The Birth - Wait, NOW?

I'm going to have to jump forward in time, since time is passing by too fast and I don't want to forget things...

The next day Putiputi, Beau and I were given a tour of the Newborn Intensive Care Unit (NICU). It's something I really wanted to do, but I was surprised by the effect it had on me. It was deeply sad and sobering. Here I'd been lying in my bed a few floors up, gnashing my teeth at the thought of cooling my heels for two more weeks, and now I was in this ward with all these babies hooked up to tubes and needles and oxygen with blue lights and beeping machines. It was awful and I started crying right there. What a dick I am. I'll hold her in for two more weeks myself, even if I have to use duct tape.

Well, so much for that. The next morning I awoke at 6am, drenched. And not drenched in sweat. It was like my water had broken for a second time, which was weird...since it was...uhhh already broken and had been (sorry for the TMI) leaking non-stop for the past few days. So, there I was, now sitting in my own little mess. I was confused.

Then I felt a cramp...better known as a contraction, the weak kind. Hrm. I went to the bathroom and saw a small bit of blood. Uh oh.

*DING*

I rang for the nurse and informed her of the now increasing (though still weak) contractions and my personal jacuzzi. She was all laid-back, told me it was no big deal, changed some sheets, and had me sit back down. She said she'd call the doctor though, just in case.

Days later I learned that this same cool and collected nurse had been racing up and down the corridor in a mild freak-out after my ring. She had just put on that poker face for me.

Then a young Indian woman walked in, announced that she was the doctor and asked to check me. A few very intimate moments later she said, "Two centimeters. Right. And your baby is breech and eight weeks early. I'm going to take you down to the delivery suite and we're going to have a c-section right now."

RIGHT NOW?

And in a blur of minutes, Beau was called to get his ass over to the hospital pronto (he was in the hospital dorm room), and I was being wheeled to "theatre" (surgery). By now, the contractions had gone from bad period cramps to, well, CONTRACTIONS. And they were coming REAL close together. But the weird thing was...they were also alright. Okay, I don't mean like, that they tickled or that they weren't a big deal, cause they fucking sucked, but I guess I was expecting something excruciating. But do note: I'd only been going through them for about an hour. Looking back, I know if I was one of these women who had to endure those things for 8, 10, 12+++ hours, I might just have to stab someone.

This was when things got comical. Prepping me for surgery (and Beau all dressed up too), and having me sit up on the gurney, a myriad of staff began materializing before my eyes, one by one, introducing themselves and what their role would be. The contractions were now full-on and VERY close, and all my concentration was on trying to breathe through them instead of screaming or holding my breath. Then people starting coming up to me (notably, the anesthesiologist), with consent and release forms. And they were explaining them to me, asking me questions, and handing me a pen to sign with DURING THE CONTRACTIONS. At the peak of the contractions, all I heard anyway was the echo of Charlie Brown's teacher...WAU WAU..WA WAU WA....

Are you fucking kidding me? I was so cross-eyed and exhausted and in pain, I would have signed a consent form to join Al-Qaeda at that moment. I could hardly hold the pen and signing something someone is holding up in the air isn't exactly easy anyway.

A couple of times someone would pause and say, "Oh, I guess we'll wait for this contraction to end before we continue."

Yeah, thanks.

I remember being quite frightened because I knew the anesthesiologist was about to prick me in the back and the contractions were coming so close together that my whole body would shake, and that somehow he'd prick the wrong part of my spine and that'd be it. Shit, I'd already signed the consent form, he could leave me a drooling stupid mess and I couldn't do a thing about it.

I felt several pricks and then a longer one and he was done. Then my toes started to tingle, and that was a good thing. It wasn't long before the surgery then began. I was awake, but there was a sheet up. I couldn't see much, but I really didn't want to. I thought puking at the birth of my daughter might be in bad form.

Almost immediately, I heard the doctor say, "It's a girl," which I already knew, but was still kind of cool. Beau, who all along had steadfastly stated he was not going to be anywhere but right at my head, eyes averted, at the birth, (back when we assumed it was going to be a natural one), now couldn't help himself and was stealing glances at the surgery. Jiffy Pop's butt came out first, and then began a bunch of tugs and twists as they tried to pry her loose from my body.

I know, ew.

Beau said that it was "actually pretty cool" after all. I looked down at just the right moment to see her being lifted up and away from my body. At that second, I saw one giant blue eye peering straight at me.

And then she was gone.

The doctors then went on with closing me up, and I remember my thought at the time was, "How can she hold a needle and thread to sew me up with such massively bloody hands?" She seemed to be covered in blood. I know, again, ew.

I then heard a very short cry from somewhere behind me, and then I began to cry.

Several minutes more, and then a woman approached me with Jiffy Pop wrapped all up and held her right up to my face, so close that I couldn't really see her, though I tried. The lady said, "Give her a kiss before we take her away," and I did. Then she was gone again.

It would take the doctors twice as long to stitch me up as it did to pull her out. I had started this whole business at 6am that morning, and she emerged at 7:55am. I guess I don't get to ever brag about the great pain of childbirth if my contractions lasted less than 2 hours.

During that whole time, I had two men as bookends on either side of my head. One was a Kiwi, and one a Scot. I'm not sure what their true roles were there in surgery, though one claimed he was basically just there to keep everything happy and running smoothly. So, I guess he was either a boss, or a circus clown. They were both really funny though, and as the woman surgeon continued to stitch me up, they were chatting amiably with me, mostly about movies, comedies in particular. (At this time, Beau was gone, following the baby to Intensive Care).

The three of us were laughing, quoting and imitating certain movies and characters. I asked the Scottish man what he thought of the comedian Mike Meyer's impersonation of a Scot, like in all the Austin Powers movies, or my favorite, in "So I Married an Axe Murderer." He said the Scots LOVE it and think it's awesome, especially since it's pretty authentic since Mike Meyer's mom is Scottish.

I was having so much fun talking to these guys, I was almost sad when it was over. They both told me the same -- what a great time they'd had. One said, "Yeah, most mothers just want to talk about their baby and NOTHING else."

Oops. --guilt-- I hadn't really asked ANYTHING about my baby. I kind of assumed she was being taken care of 'til I could see her. Erm, bad Mom!

After she was born, Jiffy Pop had a little trouble breathing, but in a very short time she started breathing on her own. That same day, she was moved from the critical room in NICU to the 7th room in NICU. the last one babies end up in before going home. Yay! Beau said, "She moved in with all the big kids."

It was awful to see so many wires coming out of my tiny baby -- for this or for that, or that stupid blue light for jaundice, but they took (take) VERY good care of her 24/7, so it's hard to complain. She weighed in at 4lbs, which they said was a good size for how early she was.

And she's been kicking ass and taking names ever since. :)

Same-Day Delivery and People Get Annoying

This morning the lady carrying twins woke up with a strained face. She was quickly attended to by the nurses, rushed off, and just a couple hours later had given birth to her twins. WOAH! She had already been at the hospital for the past two weeks and was expecting another seven weeks *gasp* of languishing in the "lay and wait" state we were all in. But nature is nature, and me and Putiputi were shocked to see such a rapid turn of events and stared stupidly as the nurses packed up the woman's things and slowly pulled her kids' drawings from the wall.

"You're next, you know," Putiputi said. "It's by bed, and the girl in my bed went before her," she said, nodding toward the Twins' mother's vacant bed.

I found this comment strangely reassuring. Supposedly, Jiffy Pop was out of danger (well, in about 24 hours after the steroids and antibiotics had done their thing). This was the best preemie place in the country, she could come out now, right? Hmm, no, the longer inside, the better. Still, I was envious of the Twins' mother at that moment.

Joy of joys, Beau showed up, earlier than I thought he would, and holy hell did his face look good to me. I got up on my knees and reached out to him for a big hug. He was rolling in a small suitcase packed thick with clothes, toiletries, and a laptop. Hooray! He had to leave shortly thereafter though to find the hotel and get me some food (I was starving in this fucking place).

The Twins' mother did make an appearance a few hours later. Her whanau (family) had come en masse, crowding her room and performing Maori prayers. It was pretty touching. She stopped by our room on her way out, her arm slung casually around one of her daughter's shoulders. She reported that the twins were fine, breathing, but that they'd be in intensive care for about 10 weeks 'til they developed more. She looked calm, happy and tired and just wanted to get home. We bid her well and she was gone.

And then there were two.

But not for long. Shortly thereafter a young Indian woman was rolled in. She was quiet and kept to herself, which was fine. It would be several hours yet before she would begin to annoy me. Someone else took that position first.

A nurse walked in and said that since we had the only TV, that another woman on the floor asked if she could come in and watch it with us. Sure, no problem. About an hour later, a tiny woman clutching a huge belly walked in, perhaps in her late teens or early twenties. Emma was very talkative right from the start, which for some reason, I've always found annoying when you first meet someone. I kind of feel like you should ease into new acquaintances, have some gentle small talk, find common ground, etc. (I always wait a good period of time before I unleash my wicked sense of humor on new work colleagues)..

But Emma's brash communication skills were off and running. She was at 35 weeks but had a congenital heart defect which made her delivery dangerous. She stated how much she wanted to see Shortland Street, a half-hour Kiwi show, and the only "soap opera" I watch, so I was cool with that. Well, she spent the entire half hour blah blah blahing, continually walking and stopping in front of me (totally blocking my view and the sound of the TV), and then asked to use my cellphone to call our mutual phone carrier. I paused at this, since I have a shitty little, pay-as-you go phone which ferociously sucks minutes away, but I was hoping that her call was toll-free. Still, as she paced back and forth, berating the customer service person, I bit my lip anxiously ticking away the minutes in my head.

Apparently she had some sort of $12.50/month plan, but since she had only paid $10 on it, she was not able to actually use the phone service. This sent her into a rage at the telephone company, telling them she couldn't afford more than $10/month (then why do you have a fucking cellphone, woman!?). And since it's impossible to just "top up" $2.50 (you can do it in increments of $10 at any gas station or convenience store), she was sent further into a rage. "Nice service!" she snapped at him before hanging up and handing me back my phone, thanking me and stomping out. She would return shortly afterwards with another lady in tow to chat some more.

Blessedly, she eventually left, we were served our crap-ass, small-portioned dinner, which I could barely eat anyway since it was chock-a-block with onions and the menu I'd given them stating "NO ONIONS" in obnoxious print wouldn't go into effect until the next day. I couldn't take it anymore, I was so damn hungry, so I went upstairs to the cafeteria and bought some more food, including some interesting-looking Israeli couscous (but sadly, bland) and began devouring it back in my bed. Minutes later, Beau appeared, bearing two large plastic containers of Indian takeaway. OH MY GOD! I LOVE HIM! Screw this couscous, HOORAY!

I noshed and noshed until my body was screaming for me to stop, though my head kept saying, More more! Ahhhh wonderful food. Even Beau, who sadly I've never been able to convince of the joys of Indian food said, "This is the best I've ever had." There's still hope for him.

As we were sitting there chatting quietly, I heard a noise. My first thought was there was a little girl in the hallway whining or crying. Beau's brow furrowed and he looked around. We both then realized the fast-paced, high-pitched stream was coming from behind the curtained off bed where the Indian woman lay, apparently talking on her cellphone. Beau looked utterly confused. Was she crying, upset, or was that her actual talking voice? I shrugged. The voice was stunning - it kind of reminded me of a typical sit-com voice that they give to their bimbo characters when they're upset, kind of like Chrissie on Three's Company having a weepy meltdown. It was pretty over-the-top. The woman had to be about 30, but sounded 5 years old. I'm not kidding.

Eventually, Beau had to leave to go to the hotel for the night and I very happily laid down to sleep. I hadn't really slept much the first night, and happily, got comfortable and tired quickly this night. I slept for a few hours...until...

Chaos. The Indian woman's voice broke me from a sleep as she was in utter panic mode. Her water broke. Instead of pushing the "Call-Nurse" button on her bed, she had been jamming repeatedly the "Cancel-Call" button, so naturally, getting no response from the staff.

Oh, and this is another weird thing - at night the whole place is dark, and the nurses walk around the hallways with flashlights, bringing them to your bed to do their duties in its thin beam. Weird, but I guess an effort to not be disturbing to others. The first night I thought there was a blackout or something. So, staring ahead at the curtained-off Indian woman, I saw the beam of the flashlight bounce around as the nurse attempted to soothe the bleeting woman.

This drama continued on for the next two hours, with the woman banging in and out of the bathroom, the light shining in my face. Once I learned it wasn't an emergency, but more of a panic attack, I tried to get back to sleep, but now my mind was racing and the constant noise from the other bed wasn't making slumber any easier. I tossed and turned and finally just gave up, got up, and asked the nurse if there was a common room I could go to to write on my computer (didn't want its bright light to disturb Putiputi's sleep).

The nurse graciously led me to where I sit now, a vacant patient room where I've been typing away for about the last hour and a half, recalling all this detail. She was even nice enough to bring me my medication and do all my vitals here. I'm finally starting to feel a little tired and I've written pages and pages of this in Wordpad, so I guess it's time to wrap it up for now. I'm sure there'll be more to tell in this coming day....which has already started!

One Day, Three Hospitals

"You're going up north to the Waikato Hospital. All preemies cases go there -- and you're not allowed to be here in this hospital until you at least 34 weeks."

Argh! The great blessing of NZ healthcare is that it's basically free. The shitty thing is that it doesn't have quite the infrastructure and services of America, and because of this, I was now waiting for another ambulance to come and get me and take me another 3 hours north to the other hospital. Keep in mind, this will be a 4 1/2 hour drive from our home back in the bush. Not exactly convenient for Beau, especially since it was the last week of the school year. He had to turn around and go back to take care of stuff, like telling his job he wasn't going to finish out the week, finishing up some vital school reports, boarding the dog, cleaning stuff from the house (dirty dishes, laundry I'd need, etc.), and packing me a more realistic bag, including this laptop. We were repeatedly told that there was funding for this -- that because of our great distance to the hospital, there would be a hospital hotel for him to stay in for free and gas vouchers for the long drive.

So, with a nurse and incubator to accompany my ride, we drove off north to Hamilton. I was level with the windows and spent half the time gazing out of them and half the time snoozing. I wasn't really frightened, but certainly anxious. Basically, I had been told at the previous hospital, what I would continue to be told over the next few days:

We're pumping you with steroids for the baby's lungs, anti-labor pills to keep you from going into labor, frequently testing your blood sugar (I had been diagnosed with borderline gestational diabetes a little over a week before), taking out blood, and giving you scans and exams. And lots of antiobiotics, since infection is a serious and scary risk right now. But really, what you need to do is lay in this bed and do nothing for at least the next two weeks. At that point we'll probably ship you back to the previous hospital where they can deal with you.

Oh, and there's no TV in your room or WiFi for your laptop (which I didn't have yet anyway). Or privacy (you'll have 2 other roommates).

ARGH. Okay, I know, the biggest thing here is Jiffy Pop - the baby. And don't think I didn't know this and think of it constantly. I even had them put me on the monitor twice a day instead of once, just for reassurance that she was okay, since her reliably active and constant movements had greatly diminished. I'd pretty much walk through fire if they told me it'd help her come out healthy. But the thought of active, ADD-multi-tasking me somehow sitting in a narrow hospital bed for at LEAST two weeks doing nothing but reading magazines and trying to sleep the time away made my skin just fucking crawl. I knew in the end, obviously, I'd do it, but the thought of it made me inwardly freak out.

My two roommates turned out to be pretty cool. Both Maori women in their 20's with several previous pregnancies between them, they were both calm and friendly. They both had their water break too, but were sadly, about 5 weeks behind me in development. To make matters worse, one of them was carrying twins, who at this point were tiny. We chatted a lot, and I found out both women's previous pregnancies were preemies too, pregnancies that had not been fun or easy. I asked the twins' mother what she was having.

"A boy and a girl. And I'm really relieved, because my husband said if these were girls too, we'd try again since he really wants a boy to carry on his name."

!!!!

"Yeah, my husband was really glad this one's a boy," said the other woman, Putiputi, patting her stomach. "Still, I told him this was the last baby I want to have, that I'm done. (She's also had multiple miscarriages). He just said, 'Let's wait and see...I'd like more.'"

Both women shook their heads. "They don't get it," said the Twins' mother. "They don't understand what we go through."

Around this time I learned from the receptionist that my application for travel assistance for Beau had been rejected by the previous hospital (since they're the ones who sent me here, technically they are the ones who pay). I was shocked, and a bit pissed off. Why?

"Well, they said for one, you're not far enough away. You have to be at least 350km away. Secondly, they said they're broke and have no money for you anyway."

Technically, we're about 298km away from the hospital. It's a FOUR AND A HALF HOUR FUCKING DRIVE! Do I have to be in Australia and row over to qualify for this? Besides, since they were the ones who decided to send me here, they were supposed to be responsible for paying for it. How was I ever supposed to see Beau, for what could be anywhere from 2-7 weeks in this hospital, so far from home. I'd really go crazy. They told me the birth could still happen at any time, and if Beau was back home, could he make it in time? I'd really hate to have to do it alone. I needed him there.

This hung heavy over me until later when my doctor came to see me. A nurse accompanying her heard the story and blew up. "What? Who are they kidding!? They can't reject you! It's a national program, they don't have the power to refuse a national government program. Besides, none of us hospitals have money, we're broke too, you just have to pay it. That's how it works. That's why money is round, it just goes around and around from hospital to hospital."

She then basically instructed the doctor to turn to the application which was there in my file and sign it immediately so we could send it off and tell the other hospital to suck shit. The doctor obediently complied. I wanted to kiss this nurse. Hard.

"It's probably your accent," she sniffed, "They hear an accent and they think you're some foreigner trying to get money off of them. You're permanent residents, you're just as entitled to this reimbursement as any Kiwi is." About a half hour later she brought me a stamped envelope and said, "Tomorrow when you see the social worker about this, make sure she does her thing and then send this off immediately. Tell your husband to turn in his receipts at the end of the week at our desk and get his reimbursement."

Again, LOVING her.

This statement alarmed me a bit, not just because of the implied xenophobia or whatever, but because the hospitals in New Zealand are one of the most diverse enivornments I have ever experienced. Nearly every single nurse or doctor you see is from a different country. In the last 24 hours alone I've been seen by a Scot, a Malaysian, an Egyptian, an Indian woman, an Englishwoman, a South African, and oh yeah, some Kiwis too.

Anyway, back to my room. One bright light was that we had a TV with choppy reception and no *sigh* cable. I talked to my roommates a lot, I read magazines, watched TV, fumed over a Suduko book I'd bought, and I simply waited for Beau to turn up.

The timing of all this sucked for other reasons. One, was our car was up for its "warrant" which is a ridiculously stupid thing you have to do here every six months. You have to get the car checked out, top to bottom, from the engine to the brake lights, and if ONE tiny thing is wrong, they'll fail you, you can't get your new warrant, can't legally drive your car, and have to fix all repairs and have it re-checked again. Since this was our "new" car, we thought it'd sail through the check, but were shocked to find a list of tiddly shit that needed to be fixed - CAR FAIL. This all had to be done within 2 weeks or we'd have to start the process all over. Oh, and the tire we had bought to pass our LAST warrant just six months prior, was deemed unsafe for driving and had to be replaced and the wheels realigned. Tire Bastards. We had planned to have the car fixed on Wednesday and then travel to the next town on Saturday to get it all approved.

But all my shit went down on Tuesday. Nice timing, J.

So, after taking care of things back home, Beau had to make about 5 stops in 3 towns on his way to see me: get the car fixed, re-checked, and other stuff like dropping the dog off at the boarder, and get his fitting appointment for his new glasses, etc. Then come here to Hamilton, a fairly large city we are not at all familiar with, and navigate his way around here...

Who Pulled the Plug on My Bathtub?!

I'm the first to admit that I have not enjoyed pregnancy all that much. I've been extremely excited for the arrival of Jiffy Pop - a thought that doesn't leave my mind for very long at any given time, but the overall pregnancy experience hasn't been the joy I was hoping for.

Still.

I didn't have any doubt that I was going to make it to that February 1st due date. Most of my focus has been on the labor and birth itself and how I'm going to get through that. I've already had a "birth plan" in my head and felt pretty comfortable with it. Still, one day I feel completely up for natural childbirth, no matter the pain, telling myself it'll be like getting one of my tattoos - pretty awful pain, but one that you know will have a reward and an ending, even if it seems far away while you're gritting your teeth and trying to be tough. The next day I'll feel as if, honestly, I'm just a big fucking baby and I am going to be begging for drugs. And then reminding myself that there's no shame since no one wins awards for natural childbirth anyway.

Oh well.

Two days ago, a little after 5am, I woke up to discover my water had broke. Uh oh. I was "officially" at 31 weeks, 4 days (my anal timetable had me at exactly 32 weeks, but it's not like I'm a midwife or obstetrician or anything, hrmph). Anyway, the point is, that's not good when the goal is 40 weeks. WIth a call to the midwife, Beau and I were frantically, and confusedly, packing a bag. "What do we pack? WIll this be long? Underwear...and...what? A toothbrush?" Then we were off to the nearest town where the midwife and the "hospital" (medical waystation) was. And just to add to the grossness, I thought when your water broke, it was one big splash and it was over. Nope. Despite the drama of its initial bursting, it's like suddenly being an incontinent senior citizen who just finished downing 6 cups of tea. And it doesn't. Stop.
.
I like for each of my blogs to have a little grossness in it. There's probably more coming up... :)

We spent a short time at the waystation with the midwife where we basically waited for the ambulance to come and get me. Good thing I wasn't really in labor, cause I could have delivered before they showed up. Anyway, the midwife and I (with Beau following in the car) made the 30+ minute drive to the next town that actually had a hospital. We chatted about things, especially books, and (you'll like this, Jenn and Andrea), one of the first things she said to me was, "Have you ever read an author named Diana Gabaldon?"

Have I? Well, let me just tell you! This was the author that I had read passionately for a few years, then became one of the series that I would read aloud to Beau in the car during our long road trips. In fact, we are currently on the mammoth tome, The Fiery Cross, which was in the car at that very moment.

Anyway, we got to the hospital and I spent the next few hours being constantly stabbed, filled with medication, examined (painfully), and stabbed again. Blood was taken out, steroids were injected, and the labor pains were halted. Oh, and they stuck one of those awful permanent I.V. lines into my hand which I HATE because they just hurt all the time. It didn't help that the nurse poked a very sizeable (and bruise-inducing) hole in my hand before giving up and getting two more nurses to come in and help her do it again. And in a weird twist, I was DESPERATELY hungry, hungry like I had never remembered being hungry before. They said it was most likely due to the fact that since all the water had drained out of me from the amniotic sac, that now my stomach was sort of free and able to express its emptiness a bit better. I was ravenous, but wasn't allowed to eat.

Then came the next bit of news...

I Put What, Where?

The second and final Maori birthing class finally came. The only snag was my midwife called up the night before and said since my initial gestational diabetes test showed my sugar levels as "slightly elevated" so I was going to have to go into the mini-hospital and take the more advanced (read: annoying/disgusting) test the next day before my class began.

So, I fasted the night before, and the next morning we drove to the hospital where they immediately took my blood. (Beau left to attend the beginning of the class without me).

Then she plopped down the infamous bottle. The first time I did this test it was a small bottle of clear liquid that tasted like flat Sprite. Not pleasant, but no big tragedy. This time the bottle was twice as big, the liquid was green, thick, and tasted like I was sucking straight Sprite syrup, with no dilution. GAG! Oh, and it was room temperature, just to add to its utter deliciousness. Every couple minutes the phlebotomist would look at me and chirp, "Almost done?" and I'd croak, "Almost," with my eyes watering and my jedi mind tricks focusing on not puking it back up.

But, I got it down, and she announced that soon I would be feeling very sleepy from the hyper-injection of sugar into my body (couldn't they have given me some old-fashioned Lick-Em/Dip-Em Sticks instead?). She very kindly showed me to a private waiting room where I read for awhile, and then finally laid down, where I proceeded to fade in and out of unconsciousness. After a couple hours, she came back in and woke me up. I jumped up like a ninja for battle, stunned by the unfamiliar setting, then apologized and quickly put my shoes on and followed her, surreptitiously wiping my cheek and hoping she didn't see the sizeable drool patch left on the pillow.

She took my blood again, from the SAME spot, and actually did quite a good job. Usually, I end up a bit bruised when blood's taken, but there was just a small red dot. She then thanked and excused me, suggesting I go eat right away. Luckily, I was prepared and reached into my purse for my homemade trail mix which has been quite the blessing for me in these easily-head-swimming pregnant days.

I casually walked to where the class was a few blocks away, and was surprised when the red school van where Beau (and lately I) work pulled up, the door slid open, and like a clown car, a dozen or so of "our" high school students jumped out. They crowded around me in curiosity and concern, which I found quite touching. I talked with them briefly before leaving them and going on to class.

I pulled open the sliding glass door and slipped inside. The first thing I saw was Beau sitting on the ground, in a large circle with the others, pounding the life out of a giant block of grey clay. I was greeted by the midwife and others and I sat down next to him.

"We're making our whenua pot," he said. (Note: "whenua" is the placenta/afterbirth).

"Oh." I said.

The muka (flax twine to tie around the baby's umbilical cord) is something I thought was pretty cool, but I've always had a big "Eh" in my mind about the whole "Keeping and burying the placenta" thing. Yes, it's a nice idea to plant a tree in your baby's honor and plant the placenta below it and watch the tree grow every year. But shit, I'm also a Western city girl, and well, it's also kind of ick. Okay, really ick. Especially since I now know the placenta that comes out after the baby is about the SIZE of the baby. I always thought it was just some liquidy mess that drained out afterwards, not that it was actually this big, bloody bubble of goo. So, yeah, a little grossed out, but trying NOT to be.

Beau leaned over again, "She showed one of those birthing videos - you missed it."

"Oh," I said, not too broken up over that. Those birthing things make me want to start sobbing. Seriously.

"But it was one in water, so it wasn't so bad," he said.

I looked around and saw the room was filled with a few of the teenage girls from last time, and one new one. We were still the grandparents in the room. Everyone else was hard at work making what looked like various versions of clay log cabins, with log-like layers piling up. Beau had so far not done much but beat the clay into submission. We quickly decided to make it the shape of a giant heart and in no time he had the base smacked out. He nudged me to start building up the log-like walls, while he proceded to concentrate heavily on making a small pot of his own to store the umbilical cord in. It took awhile, but I finally built up the walls quite high, as he lovingly attended his...creation. At one point the midwife looked over and exclaimed to him, "It looks like one of those statues on Easter Island!"

She was right, it was just a head and looked very similar to those Rapanui heads.

"Is that a girl or a boy?" I whispered to him. "A girl!" he said indignantly. "Okay," I said, "You might want to give her some hair...or a much smaller nose." We all finished our teetering whenua homes and put them aside to dry.

We had our "tea" (not as long as before, Spongie, but still too long for this American *wink*) and then the class continued on with various tips and things to expect, which I liked, since I can't get enough of that part, but the warm room and a bad night's sleep had Beau fighting to stay awake. I had to keep one foot pushed up against the back of his thigh so that every time I heard him going under, I could give him a gentle, but insistent nudge. Once, he let out a subtle, crackling snore, and I gave him the most loving jab I could. He awoke wide-eyed, peering left and right. Not sure if anyone else noticed, at least they pretended not to.

The class ended and the midwife let me borrow the DVD so I could watch the water birth I had missed. I tried to dissuade her, but she seemed insistent.

*gulp*

P.S. We were told by a (Maori) woman today that for her children, they had put the placenta in a plastic bag in the freezer to await when all the relatives could come and then they would bury it in the cemetary with other ancestors. Cool, but again.. *squirm*

Roll Up Your Pants Leg, Dad.

One of the strange things I've found in general with NZ healthcare is that there seems to be a lack of...um...urgency that I felt in the U.S. Maybe this is a good thing because it keeps any hypochondriac tendencies at bay. Personally though, I often feel like I'm not getting thorough-enough care. What I really mean is, I feel like I'm not being informed enough of what's going on. I hate not knowing, good or bad.

A good example is my midwife, whom I have every confidence in, in terms of her knowledge and skills. In addition, every nurse, obstetrician and former pregnant patient of hers have all rated her highly.

Okay, so she's not warm and fuzzy, I can deal with that. But sometimes I feel as if I have to chase her down for everything from blood test results to appointments to pregnancy classes. I finally got her to give me the phone number to the midwife who was giving the only local class just days before it began (it's for 2 days and they're only offered every few months). I guess that's another example. The pregnancy class here is just a two-day'er. I always though these pregnancy classes went on for weeks. I guess there's not that much to know.

After several attempts and messages left, I talked to the other midwife, "Laura." After she gave me the technical information, she said, "You know this is a Maori kaupapa class, right?" (Basically, culturally and curriculum-y Maori, for Maori women). But I was still welcome, of course.

I didn''t, but oh well! I didn't have much choice and it should be interesting.

So, with me at around 28 weeks, Beau and I went to the class. I entered the room and immediately felt 100 years old. Every girl there was 16-19 years old and HEAVILY pregnant. So heavily pregnant that I spent the next few hours furtively staring at their enormous bellies in both amazement and freaked-out-ness. They. Were. Huge.

Perhaps that just shows the lack of urgency in everyone here - 3 of the girls were due to give birth that very month, one in just a week! I could not imagine myself waiting that long to take a pregnancy class. I'd go nuts with lack of information and wondering.

It also didn't help Beau's level of comfort that they were all accompanied by either a mother or a girlfriend. The only man in the room, and old enough to be their fathers, he shifted around in his chair uncomfortably. I thought I was going to kill one friend, who spent the first hour sitting next to her pregnant pal, texting on a cellphone, at a truly incredible speed, the clicky-clicky sounds echoing for all to hear. People like that should be smacked. Twice.

Being as the class was made up of teen moms, and geriatric me, there wasn't much in terms of class involvement. Laura, and her super squeaky and enthusiastic helper, were certainly nice enough, but it was clear that the pregnant girls were just there cause they had to be. And despite what Beau thinks, I do not always enjoy being the class Hermione and constantly raising my hand or speaking out, so I kept about 3/4 of mycomments in check, unless I had an important question. It was clear the midwife was a bit disappointed by the lack of general participation, and although we flew through the material, the first half of the class dragged. There were some interesting points and we did learn something about the Maori philosophy and approach to pregnancy though.

Then, in true Kiwi fashion, we had "tea" which means a very long.break involving food and people walking around or chatting or smoking cigarettes (luckily, I didn't see any of the pregnant girls do this). These teas can be fun, but I guess the American in me often finds them dragging on a bit long gossiping over cups of tea and eating fatty food when we could GO ON WITH OUR LIFE and move on to other more pressing things.

After tea, the class got a bit more interesting as the teacher spread out a large tarp and we waddled over to it. She then deposited a large pile of green flax into the middle of the tarp and handed us wooden blocks, knives, and box cutters. Soon, we were all cutting and scraping flax, Maori OLD SCHOOL! It was actually pretty cool, and Beau really got into it. We scraped it down until we had these fine tendrils which held a remarkable resemblence to my own hair (when blonde).

We then had to roll up our pants legs and then roll the flax back and forth across our skin until it braided itself in a specific way. I was a little hesitant at first -- I have lots of marks on my legs from various bug bites that I am embarrassed about, but really, everyone was too intent on their task and I soon had my own leg exposed and was rolling away. Beau took great relish in his own flax rolling and concentrated deeply on getting the long braid just right, rolling again and again. We finally managed to each make a couple of nice-looking, thin braids (or "plaits" as they say here).

These turned out to be "muka" which are what Maori traditionally used to tie off the umbilical cord. The flax has medicinal and antiseptic qualities, and it has already been proved that using a muka, as opposed to the plastic clamp given by hospitals, not only speeds up the healing/falling off of the umbilical cord, but reduces the apparant noxious stink by quite a bit. They're also nice and soft against a baby's skin. Well, we were sold! Since we sit on land surrounded by flax, we agreed right then and there that we'd like to use a muka on our own baby - though Beau is still steadfastly refusing to be anywhere south of my shoulders during the birth. I do think this made him reconsider, for a moment, of tying off the umbilical cord himself. Just for a moment.

We then went to the table where Laura had already set up a large group of native plants and explained what each one could do for you during and after pregnancy. One I noted was a large, heart-shaped leaf called kawa-kawa which can be heated and then used for sore boobies while nursing. The next day when walking around our place with the dog, I came upon this very plant growing wild and was kind of cooled-out by that. I picked it and brought it into the house to show Beau who recoginized it immediately.

The rest of the class went a bit more smoothly, with the girls speaking up slightly more. I noted that Raspberry Leaf tea was supposed to help with all this pelvic pain I've been having, and right after class we went to a health food store and bought ourselves a large packet of it. I've since tried it and have not noticed much of a difference, except for some marked drowsiness (and I took it at work at about 10am. Oops!). Oh well.

We then focused on where you can give birth, since our location out in the bush gave us three options: 1) Home; 2) A Medical "Way Station" (a sort-of hospital) 40 minutes away (no specialists, not much drugs); or 3) the city hospital (over an hour away, with lots of specialists and drugs).

It soon became clear that Laura was a strong advocate for not only a home birth, but a water birth (WITH NO DRUGS as well). Technically, I have no problem with either of those, since I've heard positive things about both, but my high blood pressure and age make me an instant candidate for the hospital. And really, though I know the hour+ car ride during labor will not be a treat, being my one and only baby, I really don't want to fuck around with this. And lets be honest, though I'd like to do this naturally, I am by no means giving up my option to drugs. Noooooo way.

The class came to a warm and fuzzy early end, and we found out that every single one of us were having a girl, which was kind of neat and weird at the same time. We ended with some soothing, though difficult yoga, and said goodbye until next week.

I just wonder how many of those soon-to-pop girls will be there.

Toys of the Generation X .... Generation

Facebook is a bit of a spoiler for writing a blog, or really, like the Cliffnotes version of potential blogs. But despite the fact that my life is pretty boring right now and just revolves around being knocked up, I don't want to write exclusively about that.

I don't know why Gen X toys have been nostalgically bouncing around my brain lately, maybe it has something to do with my current gestational state. But I've been thinking of toys from my childhood that were so fun and aren't really around anymore.

The three that initially popped into my head as in, "Ohhhh yeah, I LOVED that!" were:

- The Hippity-Hop

- The Big Wheel

- The Sit-and-Spin

I figured maybe the reason these 3 weren't really around as much was because I can remember totally wiping out on all of them on a regular basis and now "safety" is such a big word. Though with all three being close to the ground, the crashes were never very dramatic.

The Big Wheel was the only toy that I actually owned myself, coming from the most poverty-stricken family on the block, save for the sole Mexican family (this was Scottsdale in the 80's, there wasn't a lot of racial integration), who struggled to feed a very large household of kids. I had a Spiderman Big Wheel which I deeply adored. Btw, when looking for images of the Big Wheel, most of the images had kids wearing helmets. Pfffff! HELMETS!

Total aside, one of the sucky things about being "the poor kid" is the eternal patheticness you feel when over at a friend's house and how much you yearn to play a game they own and you don't. Not to mention how you are prisoner to their rules on who gets a turn. I had a good friend who owned her own Intellivision (back in the day - a competitor of the Atari 2600), and though she truly was a good friend whom I adored, the truth was, when I was at her house, I BURNED to play the video game. And I would always start off playing other games with her, the whole time in my head thinking, "Has enough time passed for it to be okay to ask if we can play Intellivision? Will she think this is the only reason I'm here?" She always said yes, always kicked my ass, and I always left her house a little happy, a little guilty.



I did find some Hippity-Hops for sale here, reasonably priced, and they even have adult ones! I really wanted to buy one for me and future BabyGirl, but they won't ship to New Zealand and it's too bulky for me to ask someone to ship to me. (Btw, I think the little girl on the Hippity-Hop looks like Catie -- think so, Kim?).


Shannon mentioned the Lemon Twist, which I googled and ended up with several hundred alcoholic drinks and a few photos of this to the right. I do remember this one too.



There's also the wonderful Slip-n-Slide, which was really just a piece of tarp hooked up faultily to a garden hose, in case you want to carelessly fling your youthful torso upon the hard ground, hoping you'll just magically glide along. Should've named it Slam-n-Slide.

Anyone else got some fun, yet deliciously dangerous toys they remember?

Cloth Diapers are from the Devil

After Jenn's comment, I'm a bit nervous about the whole diaper thing...and since many of you have procreated in the past few years, maybe you can let me know how it went for you? (Thanks Pee Pee Sheep!).

Right now we have 5 packages of newborn disposable diapers - one of each brand on the market.

The diaper thing is a bit of a problem for us for a couple reasons. One, we're down to one car now and one income, so the drive to the nearest town isn't always easy or affordable. We wanted to stock up on diapers now so we didn't get stuck without them later and then REALLY be screwed.

The cloth "nappies" used here cost a LOT and seem overly complicated to me. Beau and I are still stuck in the olden days, since we were expecting the basic piece of cloth and safety pins. Little did we know now it consists of an expensive "outer" nappy and then you get like 3 "inserts." Buying more "inserts" is not cheap either. Since apparently a newborn goes through 8-10 nappies a day, it's a big investment for us to start stocking up on these too, especially since the baby will be born in the summer when our water supply, and therefore our ability to do tons of laundry, will be a constant issue.

We were at the enormous Baby Factory this past weekend thinking of putting some things on layaway (or as they say here, "layby"). The manager was giving me a very long, but very informative lecture on all things baby when she stopped in mid-sentence and gasped. Beau was some distance away from us in the diaper section. In his hand was a package of the old-school cloth nappies - he had found some.

"He's not seriously thinking of buying those, is he?" she asked appalled.

"Umm....yes?" (We still thought we would invest in a FEW cloth diapers, just to have them on hand if we ran out of disposables).

"Oh no no!" she scolded and made a beeline for him, me trotting after her.

She then gave us a lecture on the whole cloth diaper phenom and told us that they tend to leak anyway, despite the thick inner and thinner outer layers. She finally relented and said if we wanted to buy one package of the old school diapers, that might not be such a terrible thing, so they could also have other uses like a puke rag or a baby wrap.

Argh, not such a big deal really. It'd be a nice if money and distance wasn't an issue and we could have a nice big stock of both kinds ready and waiting. Ahh well. Thoughts?

There Are No Dangly Bits (20 Weeks)

The 20-week ultrasound. I've been waiting for this appointment with no small amount of anticipation. I (we) really want to know the gender and I always feel much better after an ultrasound. It helps to calm all my irrational fears, like, "How come everyone in my 'Due in early February online group' is constantly feeling their baby at 16 weeks and I am feeling NOTHING at 20?" or "I still dont' have much of a baby bump...is it growing right? OMG, it's stopped growing..."

Anyway, it's about an hour drive to the town where the ultrasound is done, and because we stopped along the way to get Beau a NZ driver's license (my idea) we were late to the appointment. I called them to let them know, and the woman said, "Oh, well try to get here when you can and we'll see if we can let you in."

!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Anyway, we DID get there (about 15 minutes late) and WERE allowed into the appointment (PHEW!). Immediately, the radiologist with a voice mirroring Jewel's said, "So, do we want to know the sex today?"

- "YES!"

"Okay...well, I can see right between Baby's legs right now, and there are no dangly bits."

- *pause* "So...that's a girl."

"Yes."

The rest of the scan went very well...the woman talking a mile-a-minute in that babydoll voice describing everything she could clearly see and I could cleary NOT. Once in awhile something would be obvious -- the spinal cord, a waving hand, but most of it looked like various grey blobs to me. I was just happy (and teary-eyed) to hear here keep cooing, "Okay, that looks great..." and "That's perfect," etc.

She also surprised me by saying that the (now) girl was moving around like crazy, waving arms and legs and twisting and turning around, kicking at my stomach. Fantastic! Just wish I could feel it all! But as Beau reminds me, "Soon enough you'll be feeling it constantly and it'll probably be PLENTY for you then."

Hooray! Now that we know the gender we can calmly hash out our names (our "girl" list is twice as long as our "boy" list) and get it fixed before the due date.

Surprising note: when Beau and I returned to work at his school the following day, all his students wanted to know the gender and were thrilled to find out...but when I told several older adults that we had chosen to find out, they were very clearly disappointed, a couple even brashly lectured me!

"How could you? It's supposed to be a surprise! Why would you want to know?"

??? Seriously? Maybe I'm not as much of a romantic as I think I am, but I do like the idea of planning out a name, getting the "appropriate" clothes (though JEEZUS, what's with the predominance of all things PINK for a girl???), and just identifying with it as "she" instead of "it." Maybe if this was my 4th child it would be fun to have a surprise (seeing as how I'd be stocked up on baby stuff, of which we have NONE atm, anyway), but for my one, and probably only, baby, I'd really like to be prepared. We're still basically living on Beau's one income and we are very slowly trying to accumulate all we need...we've already started buying diapers.

And, we've started something I find very fun. With the shortlist of names we have, each day when we talk to her, or about her, we call her by one of those names all day long -- just to see how it feels, if we really like it. The next day we pick another name from the list and repeat. I'm really liking it and it's already allowed me to eliminate one name.

Maybe this won't be a knockdown, drag-out fight after all. :)

17 Weeks - Holy Crap!

It's late and the rain is pounding on the roof. I was going to continue my previous post with the second part, which is way more exciting and filled with danger and intrigue. And then I just kind of lost interest. Basically, Beau and I drove through some terrifyingly deep flooding and snuck around road blocks and dodged some cascading rocks to make it back home. It seems kind of dumb now, but when it's late at night, you're only an hour from home (with a trunk full of groceries), the government is threatening to cut you off from the one road leading to your house for days and days, and money for a hotel is an issue as well, you do these things. It felt AMAZING to be home. Our dog, who while chained to her doghouse nearly always manages to get herself hopelessly tangled (and did so this time), was pretty thrilled we were back as well. Anyway...

We're in week 17 of the pregnancy right now. I'm feeling better, more myself. Well, about 80% my former self, which is nice. It's a lot better than being sick and miserable. My energy is returning and my sense of smell has thankfully diminished. Hopefully soon, I'll be feeling optimistic enough where I can start writing a journal for the baby. So far, all I would have put is:

Dear Baby, This blows. Please make February come faster. Your mom.

And then just copy and paste that every day.

Continuing on the optimistic theme, yesterday I was completely thrilled when my fetal heart monitor came in the mail. I got it off of ebay after some research and have been checking for it eagerly every day for the past two weeks. I was surprised at what a shitty piece of plastic it appeared to be, and how it only took a generic-looking 9-volt battery. It came with a pair of headphones that you get with the $15 walkman you'd buy at Walgreen's. Isn't Doppler supposed to be somewhat sophisticated? Well, who am I kidding...I only paid $35 for the thing.

But it works! You have to be persistent, but then suddenly there it is -- the thrush-thrush-thrush sound that has come to sound like pure beautiful (reassuring) music to me. I could just lay there and listen to it like it's an iPod filled with 1500 songs. I'm still terrified that something will happen to the baby, and this helps a lot. My midwife was pretty nice though. At my last checkup about a week ago, she said, "Anytime you're in town, just text me and we can meet real quick and I can let you hear the baby through the monitor." But now I've got my own. Coolness.

I think I'll also feel better when I get that bump. At that same checkup, my midwife noted that I have just now reached my pre-pregnancy weight, so I'm basically where I started. Only fatter from here on out! And since my appetite is quickly returning, I don't think it'll be a problem. I can't tell if at those times when I stuff my face it's because it's the pregnancy or it's just me going "Woo hoo, I'm pregnant, I can stuff my pie hole!" I'm a bit nervous of the latter, since it wouldn't be too tough for me to become a fat cow through this. I'm trying to listen to my body and be honest with myself. I eat when I'm hungry.

Saw the midwife again today. She called me a few days after that last appointment and was worried about some complications I've been having. So I drove in, she did an exam, and said she was referring me to the obstetrician to be seen next week. Great. We think we know what it is now, which is much better than what it COULD have been. It has to do with the fact that I'm Rh-, which for those of you who have happily forgot your high school Biology, means that if my baby has a + blood type, and our blood mixes, I will develop antibodies against it and basically try to kill it. I've already had that shot for it, but it's a bit more complicated than that. (I'm trying to be informative here without being too graphic...).

Good thing I drove in too. When in town, I was told, "Did you know they're closing the road up the coast at 6:30pm until 6:30am tomorrow?"

WHAT? So, again I quickly bought some groceries and drove back, where on the way, I was stopped at one of the many construction sites where they're trying to repair collapsed parts of the road.

"Did you know we're closing the road at 6:30pm?" (It was now about 3:30pm).
-- Yes. Glad I bought groceries! *big smile*
"Well, it's closed all day tomorrow too...at least."
-- Oh.

When I got home, Beau was already back from work. He added to this great news.

"They said once they closed the road for 3 weeks before."

!!!!!!

We'd have to get pretty creative with our food. Should have bought some potatoes.

Let's hope for a speedy construction recovery. And that this rain pounding on the roof right now, stops...soon.

Act of God, Part I

Winter here in the Bay of Plenty means no snow, but it does mean rain. A LOT of rain. More rain than I have ever experienced, anywhere, including the flooding monsoon rains of Thailand which could soak you through in seconds or the day-after-day grey drizzle of Strasbourg, France.

The upside is that our entire water supply comes from rain, so rain = good. But as the saying goes, there is such a thing as too much of a good thing. Rain is romantic as it beats on the roof through the night. But when it's still beating down when you wake up...throughout the whole day...into the next night...it's a bit much. And if it goes on for days...flooding begins.

The only road from our place in the back country to the nearest town is a 2-lane coastal highway. Coastal highways are beautiful, but hardly practical. They're more for tourists to enjoy stunning glimpses of the ocean through the trees or to pull over and pose at the occasional photographic turn-off. And as gorgeous as this place is, it doesn't get a lot of tourists, except for some campers during the summer months (Christmas time). For the rest of us, it means an endless, windy road that takes twice as long to get to town than a road that aims for a more direct route.

"We told them," said the locals, in regards to when the government first came to build the road years ago. "We told them building here on the coast was a mistake....every time there's a big rain these hills avalanche. The road will be non-stop work."

They weren't just whistling dixie. Road workers have no fear of job loss as they are constantly on the road clearing piles of debris and shoring up the road. And just recently a new development. About 1/2 mile down the road from us, on the way into town, the road is, literally, falling into the sea. Well, okay, to be totally precise, the river. We live up on a hill that overlooks where a river meets the ocean. And as it continues to rain, the river gets higher and wider and has begun to take chunks of the highway with it on its rampant path.

This is very scary for me, for as isolated as I tend to feel up here in my small house in paradise, a trip into town, even the crappy little town that you hit first, is VERY much needed to prevent myself from going into a Jack-from-The-Shining suicidal state. Especially now that I'm not working so much.

The road was wheedled down to one lane, bordered by some cones and barriers precariously perched on its edge, just a foot or two above the muddy, rushing river.

Then there was a small lull in the rain.

The road crew hopped to it and spent over a week in large vehicles with various impressive implements moving dirt and rock, making piles. It appeared they were trying to re-route the river. It looked confusing, endless, and well...fruitless.

"What about when it rains again?"

Sure enough, a few days later the rains came, with just as much gusto as ever. Whatever intricate work they had done on the river bed area was now completely underwater as the swollen river rushed along. Oh well.

And it kept raining.

At the end of this past week, Beau said, "I really want to go into town, I haven't been for awhile." I was not as keen since I had already been that week to take the car in for repairs and since becoming pregnant, road trips can often = nauseated sick trips. But I took one look into our pantry and fridge to agree. We were running out of food and already getting cranky at dinnertime each night as we whined to each other.

"What do you want for dinner?"
*long pause*
"Well?"
- "I don't know...*sigh* What do you want?"
*perusing the pantry* "There's no food...pasta?"
- "No, not again."
"We've got potatoes..."
- "Ugh."

Then we just kind of walk away for an hour until we get even more hungry and more cranky and come back to the kitchen and start all over again until one of us gives in to the other's suggestion.

It didn't use to be THIS hard until I Thai-ed us out. We both love Thai food and I love to cook it, and since I can kind of go on auto pilot when making it, I usually prefer to. But I think we're getting a bit sick of it...especially stir fry which is my specialty, but can get hard to choke down EVERY WEEK.

In addition, since I'm not working so much, we are basically living on Beau's income which means being more frugal with food, which can be tough with a VERY particular, picky pregnant woman who lives off of can of mandarin oranges, jars of artichoke hearts, and piles and piles of fruit, often imported kind like grapes and cherries.

At Beau's work, where I was subbing for the day, they warned us. "Huge floods are coming. The rain's gonna start, and it won't stop the whole weekend."

"Huh?"

"Don't you listen to the radio at home?"

"Erm, no" (never)

We heard different stories from the rain starting that night (Friday) at 9pm all the way to 3pm the next day. The canteen lady plopped the newspaper down in front of me at lunch, and stabbed at finger at an article on the front page.

"Expected floods all throughout the Bay of Plenty this weekend. Civil Defence called out and ready."

Hrm. I don't know why a part of me can't take stuff like this seriously. Like the last two "tsunamis" or occasional earthquakes that make you giggle more than tremble. I'm not an idiot, I guess I just have never lived anywhere where there was any kind of real Act of God threat. Still.

"Let's go Friday after work," I said to Beau. "We can beat the rain."

He grimaced. "Then we have to drive home in the dark...and it may be raining. I hate that, and I'll be tired."

"But it said the rain might not start til 9pm. We'll be home by then."

"It's still the dark. I'd rather drive in daylight with rain than at night."

Hrmph.

So, we wait til tomorrow, Saturday, and take our chances with the rain.

Thrilled to be With Child, Hating Pregnancy

My life has taken a turn for the better..and the worse. The good news is that I'm pregnant again...about 15 weeks as I write this.

But like my last pregnancy, which ended sadly, this one also sucks. But it's finally beginning to ease up...a little bit. Basically, like before, I pretty much knew I was pregnant as soon as that sperm wiggled into the egg. I won't go into even MORE gruesome details, but basically something happens to me physically that's hard to ignore and bordering on painful, which is the clue that lets me know.

Beau and I have been back together for about 9 months now, continuing our fruitful yet expensive therapy, and pretty much content. We thought it was time to start thinking about having a baby again. We went and saw my GP (general practitioner, what NZers call their primary care physician), and we had that "What you should start doing to get pregnant" talk. We talked to the therapist, I began the vitamins, etc. Another year has passed, and I'm 37 now (Beau quite a bit older), so our ages are always a bit of a concern.

"This could take awhile, we better get started."

Then I got pregnant that month.

Good job, Fertile Myrtle.

So since then, I've basically been unemployed, translation, a total bum at home. And every day has been hard, feeling like I've had rampant stomach flu, but without the whole puking thing. Feeling like I'm...just...about...to puke. My aversion to food, basically all food, was rampant, and I shed 15lbs in a way I would have been totally incapable of before. I had that typical pregnancy sense of smell that was overwhelming, to the point where I couldn't bear to make any bath products, except to make myself small bottles of unscented (Ha! There's still a scent!) shampoo and shower gel so I could shower. The ironic thing about this, is that the whole philosophy behind my soap, shampoo, conditioner and shower gel-making over the past year has been to make the smell VERY strong, like Bath & Body Works strong, since that's what *I* really like. Now, I cannot even stand my own product.

So yeah, waah waah waah. But when this does go on day after day, and you're not really working much, you have a lot of time to focus on your own misery. And it does get rather depressing. You just wonder when it will END. I was focused on the end of my first trimester like a dying person staring into the light.

The first trimester came and went...still felt like shit. Fuck.

But I'm not all depression and self-loathing. I realized that most women have to go to work during this time...even if they do feel dizzy, tired, nauseous, or sick. They still have to put in their eight hours and just manage. I get to stay at home and sleep in and watch Judge Judy and eat when I want to.

And I finally discovered that was one of the main keys. Eat....frequently. Like, every 2 hours. Even though I would rather beat myself in the head than eat a cracker, I've learned: EAT THE FUCKING CRACKER. If I make myself eat about once every 2-3 hours, it helps the sick feeling.

The other hyper-focus in my life was that first ultrasound. The one that tells you your baby is alive and whether or not it has a chromosomal problem, like Down Syndrome. My age gave me a 1 in 210 chance of the baby having DS. That's crazy! If that was lottery odds, I'd be buying up tickets! Also, it was the DAY of this ultrasound on my last pregnancy that I had the miscarriage. I thought, "If I can just make it to this day, it'll be okay."

Beau and I drove into the nearest town and met with the midwife first. She laid me out and took out a fetal monitor and suddenly there it was: THP-THP-THP-THP-THP-THP-THP-THP. The heartbeat! I couldn't believe it! I had never heard something like that before. Of course, I began to cry. I'm pretty sure Beau teared up, but he'll be sure to tell you it was dust in his eye.

Then we drove to the next town where the radiology clinic was for the ultrasound. I was liad out and BAM, there was the baby! Wow! But it was the end of the day, and the ultrasound lady was not in the best of moods.

"The baby's in the wrong place. Get up and walk around so the baby will move."

Erm, okay. I got up, walked around, went to the bathroom. Jumped up and down, jiggled. Came back.

She gritted her teeth. "Bad baby."

Hey!

"Go walk out of the lobby and came back."

I walked out, with the top bottom of my jeans undone and that smeary shit all over my stomach and clothes. People in the waiting room gawked. I twirled, I walked, I giggled, I bounced. Came back.

She was not amused. She was downright grouchy.

"Go walk around the block. I'm going to see another patient."

Geez, okay.

Beau and I went for a walk around the block. I did some more bouncing and twirling, even contemplated a cartwheel, then decided against it. We came back, and this time I was nervous. This ultrasound lady only comes to this clinic once every couple weeks and Beau had taken the day off. I laid down and got smeared again.

"Ahhhh good baby!"

Hooray!

Apparently, now it was in the perfect place, on it's back, looking up. She took all her little measurements, cooing happily. Then the coolest thing happened.

While we were staring at the screen, the baby on its back, it suddenly turned its head and stared right at us. Then, one hand came up over its head, fingers separated...and it waved.

Waved.

Pretty neat.

The lady captured the image. At this point, the baby looks pretty skeletal and gross, and since I was never one for looking at anyone else's ultrasound pics, I'll spare you mine.

Instead, I'll just post pics of cute little babies....

P.S. I had to wait nearly 3 weeks for the results. When I finally called up the midwife, still worried about that 1 in 210 chance, she said, "Oh, the place that evaluates it said they never got the ultrasound. I just re-faxed it to them."

"Okay, how long do I wait now?"

"About another week."

ARGH!! But all's well that ends well. When the results from the ultrasound and blood tests finally came in a few days ago, my 1 in 210 chance of Down Syndrome had dropped all the way to 1 in 1800. A huge, huge relief. As of today, a healthy baby. :)

Update: Lunch Lady Land

Yeah, disgusted with myself for not posting regularly. I'd like to fill in some gaps.

The "emergency funds" for my one-on-one position with Trucker ran out, but I've still continued to work at Beau's school, though now it's mostly filling in for either the school secretary or the canteen lady. It's the latter position that has been the most interesting for me. I spent over a week by myself in a long kitchen-like room with a serving window. I played my iTunes, and danced around the kitchen making the requisite hamburgers, chips (french fries), fish rolls (fried fish sandwiches) and other not-so-nutritious snack bar-y things. I tossed cheese, leftover fish, and the occasional dead mouse (from the mousetrap) to the half-wild cat that lived beneath the adjoining building, and when I was feeling motherly, warmed the students' cookies up in the microwave. I actually enjoyed it my time there, though it wouldn't be something I'd want to do for life.

My working as school secretary or canteen lady lets me see (for the most part) the good part of these kids. In each position I seem to have developed a small group of groupies (though strangely, not the same kids) who hang out and talk to me, telling me how beautiful my eyes are and asking questions about Mr. Beau and I. ("How old are you? How old is he again?"). Beau just loves to be asked by the kids why I married him, and if he's secretly rich. *snicker*

Of course, the secretary and canteen lady can't be sick/on vacation all the time, so it's not the most consistent work, though I have managed to work at least one day every week, which helps. It would help more if the accountant didn't manage to muck up EVERY PAYCHECK I've made. Yes, it's true, 8 out of 8 paychecks have had errors (mostly, missing shifts), which has just about made me psycho.

Beau and I have also been taking a Maori language class every Wednesday for 3 hours at a time in our community. I was a bit worried that I wouldn't be able to focus for such a long class, but it's gone really well. Our teacher is an older woman who I completely adore. Shaped a bit like a weeble-wobble with more missing than present teeth and a loud, infectious laugh, she makes the class relaxed and fun. Except for Beau and I, the entire class are Maori, mostly women, and range in age from early 20's to senior citizens tottering on canes.

I have to admit, of all the languages I've studied, this class is the most supportive environment I've ever been in. In the past, there have been certain languages I've studied where the native or heritage speakers have shown a bit of reluctance in my participation, as if I was invading their secret world. This class totally lacks any competitiveness and there are frequent bouts of applause when a student speaks in class. Also, in true Maori style, there is a giant "tea" about halfway through each class where we all bring food and then stuff ourselves silly on smoked fish, fresh fruit picked off everyone's fruit trees, cakes and homemade soups. I've really enjoyed it, even if I haven't always felt like going.

Nothing too exciting, but that's about it for now. Hopefully this will egg me on to write more...and next time I'll write about when Beau and I spent a day in the local marae (Maori meeting house) with our class.

Update: Little House in the Bush

It seems to be a common theme with all my fellow bloggers lately, we haven't blogged. I could blame Facebook or real life, but blah, I just haven't felt too inspired.

But I've had a couple of emails from people who are (shockingly!) not glued to my Facebook page in anticipation of my fascinating status updates, so I'll do it here. As usual, I'll say I'll keep it short and fail miserably.

I'm back in the bush with Beau, and once every 2-4 weeks we travel two hours to a nearby "big" city, sit in the small room of a very talented, though very expensive therapist, and hash it all out. It's exhausting, difficult, sometimes even anger or tear-filled, but totally worth it, even if paying the bill causes both of us physical pain. Honestly, without it, we wouldn't have made it this far. That sounds dreary, I know, but it's really just the truth. It's also the truth that in some ways, our relationship is better than ever before. I find that I feel a lot lighter, in a sense.

Best of all, there have been a lot of changes in both of us that seem to have stuck. That's really the key, being able to permanently change some bullshit you've been causing in relationships forever. It's pretty tough, because you get so comfortable in who you are, even the shitty stuff you claim to hate about yourself, and changing's a major pain in the ass. Luckily, the lady's good and we're willing.

I've started working at the school Beau teaches at. It's been wonderful in some ways. I began in the office, covering for the school's secretary (they still use that word frequently here, and it still makes me wince). It was a non-stop, go-go-go job, but one I could do with my eyes closed and standing on my head. The pay was about $5/hour less than Auckland, YIKES, but I was told that was "good" compared to other jobs around here, that some people took a 50% cut in salary once they came back to the bush. Uh huh. Anyway, I liked the contact with the kids, the ease yet energy of the job, and the short hours. Going home at 2:30 or 3:00pm every day ROCKS!

When that stint ended they asked me to serve in another capacity - a little difficult to explain. The colloquial term here is "tracker" though more knowledgeable people seem to take offense at it. It's similar to a "para" in an American school. Basically, I sit all day with one student, a primary school boy of 10 years whom I'll call "Trucker." Trucker's got some major behavioral and learning problems and a family background that would make you cry and dash over and hug your kids RIGHT NOW. Overall, he's a pretty sweet boy and my heart just bleeds for him. They've got him on drugs which I admit, I approve of. Not just because they're the same drugs that have been prescribed to me in the past for ADD, but when he doesn't take them, controlling him becomes "challenging" (a MAJOR understatement).

When Trucker does take it, I do my best to get him to do a little bit of work in each subject, learn something new, and not kill any other students. So far, I've been wildly successful and have received a lot of positive comments. And his absence rate went from 50% to zero. It's really all about him, though. He just needs a lot of love and a little push and he does just fine.

I've also LOVED getting back into teaching, though I'm being generous with the word. I find it REALLY hard not to just assert myself as a teacher, since I was one for 3 1/2 years and loved it, and feel like I know what to do. But I have to keep telling myself that I'm supposed to mainly observe, record, and help Trucker (or others if they ask), NOT run the classroom.

It's a weird situation - like a one-room school house from Little House on the Prairie. There are children in there as young as five and as old as ten years old. There's a main teacher and an assistant. The main teacher is quite good, but it's not easy teaching all these kids and all these levels at one time. The assistant's a really nice lady, but classroom control is not her forte. And there are several kids in there with some real issues that could rival Trucker's. Not to mention many come from MASSIVE pot-growing/gang homes. I can't tell you how many times a kid has told me, "My dad's in the Mongrel Mob, you better watch out!" (Mongrel Mob is the Maori equivalent of Crypts or Bloods in the U.S.). Parents will even send their kids to school dressed in the "colors" of their gang.

I've never seen kids like this though. Beau's been telling me for years, and now I see it in person. Teachers hearing a "fuck you" is a daily occurrence, and often students are just damn cruel, to each other, AND to the teachers. Kids are caught smoking cigarettes or pot EVERY DAY, and a couple of the little ones have even tried to hit me (it was the last time they ever tried that!). Destruction of property, especially the schools, is really just sad. Students will just sit there and snap pencil after pencil. And one that really pisses me off - rampant stealing.

Getting them to do any homework is a joke, and the absentee rate is shocking. It's not unusual for a student to miss a whole week, just 'cause. There's one kid who only comes to school every 21 days, with his mother's consent! She needs him there in that timeframe to collect welfare checks for him, but otherwise, she couldn't give a shit whether he comes to school or not. And he doesn't.

And I know kids naturally tend to scuffle, but these kids, from the wee ones up through high school, seem ready to tear each other's face off at the drop of the hat. They have NO fear. A five year old will jump a nine year old with no problem. I personally break up anywhere from 1-10 fights a day, though it's usually just little kids pummeling each other, followed by heaps of tears. Beau, on the other hand, has broken up several fights with high school students, and that's some scary shit sometimes, especially when several join in. Some of these Maori boys are NOT small and even tower over Beau, who is a rather large man.

It sounds like I'm describing the worst school ever, but overall it's not doing too terribly. It definitely needs some work, but the principal works his ass off and the teachers, though occassionally demoralized, are good people who work hard.

And of course, I find I love being around the little kids. I'm just "gosh shucks awww"ing all over them. The little girls are all already in love with me, vying to hold my hand or give me a hug, and I frequently go home with at least one picture drawn for me. As for the boys, depends on their mood; they vacillate between love and hate for me, usually depending on what they think I'm letting them get away with. But I love them all. Even the little buttheads. Don't know how long it will last though. I'm there on some emergency funding which lasts for a few more weeks. Who knows after that? I would LOVE to get back to my book which has been snail-pacing along.

I still work nights doing that online text service thing, but overall it's been a pretty big disappointment and the organization is in a constant state of chaos. Seems every few days there's another memo sent out with another set of rules, more scolding of various employees, etc. And just recently, they LOWERED the rates they pay (We get paid for each question answered, not our time online). They have heaps of justifications for this, but really, in the end it's just bullshit. That wouldn't even be so bad if there were questions AVAILABLE to answer, but when you're scheduled for a couple hours at night, you're already tired from working during the day, and you sit there, staring at a blank computer screen (and there are 4 other "agents" on with you doing the same thing), it gets a bit annoying. Bummer, really. It's a COOL concept for a job, and great for me as I live out here in the Land of Nearly No Jobs, but we'll see what happens.

Being back here in the sunny Bay of Plenty (I don't know why they keep calling this region "sunny" since the weather seems rather uniform across the north island) is rather soothing. I miss Auckland, a lot actually, but I also love it here. When I'm outside walking around the grounds, with the green all around me and the river and ocean in the distance... I have Tonks trotting happily beside me, trailing behind her usually 2 of the 3 cats, and trailing even farther, the "chooks" (chickens) tottering along...I feel full. I feel just happy. I'm happy to be back with Beau and have a lot of hope for us. Part of me would like to stay here forever, but I also know I'd eventually go fairly batty. I need to be just a bit closer to active civilization, fast food, Asian grocery stores, movie theaters, bookstores and of course, restaurants that sell more than pot pies and deep fried fish.

For now, that's just a few hours drive away....