Hubby here for Gretchen to announce Mr. Baby backed his way into the world this morning at 10:29. I’m also instructed to give his measurements. 7 lbs and 15 oz. 19 inches long. 14 inch circumference head.

Gretchen and baby had a rough delivery, but both are well. All are tired but sick of bed. I’m sure she’ll post a much more thorough and more eloquently written post within the next couple of days.

Thanks for all your prayers.

I had to go to the hospital today for bloodwork. It was a surreal hour where I was offered 4 wheelchairs by various volunteers and staff members. I declined every offer, but wished in retrospect I had said yes. To all 4.

I could have sat in one, propped my legs in two other chairs, and the fourth chair could have held my purse. I can’t ask my husband to carry my purse. It doesn’t match his shoes.

But no! I had to be like a 12-month-old new walker, showing off each waddling step with a grin. See, world? I walk! Looky me!

We had to go to outpatient admitting first. Sitting on a little end table next to my husband’s waiting room chair was an issue of Ladies Home Journal from August 2004. It featured George and Laura Bush on the cover. I’m thinking about writing a letter to the president of the hospital, asking that a portion of my $40,000 c-section fee be devoted to starting a new subscription to any number of ladies’ magazines. I hear you can get 12 issues for $12 sometimes.

After giving all the pertinent information to the data entry lady in her cubicle, we were pointed in the direction of the lab. Down a hallway, through the main lobby, up the elevator, to the left, to the left, to the right. This is where I was offered one of the wheelchairs. Oh, no! Me walk like big girl. Very big girl.

The lab was far, far, far from outpatient admitting. So far, it was like another hazy white galaxy because they had the August 2010 issue of O Magazine and I guarantee George Bush isn’t mentioned once inside.

My blood was taken. Then the lab tech strapped a hospital bracelet around my wrist, telling me I have to leave it on until I am discharged from the hospital, whenever that may be. I protested, saying I wasn’t really a patient yet. Didn’t matter. They need the code on the bracelet to match the code on the blood and I had no choice. So as of this moment, I on my bed, at home, with a plastic hospital bracelet around my right wrist. I’m thinking someone should be coming through the doorway any second now to take my blood pressure and ask if I’ve sprouted any hemorrhoids.

We left the hospital. My husband wisely and generously offered to fetch the car while I waited on a bench outside. It was lunchtime.

We drove toward home. I flipped through radio stations. ELO’s “Don’t Bring Me Down” was playing. I screamed. It was a freaky moment. On the way to the hospital, it was on 2 other radio stations. Same old song, 3 times, one morning. My husband said we should name the baby “Bruce” because clearly it’s a sign. The line in the song isn’t really “Don’t bring me down, Bruce!” Everyone thinks it’s Bruce, though, so we might get away with it. Then, someday when Mr. Baby asks why his name is Bruce, we can tell him that he was named because a DJ at 103.5 The Fox had a bright idea at nearly the same time the DJs from 99.5 The Mountain and 105.5 Jack FM felt inspired to do likewise.

My husband stopped at my favorite deli to pick up lunch for us and for my mom and the little ones at home. I decided to go inside, rather than wait in the hot car. We ordered everything to go and sat at a table to wait.

Here comes Santa Claus.

The man in line behind us was cultivating the same look as the Jolly Old Elf himself. He was around 70 years old and had a long white curly beard and round wire rimmed glasses. When I first noticed him, I wasn’t sure whether this was a purposeful impersonation until I scrutinized his clothing.

Santa Man was wearing a shirt covered in Snoopy Santas and Charlie Browns holding Christmas trees. He wore red satin shorts.

He noticed me sitting in a chair. We locked eyes, me and Santa. He approached me, reached out his hand, and touched my belly.

“This is job security!” he boomed.

We giggled.

I told Santa about how our younger kids were recently wondering what he does on vacations. He asked how old they were. I listed the ages. Yes, there are 7 of them. Yep, this one makes number 8, I said, patting my belly.

“Holy Cow! You must be a Mormon family!?” We said no.

“Good Catholics, then?” Nope! I thought the “good” preface before Catholics was interesting.

He was completely baffled after that. If not because of religion, what possible reason could we have for wanting so many kids?

I told him it was for the same reason he did his job. Because we love kids.

He opined that I must stay at home and had to know what my husband does for a living in order to support such a large brood. My husband hardly has a glamorous job. We’ve simply learned how to keep costs lowish and not adopt a lifestyle bigger than we can handle. We didn’t get into all of that with Santa because soon he was eying my belly again. This time, he was prognosticating.

“I predict you have 3 weeks left. You’ll have your baby in September!”

Anyone who knows me, who knows what I’ve recently been through, who has paid attention at all? September was the wrong thing to say, right? I said no, we were expecting the baby in August for sure. FOR SURE. I may have said it with enough grit in my voice to be knocked off the Good List forevermore.

To be fair, he had no idea. He said I looked too small to have the baby this month. Everyone at the hospital seemed convinced I was ready to birth in the various hallways and lobbies and cubicles, so thunderous was my stomping waddle.

He left. Our sandwiches came and we left. I regretted I didn’t insist on taking his photo with my phone, which I got out of my purse with that intent early in our conversation. It doesn’t matter.

I know what Santa looks like and what he does on his vacations.

I won’t tell the kids, though. I’ll make something up about Hawaii.

Today has been an exercise in keeping it together. I am truly at the end of my rope in many ways. I feel a meltdown coming on. It’s not just me. We are all tired, grumpy, weepy, and worn out.

My mom, who has been here for almost 4 weeks, is sick. She has strep throat, which she caught from Aidan and Tommy who both had it last weekend. She hasn’t been feeling well, so we found an urgent care walk-in type of place for her to visit. They did a rapid strep test. She’s resting now and taking antibiotics. I hope it doesn’t spread to anyone else and I hope she feels better soon.

I had an appointment today, which featured the most irritating ultrasound I’ve ever had. Not the worst. Those would be the dead-baby ultrasounds.

Today’s ultrasound featured a new-to-the-practice tech who pointed out the breech-tastic position of the baby one moment, and the next moved the probe to the very bottom of my right lower underbelly and found:

An ear.

“Oh, how cute! Look at that ear!” she gushed.

Confidence? Not inspired.

She also talked about my upcoming c-section and then proceeded to measure my cervix. If you’ve ever had an ultrasound in late, late, late pregnancy, the cervix is extremely hard to see without digging the probe practically under the pubic bone. It’s quite painful. I was yowling on the table. And for what? It DOESN’T MATTER how long my cervix is, at all.

By the way, it’s crazy long. I looked it up and the length for my stage of pregnancy is off-the-charts. If I wasn’t going to have a c-section, I could look forward to labor around the New Year with the length she supposedly measured.

The fluid measurement she got was exactly the same as Monday’s. At least something is consistent.

She didn’t wipe off the belly goo or give me any pictures—common courtesies, no?

I really wanted a picture of the Butt Ear for my wallet.

I feel totally removed from back to school madness. My husband shopped for the bulk of the supplies. He took them to registration and to Back To School night. My mom is driving them.

I carved some time out of my busy schedule to take our annual First Day of School photos, though. It’s worth budgeting a chunk of my 2 hours of daily uprightness to capture their first-day faces.

This year’s grades are 8, 6, 5, 3, and 1.

B is for boredom and bulbous belly,
E is for ever-enormous ennui.
D is for divot I’ve made on my bed,
R is for rolling of eyes in my head.
E is for effort to find sunny sides,
S is for sonogram where my fluid hides.
T is for time, starting week four,
! is for !!!!!!!! Need I say more?

Quoth the doctor: “Another week of boredom!” She was really upbeat about it.

The thing that makes me shake my head is that a mere two years ago, they would have said, “What the hey, let’s just get that baby out!” I’m the first to admit I would have been all over that, readily agreeing out of worry, fatigue, and the desire to get on with life. But then I read this, which confirms what the doctor told me a couple of weeks ago:

Last Weeks Of Pregnancy Vital to Babies’ Survival

The reality is that the last month of pregnancy is especially vital, not only to the survival of the baby, but also for their long-term health. Babies born between 34-37 weeks of pregnancy are six times more likely to not survive the first week after life than those born at 39 to 40 weeks. Research also shows that scheduling a cesarean at 37 or 38 weeks of pregnancy were more likely to have the following complications:

* hospital stays for five days or longer
* respiratory/breathing complications
* neonatal sepsis (serious infection)
* mechanical ventilation (assistance with breathing)
* hypoglycemia (low blood sugar)
* admission to the NICU

The last weeks of pregnancy also have many necessary changes, including fat layers being established, organs preparing for life outside the womb and increases in brain cell development.

Goldenberg suggests that expectant mothers discuss waiting until 39 weeks before scheduling any induction of labor or elective cesarean to avoid possible complications. He also recommends that hospitals establish policies that restrict routine inductions or cesarean without an indicated risk.

Source link here

Beatrix and Archie were 36-weekers because of low fluid. Comparing them to my other babies (born from 39w6d to 41w4d) demonstrates to me how the extra time does make a difference. Beatrix and Archie were small, both weighing 6 pounds. They lost weight, too, so I brought 5.5 pound babies home from the hospital. Both developed reflux. They had problems maintaining their body temperatures and a tougher time with jaundice. They were easily fatigued by nursing.

Archie ended up in the NICU with a collapsed lung.

I guess I am giving myself a pep talk that all this nothing is actually for something.

I go back Thursday AND Friday.

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Aidan is getting a new bed. She’s moving from twin to full. My husband, mom, and all the kids are out shopping for mattresses. I could have made an excellent addition to the team. Imagine my know-how, my expert touch, the manner in which I’ve perfected my approach to all-things loungeable. When this is all over, I am going to parlay my bedrest experience into a thriving consulting business.

Business cards: Matte or glossy?