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?