Buckle Up for Safety

I'm prepared for this baby. She has clean clothes in her drawers, fresh towels in the bathroom, sheets in her crib, diapers on her changing table and a mommy who desperately wants to meet her. But as of last week, I still had one thing left to do.

I tried reading the instruction manual for the car seat by myself and gave up after about ten minutes, nevermind actually installing it. So when Roy came to visit me and my belly in Louisville last weekend, it seemed to be the perfect opportunity to get some help with the last mandatory baby item.

We went out to my car and got started. I had a simple job: read the instructions out loud.

We were both frustrated within 15 minutes. Roy described it to my mom as a "communication" error, which she thought was much funnier than I did.

Eventually, all three of us were working intently to install the base of the seat so it wouldn't shift more than an inch in any direction. (If you've never worked with a car seat before, the cardinal rule is that once installed properly, it shouldn't move more than one inch in any direction when you shake it.)

We tried to install the base on the back passenger side, but it shuffled around way too much. We speculated that the passenger seat had to be reclined to hold the seat in place, but that just didn't seem logical. Was I really supposed to move the passenger seat every time I wanted to get the baby in or out of the car? Surely not.

After we tried to call the manufacturer to ask for help, (no service on Sundays) Mom resorted to Youtube. After watching a video of a woman installing the exact same seat as the one I have, we tried again. The trick appeared to be applying a lot of pressure on the base with your legs while you tighten the straps. No luck.

At this point, I became quite disheartened. How could this Youtube woman have more strength in her legs than my 6-foot-something boyfriend? How could it possibly be this complicated?!

Mom piped up. "Well, she did say something about the middle of the back seat being the best place to put it if you can."

That one little tidbit was the secret. Note: It doesn't say anything about this in the instruction manual.

Vain and ridiculous as it may sound, I thought I had covered some basic knowledge of everything there is to know about preparing for a newborn. Imagine the giant piece of humble pie I had to choke down that day.

Now that my car is fully equipped to bring a baby home from the hospital, I have to admit that I couldn't have accomplished that particular task by myself. When I look back on the entire Sunday afternoon that was spent on something so comparatively small, I can laugh about it. Parenthood is obviously a non-stop learning experience, but if you don't take yourself too seriously and ask for help when you need it, the whole thing can be a fun ride- with proper safety precautions, of course.

Still embarrassing...!

Several months ago, I published a post about the less-than-charming aspects of pregnancy, including wardrobe malfunctions, shameless cravings, butt massages, and farting.

I'm almost finished with this grand charade, but the embarrassing dynamics have yet to cease. In fact, I'm convinced that the bigger you get, the more humiliation you risk. Here's what I'm dealing with in these last few weeks:

Swelling.
During the second half of the last trimester, pregnant women gain approximately one pound per week. Half of it is the baby; the other half is water. And yes, people notice.

Today, I went to the doctor. She first glanced at my feet, said they weren't too swollen, and then looked up at my face. "Well, you definitely have some swelling in your nose!"

I beg your pardon, doc? How can my nose be swollen?! Needless to say, I've been a little self-conscious of my schnoz all day...

A few weeks ago, I was perusing Target with my mom when my feet became unbearably painful. They were swelling up too much in a pair of sandals I had chosen to wear that day. The shoes had to come off and I walked around the store barefoot. Yes, barefoot and pregnant. Lovely.

Farting.
It doesn't go away. It just doesn't.

Leakage.
Late pregnancy means living in constant fear that you will piss your pants. I've sneezed really hard and had to immediately run to the bathroom.

A while ago, I was on the phone with Roy when he made me laugh really hard. That laughter was directly followed by panic. "I gotta go I just peed my pants a little bye!" You know you're having a baby with someone when you have to own up to wetting your pants while you're completely sober.

Surprises.
I didn't know that beginning at 36 weeks, I would be getting a pelvic exam every week at the doctor. I've had to endure some pretty humbling moments at that office- getting a Rhogam shot in the behind, peeing in a cup at every single appointment, cursing out loud while a lab technician takes my blood- but not being prepared for a pelvic exam is outright unpleasant.

"Undress from the waist down and the doctor will be here in just a minute."
"Woah, wait. Undress..."
"From the waist down, yes. You'll be getting pelvic exams every week from now on."

I like going into the doctor's office knowing exactly what to expect. If a thin sheet of paper is going to be the only thing between my naked body and the world, I like to know ahead of time.

Needless to say, I had no reason to be nervous or embarrassed, but jeez! Warn a girl before you get so close and personal!


Pregnancy is everything people say it is. It's beautiful and amazing and intense. But it also presents multiple opportunities for embarrassment every day. My theory? It's all just preparation for when I have to stick my legs up in the air and let anyone in the room see my lady business. Pregnancy may be womanly, but it's certainly not lady-like.

Cheap Thrills

Since I have everything I really need for my baby and I'm stuck staying pretty close to home, I'm constantly looking for tasks that will keep me busy, and this weekend I rediscovered something I love.

Several years ago, I was feeling artistic and decided to color a picture with some old crayons I found in my room. I then decided to turn that picture into a painting, and the rest is history. I love to paint.

Unfortunately, I hadn't painted in quite a while. Art supplies really only take up space in a dorm room, and I just never had the time. But now it seems I've got all the time in the world- at least, up until my princess decides to vacate the womb.

Last night, I pulled a large, blank canvas out from under my bed and started sketching. Now, it's my slowly becoming my masterpiece. I'm completely enthralled with this particular painting. I think it's because it will belong to my daughter.

Your options for entertainment are limited when you don't have money to blow, an able body or the ability to go far from home. I've been moaning and groaning for weeks because I'm so ready for this baby to come out. Now I'm hoping she stays in there just long enough for me to finish this painting.

I just have one fear: What am I going to do with myself when I finish the last brush stroke?!

MissBehavior

A while ago, it occurred to me that at some point, I will have to punish my daughter. No matter how well I raise her, she will make mistakes and discipline will be necessary. So I started slipping a simple question into my everyday conversations: "Were you spanked as a child?"

The answer is a resounding "yes."

Some of my friends were simply spanked. Others felt the crack of a belt. A few were even subjected to a switch.

Note: About a week ago, I had no idea what a switch was. My mom explained it to me while I cringed and winced, wondering to myself what kind of bad behavior warranted such capital punishment. For those of you who are out of the loop like I was, a switch is a small branch taken from a tree with any twigs and leaves stripped from it to maximize the sting. Mom says it makes a swishing noise when you wave it through the air. Ouch.

Me? I was never spanked by my parents. If I acted up, I had something valuable taken away, like a new toy or television priveleges. Granted, I was probably grounded a lot earlier than most. The first time I was made to stay in the house for a whole weekend and not do much of anything happened when I was 8 years old. I got caught jumping off a friend's second-story roof onto the trampoline in her backyard. Yeah, I was trouble.

The only person who ever spanked me was my nanny, and boy could she dish 'em out. I remember her fondly, but I also remember her killer three-smack spankings, which were promptly followed by a session in the time-out chair until I stopped crying.

So the question remains of how I plan to punish my daughter, but here's what I'm really wondering: When and how will she be bad?

My mom recalls a time when I was quite small and refused to get in the bath. I pitched a total fit, and the end result was a stern phone call from my dad- terrifying. Will my daughter pitch fits? Will she fight with another child? What happens when I catch her lying to me for the first time?

In my experience, a number of punishments speak louder than spankings. Physical punishment is so temporary; you take the beating, get over it, and then you're free to go on with the day unscathed. When I was bad and something was taken away from me, whether it was my Easy Bake Oven or my freedom, it messed up the whole day and I associated an action with a punishment from then on.

Call me a hippie, but I'm just not a big fan of physical punishment. When you actually use it, you get a few minutes of tears and some humiliation. Years later, however, it has a different impact when your little jailbird starts visiting a therapist. "Well, my problems really started when my mom hit me with a switch..." I can see it now.

I'd like to believe that I won't have to worry about punishments for a long time and that when it does come up, I'll know exactly what to do. The truth is that I'll probably call Roy or my parents and say, "She refuses to get out of her pajamas! What do I do?!" all while keeping my poker face in front of the little lady.

Despite the variations in childhood punishments that I've heard about, not a single one involved the parent losing his or her nerve and backing down. Kids are like dogs. They can smell fear.

Tip Off

Throughout my pregnancy, people who have had children before (and a few who haven't) have been giving me ceaseless heaps of advice. As much as I appreciate the tidbits of information offered to me, sometimes I just want to say, "Quit telling me what to do!"

Good advice:
"Make sure you never run out of wipes. They're not something you want to get caught without."

Not-so-great:
"Here's what you should do to take care of that weight..."

It seems to me that everyone has an opinion on my pregnancy and parenting methods. For a long time, I was hesitant to tell anyone what I wanted to name my daughter because people always want to give their unsolicited evaluation. Luckily, we've picked out a name that seems to be unanimously liked, but honestly, I wouldn't really care if no one liked it at all. She's not their daughter.

I may be coming off as spiteful, but I've been listening to people tell me what I SHOULD do for about nine months now. Like I said, I'm more than happy to accept productive pieces of advice, especially from people who have been around the baby block before. But seriously, I really don't care to feel judged by friends and aquaintances who aren't even close to having kids.

I honestly believe that there is a form of etiquette necessary to giving advice. Pregnant women do not want to hear the words "You should" from anyone except their doctors. So here is my advice to the advice-givers:

You can sneak it in there, but be subtle. Start the sentence with "I recently heard that..." or "Have you considered..." Don't assume that you know every detail about everything. Pregnant women and new parents are scared and chin-deep in an intense learning process, and everybody has their own style.

You Sexy Thing

Today I was laying by the pool, alternating between my left and right sides because that's all I can manage, wearing a bikini that shows off my enormous belly complete with the dark line down the middle and belly button that pops out like a wine cork, dreading the inevitable trips to the nasty poolside bathroom every 15 minutes, and I got to thinking about sex appeal.

Over the holiday season, I went through my entire wardrobe in anticipation of needing more space for baby stuff, but in the process I got rid of a lot of clothes that no longer spoke to my lifestyle. I realized then that I would soon be a mother, and along with an armful of sweaters that I haven't worn in years and a few old homecoming dresses, I let go of some daisy dukes, sequined miniskirts and midriff-baring tanks.

To be fair, I hadn't worn most of those things in a long time anyway. My idea of sexy is a woman who wears the right pair of jeans and a white t-shirt with total confidence. Regardless, it was time to dismiss the notion that I could ever feel comfortable in a bedazzled ensemble even if I wanted to wear it.

So here I am six months later and approximately 20 pounds heavier. Ask me if I feel sexy. I dare you.

"Sexy" may not be the right word, but I am more impressed by my body than I ever was before. I grew a baby, for crying out loud. Yes, I do miss having a visible waistline and the ability to wear bras that aren't beige and made of cotton, but I think I've got a more grown-up idea of what it means to have a great body.

Every day before I get in the shower, I turn to the side in front of the mirror and look at what my figure has become. If I think hard enough, I can still envision the petite, spry little thing I used to be. I miss that body, but I'm learning to adjust to this new one- one with an existent butt, thank goodness.

I know that when my daughter is born, my midsection will still puff out for a little while, my feet still won't want to jam into cute shoes, and my lady lumps will turn into all-you-can-eat infant buffets. But even though it will take a while, I'm determined to eventually have the kind of figure that I'm content with, complete with a renewed waist and newfound deriere that would make a sequined miniskirt look damn good even though I'll probably just be wearing jeans and t-shirts.

Wisdom from the Swimming Pool

Wanting to enjoy the beautiful weather today, I decided to surrender my dignity and don a bathing suit for a trip to the pool. Little did I realize it would be a learning opportunity.

I've often heard that children are a reflection of their parents, and now I'm convinced that it's true to some extent, even in subtle ways. There were a variety of children at the pool, and each of their personalities corresponded to their parents:

Splashers
Whenever you go to a pool, you will inevitably encounter children who splash like it's their job. They kick their little feet and water goes everywhere, coming down in a resonating cascade that soaks anyone and anything within a six foot radius. One little boy was continuously splashing me while I tried to lounge, and I was irritated until I saw his father doing the exact same thing. The difference is this: Children who kick up a lot of water are forgivable. Grown adults are obnoxious.

Screamers
Attempting to immerse myself in the editorial content from a recent issue of Harper's Bazaar proved exceptionally difficult thanks to a little boy who would not stop screaming. No, not cry screaming. This little fella screamed when he was happy or whenever his dad didn't do exactly what he wanted. Nearby, his mother was talking bizarrely loud on the phone. She chatted while he yelled, and all in Chinese, no less. I couldn't understand a single word, but I knew exactly what he meant when he started doing the potty dance. That's the same in any language.

Litterbugs
With my impeccable nose, I can smell cigarette smoke from a half mile away. Annoying as it may be, I understand that it's perfectly legal, and the smokers were outside in the open air. Fair enough. What's not cool is tossing your butts on the ground like it's your own personal giant ashtray. C'mon people. This is the pool. Everyone is walking around barefoot!
How did their children reflect the parents' behavior? No, they weren't smoking, thank goodness. But they did spit mouthfuls of sunflower shells all over the ground. Gross.

Show-Offs
Soaking my poor feet in the pool is a fantastic sensation. While I indulged, a small boy with a mini-mohawk swam up to me and put on a show. "I'm a good eater," he said before flipped around in the water, twisting and thrashing around in every effort to hold my attention before he popped up and declared, "I'm very silly!" When he got out of the pool and walked over to his mom, I realized that she had some excessively large...flotation devices. I consider it a useless skill of mine to tell the difference between real and fake, and there was no way those things weren't intended to get double-takes.

I know I probably sound critical and a little weird for watching other people so closely. But once I realized how much these kids resembled their parents, I couldn't help but observe them like a biologist watching lab mice. Frankly, I'm glad that I took note of the similarities, both subtle and otherwise, between parents and their children. I don't want my daughter cursing too much or picking her fingernails like I do, but I know I'll be setting the standard for a lot of her mannerisms.

Obviously, it's time for me to wash my mouth out with some soap. Heaven forbid my daughter's first word be a four-letter one.

Utterly Helpless

I have been impatient since I can remember.

I've never been good at waiting, so it makes sense that the unpredictable nature of pregnancy would make me crazy. I'm dying for this baby to come out, and not knowing when she will decide to do so is downright painful. These practice contractions are getting old, and my due date is just taunting me.

No one warned me that the last few weeks of my pregnancy would be spent wishing it was over. I have loved being pregnant, and I look back on it with fondness, but let's move on!

The cuteness of my baby belly has worn off. This thing is large and heavy, constantly looking up at me with resigned stubbornness. Yesterday, a man at the store looked at me and exclaimed, "Good lord! Twins?" No, sir, I'm just a very pregnant tiny girl, but thank you for reminding me that I'm disproportionate and awkward.

Another downside to this waiting game is not knowing what to do to pass the time. Sure, there's plenty of things I could do, but all I really, truly want to do is meet my baby. The universe is saying to me, "You can do whatever you want, but you can't have this baby 'til I say so." I think I'll appreciate any brief moments I have to do what I want after I have this baby because they'll be fewer and much further between.

A while ago, I painted my nails- a task that usually doesn't mean very much to me. Sure, I like how it makes me feel, but the actual process is really just another mindless task. Not long after I finished, however, I realized that this may be one of the last times I get to paint my nails without the threat of an infant screaming while they're still wet. Right now, I can take my time picking out a color and making sure my nails look perfect. In the future, assuming I even have the time to look down at my hands, I'll have to make sure the baby is sleeping in her bed with a full belly and a clean diaper before I can even ponder grooming, and she could still decide to interrupt!

As "they" say, the grass is always greener on the other side. I'm sure that no matter how much I love my daughter, I will occasionally look back at my solo life with nostalgia and think, 'Damn, I used to be able to watch "Chelsea Lately" every night and put on mascara.' Oh well. I'm already looking forward to the day when baby girl asks me to put some pink polish on her little nails as well.

Rough Night

Over the last few weeks, I've developed a routine for getting through the night. These last days of pregnancy make sleep a difficult task, and every night at home brings with it the inevitable dance that is my attempt to slumber peacefully. It's quite the battle.

I can sleep in one of two positions- on my left side or on my right side. That's it, and I don't much care for either of them. But once I find something remotely comfortable, I drift on into dreamland. Unfortunately, dreamland is often an unpleasant place.

I don't know if it's my hormones, my overactive imagination, or both, but I've been having the most awful nightmares lately. Any fear, frustration, anger or jealousy I feel tends to manifest itself in my dreams, but with much more dramatic flair. I wake up in the middle of the night wondering what happened and feeling painfully overheated.

After I turn on the ceiling fan, which cranks out an awful grinding sound for reasons I can't deduce, I fall asleep again only to wake up in the wee hours of the morning from another bad dream.

Perhaps it's my body's way of getting me used to waking up throughout the night with a baby, but these nightmares suck. I remember having peaceful nights of sleep during which I drifted off (on my stomach) and didn't wake up until the next morning, feeling rested and content. Are those days over for good?

If so, I know it will all be worth it. I'm much more willing to wake up for a baby than some stupid nightmare. Hopefully, the two hours of sleep that I'll be getting each night once the baby is here will include visions of sugarplums dancing in my head instead of dungeons that look like grocery stores. (Yeah...that's the kind of stuff I come up with.)

Model Behavior

I've read that when babies are around each other for the first few times, they are often confused that other tiny humans such as themselves even exist. The same concept applies to pregnant women.

Pregnancy often feels like an isolating state of being. I don't spend much time around other pregnant women, and when I do, I can't help but stare at them like Rubik's cubes that I can't quite figure out. It didn't take long for me to realize that every pregnancy is unique, but now I'm finding that the same is true of deliveries.

Today I went to the doctor for my 35-week checkup. Sitting in the waiting room with the other mothers-to-be, the conversation inevitably revolved around our impending deliveries. Naturally, I was the rookie in the room. One woman had a 17-month-old daughter at home, and another had at least two other kids. But the veteran, she was on baby number five. All of them were way ahead of me in experience.

"My baby is already too big so I've been on bedrest for the last ten weeks. My mother has to drive for two hours to bring me to these appointments."

"We're finished having kids. My husband is making an appointment with his doctor after this one."
"Yeah. My husband has been saying that for four years and I've had two kids since then."

"My last baby weighed nine and a half pounds and I delivered her vaginally."

I sat and listened intently to these statements and more, thinking to myself how lucky I must be that I don't have to deal with any of those issues. Eventually, they noticed me curled up like a pretzel in my chair and turned their attention to my pregnancy.

"You're 35 weeks?! How can you sit like that?"
"Well, I'm really short and my legs don't touch the floor very well in these chairs, so this is more comfortable for me."

"You're so little! You're going to have a nice, small baby."
"I hope so!"

"Have you had any false labor contractions? Any bedrest?"
"Nope."

The more I conversed with these women, the more I realized that I've been incredibly lucky to have such an uncomplicated pregnancy thus far. Sure, my Braxton Hicks contractions are frustrating at times, but at least I wasn't having real labor contractions at 29 weeks like one of the women I met today. Yes, my daughter kicks me in the ribs, but at least they're just kicks from a petite little five-pound baby, not a 9.5 pound beast. And I'll admit, I often feel paranoid and neurotic about not having any experience with being a mom, but I would rather be a newbie than have four other kids at home right now.

I'm convinced that I have a very well-behaved baby. She and I have a lovely understanding of each other. I let her stay in my belly rent-free, and she doesn't threaten to come out too soon. I promise to love her for the rest of her life, and she doesn't threaten to destroy my nether regions with excessive weight when she comes out.

Win-win.

Contraction Action

In the 19th century, an Englishman named John Braxton Hicks described what appeared to be practice contractions in late-stage pregnancies. These contractions were often confusing to women at the time as they were not a sign of true labor.

No offense to Dr. Hicks, but his namesake contractions are bullsh*t.

I first started having Braxton Hicks contractions a bit too early. On March 25, Kentucky was playing Ohio State in the Regional Semifinals for the NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament. So there I was, screaming at the television when I suddenly felt horrible cramps that seemed to be coming from my stomach. They went away the next day, but it was a lesson to me that I needed to start taking it easy. My pregnancy was in full swing.

Some very fortunate women can barely detect their Braxton Hicks contractions. I am not one of them. After the cramping episode in March, my next contractions after that just felt like my belly was tightening up and pulling into the rest of my body.

Now they will stop me dead in my tracks. If I'm sitting down when a contraction comes on, I can't stand up until it dissipates because my whole uterus is crunched into a ball of hard muscle. If I'm walking, it's time to stop for a minute.

Last Friday, Roy and I visisted friends for the evening. I started having Braxton Hicks contractions in the afternoon, and they refused to subside no matter how much water I drank, pizza I ate, or lounging I did in the most comfortable recliner ever.

Just my luck- the contractions went away just in time for me to get a raging three-hour case of heartburn.

Late pregnancy is unlike anything I've ever experienced, and it's all in preparation for the most intense physical task I can imagine. I'd be lying if I said I'm not looking forward to having my body back to normal just a little bit. Pregnancy has been great, but it's time to get this show on the road. I'd like to say farewell to Dr. Hicks and move on to something a little more...productive.