and that all would be well. But what did he know? To him, the entire female reproductive system is "magic and pixie ducks." So of course I spent all day Monday and much of Tuesday in a panic, thinking that the pain just inside my right hip bone was an ectopic pregnancy.

Wednesday morning arrived, and I went in for blood work at 7:00. My hCG levels came back 3,615 - more than double the value of the previous 48 hours. This was a good sign, but the doctor still wanted me to come back in for another ultrasound.

This time, not only did we see the embryo, but I got to see the "fetal pole:" what amounts to the beginnings of the brain and spinal column. This put me at about 5 weeks gestation, according to the doc. By that calculation, I should be due the day after Valentine's Day.

Husbeast and I met with a potential home birth midwife yesterday, and she puts me due around February 22, because my normal cycles are around 33 days, not the expected 28 that most women have. We have a confirmation of heartbeat ultrasound scheduled for July 6, and that may help us nail down a date a bit more solidly. I'll keep you all posted.

In the meantime, check out the beginnings of Baby!

P.S. Lil Man was not excited in the slightest by the prospect of gaining a sibling when we were in the "trying" stage, but now that this is a thing he's been extremely attentive and very sweet to me. I love my boy, and I'm so lucky to have him.

Dropped Shoes

Ladies and gentlemen, I do apologize for the long hiatus. Pumping and commuting and working and family things have kept me insanely busy since February, then not too long after I stopped pumping I picked up a second job which takes up plenty of time four days a week on top of my usual five day work week.

Anyway, Husbeast and I started “trying” back in April. Thinking things picked right up, I got my hopes right up around the stratosphere, figuring I was definitely pregnant when I still hadn’t had a cycle by the end of May. All the tests I was taking came up negative though. I called my OB and was told to give it a couple more weeks and if I still hadn’t had a menses, to make an appointment to be seen. Well wouldn’t you know it: Within two days I had physical proof that I was not indeed pregnant. Talk about a letdown.

Not to be deterred for long though, we continued our efforts to conceive through June and into July. Once again, I found myself “late” on my cycle – at least according to the tracker application on my phone. Six days and numerous negative pregnancy tests later, my body once again proved that no, here was evidence of absolutely no pregnancy.

Husbeast assured me that we just needed to keep trying (I think cause he enjoys the process), and it’ll happen. So here I am thirteen days late, two negative tests sitting in the bathroom trash at home, wondering what on earth is going on. I read last night that it can sometimes take until the day after a missed cycle for the embryo to implant, which means that beta hCG levels won’t be easily detectable as early, but I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

This Cow's Getting Excited!

It’s official: I’m starting to get really excited about carrying Husbeast’s baby. Not that I wasn’t before – it was more of an abstract concept, is all. Now that the time to start “trying” approaches, it’s becoming more real. I’m starting to think about things we’ll need to reacquire, since Pooka has been our one and only and she hasn’t been a baby for so long, we have absolutely nothing for an infant. Well, except for a pack of Batman pajamas and onesies given to me when I was pregnant with Wiggle Worm, by the magnificent Xaotl.

My mother suggested that Auntie Badass might have our old family crib, but we’re still in an apartment and it’ll be a couple more years before we can even think about buying a house. So I’m thinking I may take the door off my little closet office and make that into a miniature nursery. The walls are close enough together that I could easily build a “floating” crib with storage underneath it, and still fit a rocking chair in there for feeding and soothing.

Of course, Nugget’s mum has already said she can’t wait to start buying me things, and I really don’t doubt it. She loves to spoil me. I don’t know if I want an awful lot of new things though, since babies tend to outgrow things pretty quickly, and many of my friends are procreating these days and can provide hand-me-downs which I can in turn pass on to people who need them. I’m also big into simplicity and saving space, so rather than a free-standing high chair, for example, I’d prefer to have one of the kind that straps into a regular dining chair. (Pooka’s high chair was ALWAYS in the way. Drove me NUTS.)

I’m toying with the idea of buying a pack of diapers or wipes here and there, so that when the time comes, I have a ton of them. I have a cousin who did the cloth diaper thing and while I admire that and suspect it was probably better for her babies’ bums, we just don’t have that kind of time.

Back on the topic of surrogacy: I did the math, and I’m averaging around 2.5 gallons of milk being shipped to Mum, Dad and Nugget every week.

(25 bags @ 13 oz per bag = 325 oz  / 128 oz per gallon = 2.54 gallons per week)

Sometimes it’s more than 25 bags, but it’s never less these days. Last week was 2.84 gallons (28 bags). So yeah. Still a cow.

MOOOOOOOOOOO.

I'm A Cow.

Tomorrow will be fifteen weeks since I gave birth to Nugget. How is he almost four months old already? Man, I guess time does fly. I suppose part of it could be the fact that I’ve turned myself into a Holstein. I don’t go more than a couple miles away from home without my trusty Medela Symphony breast pump.

That’s right, Dear Reader: If you don’t wanna read embarrassing and amusing anecdotes involving “the girls,” (even if I only use vague references and insinuations) stop reading now. If you find my self-abasing humor appealing, however: Do continue.

Back when we were first putting together the contract to start the process of bringing Nugget into being, we discussed the possibility of me expressing milk for the baby. I had no issues with doing so, but I was not about to agree to the task without it being written into the contract. Wiggle Worm and Tempest’s dad wanted me to pump for Wiggle Worm for a few days while he waited for her to be released from the hospital, and I did so. Except that he was in a hurry to get her home, and never came to collect what I had expressed. And because I was using a boiled (and therefore sterile) but not hospital-grade container in which to store it, no one else would take it. This led to engorgement, which HURTS. Oh my god, does it hurt. And you can’t express more, or your body will MAKE more, and that just perpetuates the whole mess.

Anyway, it got written into the contract, and Dad made all the necessary arrangements for me to get ahold of the aforementioned pump so I wouldn’t have to do it by hand. I’ve since come to refer to him as my “Lactation Supply Genie.” I type what I need into my phone and a day or so later it shows up at my house! Ta-da!

So originally I started pumping every four hours, on the nose. And by “every four hours,” I mean four hours from start to start – kinda like contractions. 6:00 am, 10:00 am, 2:00 pm, 6:00 pm, 10:00 pm and 2:00 am. It was not conducive to sleep.

Once I got back to work full-time (my boss let me do some work from home so I wouldn’t get bored), I shifted my schedule a little: 1:00, 9:00 and 5:00. Except then I started having to take the bus to work, which is three hours combined every day. And trying to get up in the middle of the night was not working for me. So now I pump at 4:00 am, 9:00 am, 1:30ish pm, 6:30ish pm and 10:00 pm. This allows me about four and a half hours of sleep (three complete REM cycles) per night. I know it’s not much sleep, but by sleeping in 90-minute increments (one REM cycle per 90 minutes), I don’t wake up exhausted. So there’s that.

It takes me 30-40 minutes to finish pumping at any given sitting, and I usually get at least eight ounces each time. That’s eight ounces total; four ounces per side (except at 4:00 – then I usually get at least twelve total, and it takes closer to an hour). Unlike the other two ambidextrous lactating ladies I know, I cannot double-pump. I’ve even tried a double-pumping bustier, ordered for me by the Lactation Genie. I swear that thing HAD to have been invented by a man. The holes for the pump’s horns are at most, eight inches away from each other, right on the front of the bustier. I’m sorry Medela, but NO ONE naturally falls to the front. Not a single woman on the planet. And even if by some strange chance, one of us did, she’d have to be no older than seven for the spacing to work.

Anyway, one of the difficulties of strictly pumping over nursing directly is that with pumping, there’s no saliva there to keep the ducts moist and therefore clear. So I often have to stop and use a rough cloth to clear the ends of the ducts. In order to do this, I need to see what I’m doing. You’d think that after almost four months, I’d have figured out a way to NOT spray myself in the face at least once a day, but NOPE. Not me. I surprise myself every single time. It’s okay. You can laugh. I would. In fact, I do. It’s funny.

Oh! And in spraying myself in the face, I accidentally learned something new about me: I am a true Vermonter - my roots grow deep in the soil of the Green Mountain State. I am also apparently a maple tree. Now, I am not the kind of person who's comfortable with the idea of trying my own consumable bodily fluids, but one day I "got" myself in the face while my mouth was open. Apparently my milk tastes like maple sap. No joke.  

The lovely thing about pumping at work is that my boss gives me absolutely no guff about it. I take my work laptop down to the Lactation Room (renamed “The Milking Parlor” by one of my wittier coworkers. Those of us using the room have begun referring to it as simply “The Parlor” for the sake of office etiquette) and work while I pump. When I asked if I could work during these breaks, my boss actually laughed at me – not because she wasn’t going to allow it, but because I was worried about taking too much time off during the day to do it. Granted, I’m not one to dawdle when there’s work to be done, so it’s not like I’m falling behind for it, but still.

This will all continue through the end of March – with the daily facials and visits to The Milking Parlor – after which, Husbeast and I will start trying for a second kiddo. Stay tuned – soon you may see a post something to the effect of, “I’m pregnant, and it’s actually mine this time!”