Month: June 2013

My coworker Stephanie was one of the first people I told I was pregnant. We were in St. Paul, Minnesota, in the midst of a storm that dumped more than a foot of snow. We were eating Chinese takeout and getting ready for an intense schedule of training for our new jobs. We’d just met.

“Can you keep a secret?”

No one else at work knew at that point, and I couldn’t bear to go another week and a half with my news kept entirely under wrap. I needed someone to empathize with me when morning sickness made me almost faint and when I was simply too tired to go to a Friday night party.

Since then, Stef and I have worked together closely, at first being one of two employees tucked into a back room of a school district office while our start-up installed cubes and phones in our permanent address, so she’s had a front-row seat to the ups and downs of my pregnancy.

As she’s said to me, with more than a hint of sarcasm, “You’re really selling this whole pregnancy thing.”

There’s plenty we don’t typically hear about growing a baby: Backne. Third trimester nausea. Inexplicable 4am wake-up calls. Fingernails that grow really, really fast. No wonder she’s grown more skeptical of the whole pregnancy thing.

But of course this isn’t a 40-week reason to complain–at least not exclusively. There are plenty of upsides, too.

My absolute favorite part about being pregnant is feeling Peeper move inside me.

The first time I felt it, I thought it was gas. (Seriously. Pregnancy is glamorous, what can I say?) The next night I sat on the couch and felt it again. I was about 17 weeks pregnant, and it felt like an eye twitch, except in my belly. It was a tiny tickle, Peeper’s way of saying hello.

Since then, of course, Peeper has gotten bigger and stronger, as have his or her movements. The common exclamation “Baby’s going to be a soccer player!” seemed inadequate to describe the baby’s kicks, jabs and twists, so I thought of other sports Peeper might be practicing: Judo. Synchronized swimming. Tai chi. Gymnastics. Cage fighting.

Only recently has Peeper gotten those tiny feet lodged under my ribcage–a benefit of having a long torso, I suppose. Even when the practice moves are painful, though, I can’t help but rest my hand on the action to feel Peeper move from the inside and outside. So I end up with the classic preggers pose–one hand on the belly–while waiting in line at the grocery store, driving home from work and talking to friends in the park.

In these last weeks (or days?!), as I grow more impatient to meet Peeper, friends have encouraged me to enjoy myself. The part of me that’s hot and sore and uncomfortable and huge and antsy rolls its eyes, but the more reasonable, less pregnant part knows they’re right. I’ll do my best to enjoy these last Peeper kicks and back flips and wiggles while they last–even the ones that find their mark under my ribs.

Labor was getting intense. My work friend was perched on a birthing ball at the hospital, sweaty and trying to bring her daughter into the world. Her then-husband hovered nearby. Their custom play list pulsed out motivating music.

And then, Outkast’s “Hey Ya!” began.

“Turn. That. Off,” my friend growled. The upbeat, catchy tune did not inspire her to wiggle her fingers or shake it like a Polaroid picture. And that was the end of their musical accompaniment.

Many of the pregnancy advice sites recommend compiling a play list for labor–but how do you choose what to play? How do you ensure you don’t have a regretful “Hey No!” moment?

I have a mix of relaxing, comforting songs I turn to if I need to focus intently and make a deadline. It includes a lot of Radiohead, Sigur Ros and Iron & Wine. I figure we’ll play this at least a bit, unless the otherworldly Icelandic keening makes me wish for an auditory epidural.

But I want a backup plan, or at least some more options.

What did you listen to while you were in labor? What did you wish you had? Or was music the last thing on your mind?

At my group midwife appointment last week, the facilitators—a midwife and a helper—were very concerned about food.

“Who will cook meals?” they asked. “Will friends or family bring you food? Has anyone frozen food ahead of time?”

The focus on edibles surprised me, but maybe it shouldn’t have. The first few weeks with a newborn, they explained, will leave only enough time for nursing and the most minimal of rest. You’ll have no energy, time or desire to whip up dinner, they said.

Plus, eating enough is vital to recover from labor and to produce milk for your new baby. Nursing moms should eat about 500 calories beyond what they did pre-pregnancy, most experts suggest.

So this weekend I launched myself into the project of feeding myself in the future. The tally for Saturday and Sunday’s work:

• 12 calzones
• 15 sweet potato-black bean burritos
• 2 ½ dozen oatmeal banana muffins
• 15 egg muffins

Our freezer is now stocked with individual portions of a few meals and snacks that can be eaten one-handed (for the multitasking mom I’ll become!).

I won’t be surviving exclusively on burritos and muffins, though—at least I hope not. My problem is that I become incapable of making a decision about anything if I get too hungry.

Case in point: A few weekends ago, my mom visited Portland to take some maternity photos at Eric’s winery. The plan was to grab dinner afterwards, but Eric had to stay later than expected. When my patience and blood sugar bottomed out, I knew we had to get food immediately. But when Eric asked what or where I wanted to eat, I was immobilized.

We ended up going to the Red Hills Market for wine and herbed olive oil and, after a few (hundred?) calories, I could function again.

Knowing this, I’m trying to plan ahead. We have takeout menus for Laughing Planet and the Green Wok handy. I also made a short list of recipes (note to self: expand on this) I love and will eat at pretty much any time.

• Goddess bowls, from Oh She Glows
• Thai peanut noodle salad, from The Great American Detox Diet (actually, almost any recipe in here is amazing)
• Tabbouleh
• Thai salad with roasted chickpeas, which I made for dinner on Sunday and actually had seconds—the first time I’ve gone back for more food in, oh, almost a month!

I figure I’ll add to this, but it gives me a good tool for when family and friends visit, want to help but don’t know what to cook. When I’m exhausted, near-delirious, struggling or just plain hungry, then, I’ll have some edible options.

What did you eat once your baby arrived? What are your favorite, easy summer meals? Help me out!

A rose by any other name may smell as sweet, but trying to choose the right name for your baby is still a BFD.

Almost from the time we broke our happy news, friends and family—and even strangers—have asked if we’ve picked out a name for Peeper. We’ve had lists going since before that fateful pregnancy test those three pregnancy tests but nothing has stuck yet. Now that our due date is less than two weeks away, the pressure is on!

Or maybe not. Eric’s brother and his wife just had their fifth child, and the little guy was nameless for three or four days before they settled on Sawyer James. As long as you have something to put on the birth certificate before you leave the hospital…

When going through our possibilities, Eric and I have brainstormed the potential schoolyard taunts, looked up meanings (why does every name have to do with fighting or God?) and recounted stories of people we know by the same name. Still, we’re undecided.

It turns out that names might subtly influence more than just how kids tease you on the playground. Female lawyers with more “masculine,” or androgynous, names like Kerry were more likely to become judges than lawyers with exclusively female names, according to a post in the New Yorker. Women with more feminine names are more likely to elect classes in the humanities rather than math and science, says another study, and people are more drawn to careers that mimic the sounds of their names, explains this article. So there tend to be more Dennis dentists because “we’re all unconsciously attracted to things that remind us of ourselves.”

How much is all this true? Well, the stats bear out the studies—but I have a hard time basing our naming choices on such research. Names are extremely personal, and when I veto one Eric suggests, it’s most often because I don’t like the sound of it or my gut says, “No way.”

For now, then, we’ll keep our lists. Hell, we haven’t even decided on the kid’s last name. The idea is that after Peeper arrives, we’ll come to know what to call him or her. Unless we just give up and settle on Peeper.

A few weeks ago Eric and I took a trip to the coast for a short babymoon. We spent two days outside of Lincoln City walking the beach, playing disc golf, sleeping in and making faces at the fish in the aquarium.

The trip was perfect. Firstly, Eric and I sometimes go days without seeing each other. He works at Torii Mor winery on the weekends, which limits our time to an hour or so in the morning and a few hours at night until I fall asleep around 10. He also works at a hardwood floor company in Eugene, which means he usually spends two days down south each week.

Having several days of uninterrupted time with my husband, then, felt like luxury.

Secondly, the beach is my favorite place in the world. I am happiest and most relaxed shuffling my feet across the sand and listening to the rhythms of the surf.

I’m lucky my little family feels the same way. Finn starts to smell the salt air about 20 miles from the ocean and can barely contain himself until he gets to sprint donuts on the beach, bark at waves and chase down seagulls. Eric is equally puppy-like: He’ll chase after Finn and play chicken with the tide, seeing just how close he can get to the next wave without it soaking his jeans.

Growing up, my family spent a lot of time at the beach. We’d rent either the little cabin with the tea towels for curtains or the spacious house next to a creek that swelled with the tide. We would build sand castles with elaborate moat systems and name them after kids in our class we didn’t like so the structures would get washed away when the tide came in. We’d play Red Light, Green Light in the dark or walk so long—and step on so many jellyfish, squishing them between our toes—that our toes would be swollen and red by the time we finally ventured inside.

We spent plenty of stormy weekends at the coast. The morning after one particularly fierce gale, when Amy was actually lifted off the ground by the wind, my dad had bounded in with coffee, donuts—and a clear blue sphere: a Japanese fishing float.

“I found it on the beach,” he said. “It must have washed up with the storm.”

We all poured onto the beach to try to find our own floats. And we did: They were tucked behind driftwood and nestled among rocks, hiding in tangles of kelp and lying out in the open. We shouted or squealed each time we found one as if we were searching in a maritime Easter egg hunt.

We ended up with at least a dozen floats that day. I still have one of mine, which sits on a bookshelf in the living room.

Years and years later, at Christmas, I think, when we were all grown up, my dad confessed that he had bought the floats at an antique store in Yachats and spent the morning planting them where we’d find them. I was dismayed. I had spent half my childhood and adolescence believing in our amazing luck that the sea would gift us such treasures. The truth eroded some of that magic.

Maybe it would have been better for my dad to keep his secret forever. But I never would want him to undo the fantasy he created for us that morning.

Peeper, Eric and I will definitely continue with trips to the beach as frequently as we can. We bought a membership to the Oregon Coast Aquarium as even greater incentive to go. I hope that Peeper finds the same discovery and adventure I do at the coast on sunny days and overcast mornings after a storm. And maybe someday Peeper will find a clear blue orb, a fishing float—a piece of magic.

I woke up with pain gripping my lower back. It snaked its way around my side and dug into my lower abdomen. I clenched a pillow in my fist until the wave subsided, then I drifted back to sleep. Minutes later, though, the same discomfort jolted me conscious.

This was yesterday morning. The pattern continued for about 45 minutes before I woke up Eric and asked him to rub my back. It helped, but I decided to get up and see if a change in position would relieve the pain and what I realized were contractions.

I’ve been feeling Braxton-Hicks—the “practice” contractions that tense my whole belly but don’t really hurt—for months, but this was different. The contractions felt stronger and came more frequently. About an hour after I first woke up, I started to time how often they came and how long they lasted. 3:58, 60 seconds. 4:01, 50 seconds. 4:03, 50 seconds.

In response to the pattern, I didn’t gather the things for my still-unpacked hospital bag or bring the still-uninstalled car seat to the car. I didn’t call our midwife or my mom.

I cleaned the kitchen.

I paused from washing dishes and wiping the counter whenever my belly clenched. I dutifully recorded times while Eric alternated between pacing (“I don’t know what to do with myself,” he said) and trying to rest on the couch with Finn.

After another 45 minutes, the waves slowed down. By 5am, I crawled into bed. Soon I was asleep.

When I spoke with our midwife later that day, she assured me the experience was normal. “It’s just your body’s way of getting ready,” she explained. Peeper’s been as active as usual, which stopped any leftover worry.

Still, I felt unsettled. During those few hours, I wasn’t particularly scared about labor itself. I was anxious because I didn’t know if I was actually in labor. Is this it? I asked myself. Are we on?

I was afraid of overreacting. Was that really a contraction, or am I imagining things? I didn’t want to jump to the wrong conclusion. It’s probably nothing; go back to sleep. My inner voice was full of doubt.

The false alarm was good, though, for being a wake-up call. It reminded us that Peeper is now 37 weeks and could safely arrive at any time. It demonstrated what a painful contraction might feel like—and proved that a whole bunch of not-painful contractions in a row doesn’t equal active labor.

I’m hoping that with this experience, the next time won’t make me so anxious. This practice round helped take the novelty and utter unknown out of early labor, so maybe bout two—and three and four and beyond, if that’s the case—will inspire less uncertainty.

Then, when we arrive at go, I hope we’ll be ready.