The 34th Week Passage of Pregnancy

Today is October 29th. I just completed 34 weeks of my pregnancy at age 46! Apparently, a child born at 34 weeks can survive just fine outside the womb.  I can breath the 34-week sigh of relief! I am doing it now.  Today marks the day when I now feel comfortable putting the crib and changing table in the bedroom. This will be a busy weekend as we help our daughter celebrate a memorable Halloween and get baby furniture and clothes in place.  I went full term with my daughter, but you never know with this one. I am four years older and considered a high-risk pregnancy. The fact that I am at 34 weeks is so relieving to me anyway - as I feel the baby kicking right now - that I am preparing today for a birth anytime between now and my due date. Though, I'll have to blog again about another big sigh of relief in three weeks, because at 37 weeks, the baby is considered full term.  So the difference in the three weeks is a 34-week baby that can be just fine but with some monitoring and a 37-week baby that can go home in the normal 2 to 4 days. 
Ideally forty weeks is the best? I wonder why 40 weeks is the magic number.  How does anyone really know the gestation age?  No one can see when the sperm and egg meet to become one cell.  Based off the first day of the last menstrual period (LPP), your doctor will line up the numbers from a chart and give you the EPP (expected due date). But do all doctors have the same charts?  Is the formula is to add 5 days from the LMP, then add 9 calendar months. Well, some months have less days than others. Do we all really remember what was the FIRST day of our LMP? I have had this habit for years of writing down my period in a calendar.  It just says "P start" on the date. But I sometimes forgot to write it in right away, but then remember to go back and fill in the date, although not 100% sure of the true date if I don't remember fast enought to get to my calendar.  This was the case in March of this year.  I wrote "P start" on March 4th in one calendar and "P start" on March 5th in another calendar. But do you write when the blood flow starts or when the menstruation signs start? I always write in the former.  But what if I had menstrual symptoms for days before blood flow? The point is, there is no exact science to figure out how long a baby has been inside the womb or when it needs to come out. Sonograms seem to come up with an age and weight figure. I don't know how that's really possible, considering you're looking at sound waves the whole time.  Nevertheless, what the heck, I am still just gonna count weeks, and I am counting today as the completion of 34 of them. I need to jubilate a little! (Is jubilate even a verb? I don't know, but it sure does describe what I want to do!)

Nature Does Wonders for Pregnancy Relaxation

Today was probably the most beautiful day of the year. Weather wise. It was the kind that should be bottled up and sewn over the whole year to achieve autumn bliss year-round.  I boarded a bus and shuttled to the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens to sit on a bench and sort of meditate in the sun.  Except I spent most of the time in the herb garden looking at the plants and drawing inspiration from the various names of them for a possible clue to what I might call a baby boy.  There are a lot of girl herb names.  Sage is a name I love, but it doesn't bode well with Jones, the baby's last name. Sage Jones. It's hard to say. You have to get the "g" out before you get the "J" out. Plus, I don't want to do a one-syllable first name with a one-syllable last name.  I learned a lot about plants and trees today. The Gingko tree, which grows in the U.S.  is an ancient tree, over 200 million years old. Even its leaves are ancient looking.  Palms can grow in New York City.  I left the gardens with no names but with a nice dose of the outdoors before heading back to my crowded street.  I will need to get daily nature dosage in between now and birth time to maintain a sense of peace.  Even in Brooklyn nature can be had. It's good for the spirit and the womb.  There are trees on my street with yellow leaves. The parks in the projects are filled with autumn leaves of all colors.  The view from my kitchen windows reveals the yards below with still-growing impatiens, leaf-filled oaks, and the lushness of leftover summer flora grown strong from October rain. My neighbor has a perennial garden for a yard. I will go over and sit. Today I realized how huge I am and not really fit for society's eyes.  I have a Halloween outing in Central Park to take my daughter to on Saturday. It will be what I will consider a voyage to the ends of the earth with subway stairs to climb and a 25-minute walk inside the park. But nature will envelope me and I will feel so happy. Let my baby absorb some of that natural joy.  I will try to go to the zoo one more time as a pregnant person, just to walk around the natural setting of Prospect Park.  Lost inside either Central or Prospect Parks, you would think you may be in a wooded forest of Wisconsin, not in the largest metropolitan center in the U.S. I am so grateful for these nature escapes in the city.  Of course, my feline companion is next to me purring loudly. She is another source of calm that I like to get my belly close to so the baby can appreciate the melodic purring sounds too. Of course I wish I were spending the next 6 weeks in a cottage by a stream, such as where the 7 dwarves live.  That is my idea of rest and relaxation.  But I live with 2.5 million people.  So the nature of NYC is where my inspiration for a relaxing last leg of this third trimester will come.

Doctor Appointments in the Third Trimester

My doctor's visits are bi-weekly now. Starting in two weeks they will become weekly, accompanied by a weekly sonogram for weeks 36-40.  Doctor explained it's because of my age I need the extra attention. He apologized for keeping to bring up my age. I told him that I like it. We both agreed it's a big deal. My age. I got spontaneously pregnant at age 46. The odds of that are 1%.  He keeps using that term: spontaneous pregnancy. I know what it means. Without sounding patronizing, let me convert it to layperson's terms like the doctor did for me on my first visit.  "You got spontaneously pregnant?" he asked. "What does that mean?", I probed.  "Did you get pregnant naturally?" he furthered.  "Are you trying to ask me if I got pregnant having sexual intercourse?" was my response.  "Yes."  "Yes, the answer is yes."  He was and still acts impressed and brings up my age and my spontaneous pregnancy at every visit. Today he told me I should blog about women in the 45-50 age group getting pregnant.  As I mentioned earlier, we only have a 1% chance each month of getting pregnant with our own eggs.  The rate of miscarriage for our age group is over 50%.  That is why I didn't tell anyone I was pregnant until I was almost 5 months along. I just had to be sure my pregnancy was viable.  I couldn't bear the thought of announcing such joy, then having to retract it.  I'm pretty much out of the woods now, but I'm still not going to jubilate until I hear a crying baby.  So, my doctor sort of praises me each time I see him.  Today, I told him, "You know, as fortunate as I am, I wouldn't go around recommending women to wait to have babies in their forties."  With the statistics out there, the over 40 age group isn't exactly on the top of the stork's list.  Mother Nature cast an unfair spell on us ladies. We have the best fertility from puberty up until age 25. Then the eggs start aging even then.  By 30, a woman only has a 20% chance of getting pregnant in any given month. Then it drops to 1 percentile by age 45. When you're at your most financially insecure and emotionally sporadic, you have the strongest eggs. When you're at your most mature and responsible, your eggs are giving out.  Irony can't be more acute than it is for us women having babies.

Well, the doctor's appointments are fast. I leave a urine sample, my belly gets measured from top to bottom, blood pressure is taken, the baby's heartbeat is monitored, and I get to stand on the scale.  Oh my goodness. I just left my big rain clodhoppers on today because what's an extra pound or two in shoe weight going to matter to the fastly-gaining  poundage I've amassed?  All my doctor said was, "Your weight is good." He's not exactly a health nutritionist ob/gynie type.  My weight is not good. My weight is too much.  I have gained more than Demi Moore probably gained in her three pregnancies combined.  Oh well, if Dr. isn't worried, neither am I. I plan to breast feed those pounds off.  I like the pregnancy-age compliments I get from my doctor at my appointments.  I like the quickness and ease of them. He's so laid back and it keeps me non-stressed. As long as baby's heartbeat belts out on the monitor, I'm a happy mother-to-be patient.

Sleeplessness and Late-Term Pregnancy

I have been keen on writing about sleeplessness for awhile.  Sleeplessness - which is different that insomnia - happens all the time in this pregnancy.  First off, if you have a young child already, chances are you're not getting your eight uninterrupted hours in.  My four-year old rarely sleeps through the night in her own bed. She ends up with me around 4AM.  But it doesn't matter because I will have already visited the bathroom a few times before then, so the eight hours of sleep without an interruption wouldn't have occurred anyway.  Yes, hugely pregnant people pee a lot.  Day and night. Everyday. Round the clock. I empty my bladder right before hitting the sack, but two hours into bedtime, I have to pee like a racehorse.  Where did the liquid come from? Did I sleep walk to the kitchen and guzzle down a gallon of milk? I don't think I did.  Then a few hours after that, yet another urgency from my bladder wakes me out of sleep for another round trip to the loo. That second time might get me through until 7AM, but by then I would have been woken up by my daughter climbing into the bed. (She doesn't climb quietly.) The 7AM pee is the most urgent of all.  There is no way I'll have a full night of sleep now.  And in 7 weeks? Even less sleep awaits me. Yee haw. Can't wait for less sleep.  And if I'm not constantly being woken up by my excretionary system or the climbing daughter, there are plenty of other things that take their place: 1.) A meowing cat pawing at the bedroom door at 5:30AM, 2.) Sirens and car alarms going off on the street 3.) A mosquito, oh, and my favorite...4.) Good old-fashioned insomnia.   Yes, that delightful nighttime companion comes for a chat every so often.  I start thinking about the orchestration I will have to master and muster up in seven short weeks.  I start thinking about my daughter's kindergarten choices for next year. I start asking out loud, "Will I be a good mother to two children?" Then sleep is evasive for the next several hours. In the morning I have that heavy feeling in my eyes and head, which reminds me of the times I'd pull all-nighters in college to cram for tests.  But I am merely lying around waiting for a baby to come out of me. How can the two things be the same? No sleep is no sleep, I guess. Fortunately, insomnia is the least frequent of the sleep-distractors I encounter. One more obstacle I just remembered (and how could I have forgotten?) that deserves a blog of its own: The belly gets in the way of a good night's sleep.  What do you do with a hippo-sized appendage? Last night I thought I crushed my organs as I lay on my back.  That's a formidable topic which I will pick up tomorrow. Good night! Sleep tight! Don't let the bed bugs bite. (They already did, yet another topic to share.)

Life Goes On While Pregnant

In the course of the third trimester, while nesting and resting are ideal pursuits, I'm unable to do those things.  My daughter simply won't allow it.  She had a week off of school.  We re-enacted school and got heavy into the arts and crafts. We baked. We decorated the apartment for Halloween. We shot a kids yoga DVD. We sorted through her clothes, toys, and books. The closest I got to readying for the baby was clearing a shelf out.  I thought about bringing the crib up from the basement but was stopped for two reasons: 1.) I had no one to help me. 2.) I still think I'm getting ahead of myself.  I am going about life, though carefully and healthfully, as if the big belly were just an appendage.  The apartment needs cleaning of some sort everyday.  I daily give my daughter care and attention and love. Job searching, studying my finance course, and helping with http://www.familyfitnessguy.com/ comprise my days. I still need to get through my 34 weeks. Life can't be interrupted by my condition of late pregnancy. And I'm glad I don't stop for it.  Women forever have been living their lives regularly up until labor comes. Except the wives of King Henry VIII who had to bed rest from the moment they found out they were with child.  When I wash my dishes, I notice my belly doesn't allow me to get too close to the sink, so my lower back aches while I'm scrubbing away.  Well, I can't let those dirty dishes stack up.  My daughter still needs her semi-weekly bath where I am finding it harder and harder to get down to wash her hair. But wash her hair I must.  What I am experiencing is what life requires of us. It is good to be pushed and challenged.  Even sweeping the floor is challenging to me. What a wimp I am to even say it.  Women are doing so much more all the time. I am glad to be in the periphery of their company.  I know that all life will go on except for those few days in the hospital where I will be essentially spoiled.  And I need to keep the complaints down now and the on day I come home with the fact that I have two kids, an ever-needing apartment to be cleaned and maintained, and bills to be paid.  Yes, life goes on. I will be bending, lifting, carrying, sorting, washing, cleaning, scrubbing, moving, placing, reaching, pressing, pulling, grabbing, rising, and turning everyday here on in.  No respites, as much as I would like to have them, they'd do me more harm than good. I need to be challenged lest complacency sets in, for I am susceptible to that and must fight it.  Bring on the chores!

Maternity Wear in the Third Trimester

I am so huge that barely anything in my maternity wardrobe fits. Even if it did, it is for summer weather.  I have three business maternity suits that I am going to start wearing because I don't own much more than that for cold weather.  Today was the first cold day of the season in New York.  I had to wear a brown stretch skirt made of lycra with brown tights underneath.  Soon after reaching my destination (the dentist's office), the top of the tights cut into the crease of my lower belly, the recesses of which I cannot reach. Nor do I really understand that part of my body.  The crease is so severe, it is like a glacial crevice that can store things. Well, the tights got stuck in there and made a sudden sharp painful stab that made me think I was going into labor. I had to quickly excuse myself and readjust things. So the rest of the day I spent with tights pulled up no higher than the middle of the derriere. It was my little secret: I was walking around Manhattan with a hiked up skirt and tights below my underwear.  For a shirt, all I could find in my closet was a lacy blouse size 3x.  It hardly buttoned. And for a coat? I didn't think ahead this pregnancy. My daughter was born in the summertime, so I had had no need for a maternity coat. I realized today walking around in the cold breezy city that an extra large hooded sweatshirt, though amply large enough to fit around my belly, is not going to get me through to December. I need a maternity winter coat. Do they exist? I have never heard of maternity coats, nor have I ever seen them advertised. Now that I think about it, there doesn't seem to be much maternity advertising in general. Even my sister, who knows a lot, has never heard of maternity coats.  I am going to get out my winter coats tomorrow and see how far any of them stretch across and how close or far away they are from buttoning up. I already know that none of them will button up. With the coat on, I will still have to wear sweatshirts to keep the exposed belly warm.  Even if I could find a maternity coat, I shouldn't spend the money on it, as early December is not that far into the cold season.  But what about clothes? I"ll either make due, or not leave the toasty, warm apartment for the whole month of November.  If I do step out, I'll have to wear those business suits.  I wonder if the pants will fit over the big bump and not snap down.  I am wearing everything maternity I own from my first pregnancy. Might as well not break the bank. I need the money for other things like the $2,500 worth of diapers that face me.  Therefore, my maternity wardrobe for the next seven weeks will be summer clothes, business suits, and open coats. If you want multiple children and are working on a budget and don't care about the latest in maternity fashion (is that an oxymoron?), I recommend you time your pregnancies to coincide with each other to repeat the same season maternity wear.  If all the kids are born in the same season, their clothing sizes - if you believe in hand-me downs - will be on track as well.  For example, 0-3 months, summer; 3-6 months, fall/winter; 6-9 months, winter/spring; 12 months, summer.  As you can see, I am a proponent of giving birth in the summer: no need for coats!

Pregnancy Trials and Tribulations

The problem with being out and about is that sooner rather than later you have to pee. My bladder fills up as soon as it is emptied. Knowing this, I am now keeping my outings close to home or to destinations I know have a decent bathroom. No more Manhattan or Brooklyn adventures with the bus pass or the museum card until I'm no longer carrying around a huge pumpkin for a belly.  I simply cannot afford to be in a public transportation situation for more than twenty minutes. What if the train gets stuck on the bridge? Forgot about visions of terrorist attacks, I just would freak out if the urge to pee came upon me at a most inopportune time. Today I stayed close to home. My daughter and I walked to the post office and quickly left as I eyed the line. Nobody offered to let me go to the front. Not that I would expect that. But I couldn't afford to be stuck in a slow-moving line dealing with the urge to pee. The next stop was to Kid City to spend my daughter's Halloween money from her great grandparents.  As soon as we entered the store, I thought I was going into labor. That's just a paranoid reaction to aches, pains, and cramping. I leaned against a kiosk of kids sweatsuits, imagining what a stir I would cause if I did drop to the floor. Lucky we were only one block from home and two blocks from a hospital, albeit an unsavory one. Also, baby daddy was home and would probably sprint over if I texted him. I was tempted to, almost fantasizing about being rescued from a store about to give birth. (As you can tell, I'm getting a bit bored with the pregnancy. I want a little drama.)  All too soon, the discomfort passed and I caught up with my daughter who was picking out an dress to buy with the help from the nice saleslady.  By the time we left the store, I needed to pee. It was a one minute walk home. I thought I'd better sit down and take it easy the rest of the day.  I still needed to carve pumpkins and make dinner. Better pace myself.  I'm beginning to think that it is a good idea when you're 32 and a half weeks pregnant at age 46 to take it easy some everyday. This isn't a 25-year old pregnancy after all. I have no problem with taking it easy.  I'm definitely using my pregnancy to achieve couch potato-ism. I think often of the pregnant women working in rice fields right up to the big day, then I feel guilty for slouching on the couch.  What's an American 46-year old pregnant woman to do? I'm darned if I do take it easy and I'm darned if I don't. I call this predicament pregnancy limbo.  For we really don't know what to do with ourselves or how to pass the time. Seven and a half more weeks to go, if I stay on track. If I can't even walk to the post office and to the store down the block without some sort of obstacle, I'm in for a boring rest of the trimester. 

When is the Best Time to Have Kids?

Having babies in my forties has been an interesting experience. I never thought I'd be in this situation. I thought I'd have my children before age thirty.  I was going to have two boys and two girls. I even remember the girls names I had picked out in junior high: Vanessa Dionne and Juanita Charmaine. I can't remember what I had thought of for boys names. Let's face it....boys names are harder. So is shopping for boys. Girls like everything and you have a million choices on names and even variations. Anyway, life goes fast. If you have kids young, you have piles of energy.  But you give up your youthful years when you can be backpacking in the Himalayas or joining the Peace Corps. But then you're still young and gorgeous when the kids go to college.  Sometimes, mother and daughter can look like sisters and fool people!  When you have babies in your forties, you're supposedly supremely patient. That's what is said. Today was not a particularly patient day for me as my daughter tested me several times. So, I don't know if I agree with the theory that age gives you more patience.  Having children at any time in your life requires you to sacrifice your own life in many ways, whether you're 18, 25, 38 or 46.  You simply can't do what you're accustomed to doing, unless you're very wealthy and can afford daytime and nighttime nannies.  But that's not me. I am hands on. However, it's quite true that one thing you definitely lack in being an older mother is boundless energy. I couldn't even sit on the floor for more than five minutes with my daughter tonite as we did arts and crafts. I was so uncomfortable. She can't even sit on my lap because the protrusion of stomach leaves no space for her on my thighs.  But I feel I have gotten a lot of carefree, selfish living out of the way. I already traveled a lot, l lived abroad, worked in a few fields,  moved around. I am now so utterly content in just being a mother, that my idea of a wonderful vacation is to go to a bed and breakfast a couple hours away with the kids. My idea of a career is to work from home and do freelance work. I don't feel I'm sacrificing any new frontier in my life I want/need to discover.  To me motherhood is that frontier, which I'll happily experience with my kids.  All mothers sacrifice alone time and hobby time - two important things every person needs. But that's what the dads, grammas and aunts for...instant babysitters! So when is the best time to have kids? All I can speak of is my experience as an older mother. And here is an older mother's advantage: everything is out of the system. No regrets for things you didn't do yet.  Now everything I want to do, I want to do with my kids. It's not about just me anymore. And I didn't reach that feeling until after age forty. I guess things have worked out the way they were supposed to for me. I'm an old mother, but I am more unselfish than any other time in my life. 

Pregnancy Travel and Etiquette

Constricting the baby could be something that third trimester mothers are unknowingly doing, I pondered over a long weekend of driving to southwestern Virginia and back to see relatives.  The seatbelt is not designed for burgeoning bellies. First off, it’s hard to get it to release enough slack to get it over the belly and into the holding latch. It was a struggle each time I got in the car this weekend, which was a lot of times because pregnant women pee quite often. Pregnant women need to get out of the car and stretch their legs. So what was supposed to be a seven-hour drive, turned into a 10 hour one.  Once the seatbelt was on, it was only a matter of time before it had to be adjusted to give the belly a break or to place the lap section either above or below the belly. Across the belly was no good. A strap mark quickly appeared. Was I cutting off circulation to my baby? Maybe this trip to see Prairie’s grandparents wasn’t such a good idea.  What I packed for clothes was a joke. The weather ended up being freezing cold one day, cold every morning and night, then 70 degrees during the rest of the days.  I just threw things together, not really paying attention to what I was bringing or what the weather was.  I had more important things on my mind, such as what to do with the cat while gone. Anyway, the wardrobe was a disaster.  The pants I brought were too tight or slipped below the belly, making me look ridiculous in public.  I had a black maternity polyester dress on one day that was too tight and made me look even more gargantuan than I think I already am.  When I sat down, it hiked way up, drawing stares, I suspected. Because in a sitting position, the back is slouched and the legs are flopped apart. I must tell you now I can no longer tie my shoes, bend over enough to wash below my thighs or reach my feet, or cross my legs like a real lady should do.  I was in the South this weekend, a Confederate state, south of the Mason-Dixie line. A lady has got to be a lady. So this waddling, huge lady with mismatched, unfitting maternity clothes and a working man’s posture was no doubt a site to see.  I had to keep lifting the entire belly up, as if it were a giant ball, to get the clothes and the seat belt to cooperate.  I don’t have pregnancy etiquette, I sit here realizing.  For I would stare at me too.  Adjusting the belly and dressing and looking like a slouch draw scrutiny. Melania Trump and Princess Diana had elegance, grace, and beautiful shoes during their sleek pregnancies. I look like a brood mare dragged in from the back pasture.  If I had gone into labor this weekend in the farming mountains of southwestern Virginia, surely any farmer would know what to do…calve me.  I rambled around that countryside and amongst that town folk with the confidence that I was in good hands if anything happened.  Etiquette? At this point, I just feel accomplished if I can get from point A to point B in comfort. Sitting here with stretchy sweatpants on is doing both me and the baby a world of good.  We are both at our most comfortable just letting it all out. 

Finding Something To Do Before Freedom Surrenders

Although the bending over to tie shoes is virtually impossible, I am finding that the third trimester is coming into it's own comfort zone. Like the snake charmers who become immune to snake venom, the huge pregnancy is becoming immune to the former challenges of gravity, cumbersomeness, and low energy levels. Who am I kidding? Maybe I just feel great today. Maybe it's because the temperature is in the upper 60's and not the upper 90's.  I gained three more pounds in two weeks as I tipped the scale yesterday at the doctor's office.  How am I absorbing that weight and not feeling it as much as I did a mere few weeks ago?  Maybe, because I didn't battle with my daughter to get her dressed this morning as her dad did it this time, I have a little more energy. Maybe it's because I had a hearty Mexican breakfast to fuel my day. Whatever it is, I feel so great I want to prepare for the NYC Marathon in a few weeks. I doubt the officials would let in a 46-year old third trimester pregnant candidate.  I am now barred from flights and cruises.  Just when I'm feeling slightly energized, I can't go anywhere or do anything fun. I want to go dancing, but I can't go to a club for fear the other dancers would bounce off me like bumper cars.  No one wants an enormous pregnant woman around. What do you do with her? Last time I was in my third trimester, I was at my job, glued to my desk. At least there was professional air conditioning and Hinckley and Schmidt water. But it was a boring way to pass the third trimester and my co-workers pretty much stayed out of my way. Now, I am footloose and fancy-free with nothing to do and nowhere to go.  These next 8 weeks are my ticket to freedom. What can I do? Maybe I will decorate the country house and take up golf :) :) Cooking and travel shows have become my nighttime passion.  It's just one of those ironies in life: I have the time but I can't do much.  Energy or no energy, that stomach gets in the way.  Guess I'm relegated to slow walks around the neighborhood, subway rides to Manhattan, and lots of computer time on the old derriere.

Finding out the Gender

Yesterday at the sonogram, the first thing the technician did was ask us if we wanted to know the baby's sex.  I asked if the only way to know it is a girl is the absence of a penis. She sort of laughed at my question and said that the presence of a vagina is the how you know it's a girl. I was embarrassed, as if I didn't know what the boy and girl body parts are!  But her revelation that a vagina is detectable in a sonogram is news to me.  I have heard various stories about the sonogram giving out the wrong gender. Even today someone told me that her friends were told they were having a boy. They viligantly decorated the nursery blue, only to have a girl. Forget the decor, but if you're set on a sex and it comes out the opposite of what you were told, or worse yet, hoped for, then there has got to be some psychological trauma involved.  You see, I am not convinced either that a sonogram can conclusively and infallibly determine the baby's gender. So, forget the whole finding-out-the-baby's-sex thing. And the only reason I would find out is to appease the strangers who ask me on a daily basis what I'm having. It's very sweet to be asked. Having babies brings out the best in people, strangers and friends alike.  I almost feel badly that I can't give the information that the passersby are looking for. I feel like I've let them down when I always and truthfully respond, "I don't know." Lately I have been adding "sorry" to the response.  People really do want to know what a pregnant woman has got inside there.  The other day a woman shouted from her window, "That's a good eight-pounder in there!" It almost sounded like I am carrying a fish!  After I respond my ignorance of what gender of baby I'm having, I often get a look back that states, "That's strange that you don't know the sex." Does everyone find out the sex these days and I am the only one on earth that doesn't? That's how I feel. And then I start to feel that I somehow don't belong, that I am way behind the times.  To be honest, I don't know why we don't find out the gender. I am not vehemently against finding out, nor am I unwaveringly committed to what seems like the old-fashioned way of being surprised.  It's a combination of the sonogram making a mistake, coupled with the guilt of deep down wanting one sex over the other. Because, believe me, at age 46, you just want a healthy baby.  The question I get from  my friends and acquaintances is, "What do you want to have?" And, of course, I always respond, "Healthy baby!".  And it's true. I can handle many, many things. But I cannot handle ever having a feeling of disappointment over the gender of a baby.  If I had said "yes" to the sonogram technician yesterday, there would have been some sort of unconscious reaction to the baby's sex, either from me, from my daughter, or from the daddy. And each of us would be lost in our thoughts, which would linger over the next 8 and a half weeks I have left.  No, thanks. I just want a healthy baby presented to me sometime in the first week of December. I just want to feel the flesh of my baby pressed against my cheek and chest.  The sex matters nothing to me.  So I don't want to know. And neither, apparently, does the daddy, because we both politely declined the technician's question to us.

Third Trimester Sonograms Help to Strengthen the Deal

It's been awhile since my last sonogram. The early ones mean a lot to an older mother because you really want proof!  Now that baby does a ferocious kick dance festival every night around 10PM, I'm quite certain there's a growing human baby inside me.  Still, though, it's nice to get even more certainty in the form of sound waves that put your baby right up on a t.v. screen while you lie back and enjoy the  view of what's going on in your uterus. This time I brought daughter and baby daddy to share in the fun times. My daughter was looking forward to this day and told her class she was going to see a baby on a screen.  She asked me a lot of questions on the subway ride over. Technical ones. "Is the doctor going to cut the baby out so we can see it?" I told her they wouldn't do that because the baby needs to stay inside mommy's tummy for awhile longer. "But how do I see the baby?" I didn't have a comprehensible explanation for sound wave technology. I just told her the lady is going to put a mouse on my tummy and that the baby comes up on the screen.  That explanation didn't really convince her because she envisioned a real mouse on my stomach. That led to a conversation about how the plural of "mouse" becomes "mice."  One mouse. Two mice. Once in the sonography room, I was saved from further explanations as my daughter watched in delight as warm gel was glopped on the top of the burgeoning belly and the "mouse" began to travel all over and around the belly to reveal images of baby. The face shot was the best detailed, but my daughter kept saying she couldn't see anything.  I wonder what she was looking at because the face was so clear to the rest of us. Finally she made out the nose, mouth and closed eyes. The technician printed out some images, which my daughter eagerly stowed in her Hannah Montana purse. Oh no, was she going to pull them out on the subway and show them to strangers? Suddenly I felt a twang of superstition. We still can't get too excited because...well, the big sigh of relief day is 17 days away.  Just as we declined today to find out baby's gender (I still can't get too attached yet), there won't be full excitement or planning until that 34th week hits. The doctor glides in to tell us everything looks great and is right on track.  That's fantastic. Well, my daughter is no longer impressed and announces that it is time to go home. We grab some graham crackers from the waiting room. By the time we're on the train, she is on to other, more interesting topics besides just having seen her baby sister or baby brother on screen. I look at the pictures when we get home.  A face to match a kick. Baby is getting there! I've got to savor every day and count my lucky stars. We're in the home stretch now. I hope I have as great as a finish as Secretariat did in the Belmont Stakes.

Patience and Stamina

I have found that being pregnant at age 46 while being a mother to a spirited four-year old is a nine-month exercise in patience and physical stamina. Visits to the playground are daily. If you live in an apartment, it’s a must. Once there, I am required to lift, play hide and see, play chase, push, hoist, balance, catch, maneuver, and squat.  Although it’s good exercise for me and the baby, I make myself do it so my daughter doesn't miss out on the ordinary. However, dealing with a four year old is anything but ordinary. It is a non-stop art of negotiation, battle of the wills, and role of teacher/exemplar/disciplinarian/praiser.  I have never needed to have more patience in my life. And the patience needs to last all day. That isn’t to say that tempers don’t flare, especially at night-time. My strategy is to remind myself that all this goes with the territory of parenting a four year-old.  But when you add 46 year-old third trimester pregnancy to the pot, it gets interesting. Baby seems to enjoy the endless action and perseverance because it kicks a lot all day long.  Yet I struggle to find moments throughout the day when I can just sit down and still be a fun mom. My daughter is actually quite supportive of my situation. She is ready to grab the cushions whenever we set out do an activity in the apartment like painting, coloring, or arts and crafts. She is ahead of the game and gets me comfortable.  Even then, I find it difficult to bend over to engage in the activity. The huge stomach stops me mid way. And getting up off the ground is another story. But I refuse to be inactive, as hard as it is. And it is hard. I mean this must be the physically hardest time in my life.  Knowing that millions of women throughout time have gone through and go through multiple child-rearing is my inspiration.  And I by no means have a single complaint. I am merely reflecting on the condition and state I find myself in. It’s something new for me.  Yes, I’d have to say that patience and physical stamina are the two things that I muster up the most each day. My daughter is my biggest inspiration really. She makes me keep up the good stuff. Chasing Prairie is my life’s best work.

I have found that being pregnant at age 46 while being a mother to a spirited four-year old is a nine-month exercise in patience and physical stamina. Visits to the playground are daily. If you live in an apartment, it’s a must. Once there, I am required to lift, play hide and see, play chase, push, hoist, balance, catch, maneuver, and squat.  Although it’s good exercise for me and the baby, I make myself do it so my daughter doesn't miss out on the ordinary. However, dealing with a four year old is anything but ordinary. It is a non-stop art of negotiation, battle of the wills, and role of teacher/mentor/disciplinarian/.  I have never needed to have more patience in my life. And the patience needs to last all day. That isn’t to say that tempers don’t flare, especially at night-time. My strategy is to remind myself that all this goes with the territory of parenting a four year-old.  But when you add 46 year-old third trimester pregnancy to the pot, it gets interesting. Baby seems to enjoy the endless action and perseverance because it kicks a lot all day long.  Yet I struggle to find moments throughout the day when I can just sit down and still be a fun mom. My daughter is actually quite supportive of my situation. She is ready to grab the cushions whenever we set out do an activity in the apartment like painting, coloring, or arts and crafts. She is ahead of the game and gets me comfortable.  Even then, I find it difficult to bend over to engage in the activity. The huge stomach stops me mid way. And getting up off the ground is another story. But I refuse to be inactive, as hard as it is. And it is hard. I mean this must be the physically hardest time in my life.  Knowing that millions of women throughout time have gone through and go through multiple child-rearing is my inspiration.  And I by no means have a single complaint. I am merely reflecting on the condition and state I find myself in. It’s something new for me.  Yes, I’d have to say that patience and physical stamina are the two things that I muster up the most each day. My daughter is my biggest inspiration really. She makes me keep up the good stuff. Chasing Prairie is my life’s best work

Busy October

Back in early September, not much was on the calendar except a doctor's appointment or two and a couple birthday parties for my daughter to attend, but now I am suddenly realizing, as the second weekend in October is here, that there is much, much to do this month.  I have to get on the bandwagon about Halloween. It's only three weekends away. I'm sure the really organized mothers got their kids' costumes all lined up weeks ago.  The farthest I've gotten is to find out what my daughter wants to be for Halloween. I pulled out last year's costume and asked gently and enthusiastically if she wanted to be the Statue of Liberty again. She's too smart. Apparently no four year-old wants to be seen two years in a row in the same costume. Maybe I'll tell her when she's a little older that I wore the same prom dress two years in a row.  I just changed the accessories a little. Who noticed?  I've got three weekends to get her costume in order. She wants to be a fairy ballerina, so I at least today I accomplished something for that. I dashed (well, you know, not really!) over to the main shopping street near my building and knocked off three items. When I got home, there were two birthday invitations for the following two weekends. Gotta get presents. That leaves just this weekend to do what a lot of people do in October: go apple and pumpkin picking. The latter is really important because kids need to carve pumpkins well in advance of Halloween night, so you have to get them and do a carving ceremony a few weekends before to let them glow in the window. Professional holiday celebrators know this and have the fronts of the houses all decorated by the first weekend in October. Where am I going to get pumpkins in New York? Where did I get them last year? Oh yes, we drove to Connecticut. Oh, no. It's Columbus Day weekend, the pumpkin patches outside the city are going to be packed. Do I want to face traffic getting in of and out of Manhattan Island? Could just head east to Long Island. Everyone else will be doing that too.  Why didn't I plan this earlier and go last weekend or even in September? Are pumpkins even ripe yet? Now that I think about it, I saw some pumpkins at the farmer's market in downtown Brooklyn the other day, along with some local apples. Could a trip to the farmer's market be our apple and pumpkin picking outing for the year?  I am already feeling guilty that I won't be giving my daughter the full experience. Gosh, holidays are hard. Three weekends and counting. Oh, and gotta make homemade birthday cards for four of my daughter's relatives who have birthdays this month. Next week is my next sonogram, then two more doctor's appointments.  I have to keep cool and collected.  Now I know what pregnant moms go through to make sure their kids get the same holiday fun and regular life. Being pregnant can't stop that. But it sure is a wake up call to learn that juggling is now going to be a part of my life!

Busy October

Back in early September, not much was on the calendar except

Busy October

Back in early September, not much was on the calendar except

Shopping for Clothes

As a largely-pregnant person, it is often not a good idea to go into women's clothing stores. This is where I found myself much of the afternoon, following my friend from one store to the next, even to a second-hand store selling designer rejects.  I had envisioned my friend and I going to museums and strolling parks for the day. But I non-sensibly suggested a meeting spot that happened to be on a busy shopping intersection. I followed her into the stores and saw clothes that I knew I wouldn't wear in my lifetime. Well, it seemed that way when I was looking at the outfits.  I can barely fit into my maternity clothes anymore. Can't they make maternity pants that stay up? The ones I have keep slipping down because the lower part of my stomach protrudes so much that is acts like a shelf. Unless the fabric can fit over the big, swelling hump, the pants quickly migrate to my hip line. And the belly is exposed for all the world to see. Not a pretty site. None of the maternity tops I own are long enough to cover the exposure. So, I spend half the time pulling the pants up where they stay for a sacred five minutes before having to repeat the action again. And this is what I did while following my friend around while she looked for cute dresses, skirts and sweaters.  Even though a "normal" person knows that they can wear anything they want if they really want to, a pregnant person doesn't see past the horizon of being grotesquely huge and having to wear tent-like attire for the rest of her natural life. It's as if life as we know it in our third trimester is what life is always going to be like going forward. We don't fit in to regular society. We don't fit in to regular clothes. We're outcasts.  That nice sweater dress and matching leggings is something I'll never purchase, let alone wear. We shouldn't even be thinking about clothes. We don't belong in a normal person's store. We are am doomed to walk the earth forever in burlap sacks and blankets. I have to get out of this store. I need to go to the bathroom.  I am leaking down there and my pants won't stay up.  Is there a store for that?

Neighborliness While Hugely Pregnant

Today I literally stayed within a one-block circumference of my apartment building, or as my sister calls it, my tenement housing. Taking my daughter to school is just a one-block jaunt around the back of my block. Across the street from her school is a Family Dollar, where I bought laundry detergent. The cashier inquired with me about my impending bundle of joy. Back home, I got the laundry together in my Santa Claus bag and cargo'ed it over to the laundromat. Most people in the neighborhood use metal push carts with wheels. I lost mine some time ago and have failed to get another one. Often times I use my daughter's stroller to act as a cart to carry the laundry. But it was hanging on a hook from the ceiling and I wasn't about to get it down. So I had no choice but to hoist up the heavy bag and sling it over my arm, just like Santa Clause would do.  The walk to the laundromat is just block and across the street, a very simple route. I did make it there just fine, although my wrist quickly cramped up. Immediately a woman warned me to be careful with my baby.  Getting back was much easier. A neighbor grabbed the laundry bag and carried it to my building. That was nice of him. The next chore was to mail off some bills, The mailbox is also one block away across the street. There is no cross walk, so the normal strategy is to poke yourself out onto the street and wait for an opening to cross.  But these days, all I need to do is appear hugely pregnant on the curbside and cars stop for me to cross. It's like being in Connecticut where cars must stop for pedestrians crossing the street.  I even had a bus stop for me so I could cross.  Throughout the day I got several "How much more time you got?", "When are you gonna pop?", "It's a boy.", "It's a girl."  These comments and questions occur on a daily basis the moment I step out the door. Today was no exception. But it's sort of fun to go around the neighborhood and get the banter exchange from people on the street. Pregnancy brings out the best in stranger interaction.  It acts as a conversation piece. It seems people who don't know each other really do want to converse. A pregnant belly gives an open and safe door to start asking questions, when normally, we would all just pass each other by, silent and stoned-faced, eyes averted. Like riding in an elevator...no one really talks to anyone else.

There was plenty of action today. Right on my street today were film crews and huge trailers set up for a two-day shoot of "The Sitter." I got a lot of stares, but no offers to be an extra.  I guess they didn't need an enormously pregnant person in the filming.  Another trip over to the school to pick up my daughter completed my outings for the day.  Family Dollar was unloading merchandise to the backside of the store on our street.  The loaders made a huge path for us to get through, making sure none of the boxes would come close to falling on me.  I am sort of relishing this extra attention I am getting from neighbors and strangers and passersby because I know once the stomach is back to normal (as if that will ever happen!), the special treatment stops and it will be back to anonymity.  Don't blame me for enjoying it another 9 weeks!

How to Stay Sharp-Minded in the Third Trimester

It's true that absentmindedness accompanies pregnancy. And clumsiness. Lots of "ness" words in fact. So I go about my day holding rails, staying far from the curb, using the handicapped bathrooms, walking slowly in the apartment. I also read small print owner's manuals, study bond duration problems, and figure out how to use new features on my cell phone - things I wouldn't normally be inclined to do - all in order to keep the brain functioning. Crossword puzzles are something I plain just don't do.  Never could, never will be able to! But maybe I should try?!  It's easy to get into a little daze when the belly is protruding and getting kicked from the inside and your four year-old is jumping all over you.  On the subway I must read something or I will go into a fog of oblivion and miss my stop. At home, I could just pet my cat continuously and forget to go to bed. I need more action.   I wish I could train for the New York City marathon next month. Or join a rowing team. Or do the flying trapeze on the West Side Highway.  But I'm stuck in this aimless, engorged body that keeps me mindlessly complacent and physically stalled.  Today I walked three avenues to the west and wondered how I was going to get back to the train because I was already fatigued. And the swarms of office workers on the Avenue of the Americas - of which I was once dynamically part - overwhelmed me as I walked through them. Doesn't anyone see this noticeably slow-walking giant coming towards you? Go around me, not into me. I made my way through the human traffic by diagonalizing to the left where some benches awaited me.  I sat on one of them even though it was wet from the constant rain we've been having. But being in a pack of frenzied commuters is not a good place for a spacey, immobile pregnant woman to be. I got out my book on bonds and started to read. Soon enough I conjured up some physical strength to get back on the subway. I have to re-think these excursions if I'm going to be at a turtle's pace. There are just too many obstacles out there on the sidewalks. You have to be sharp at all times.  In movies and sitcoms based on New York, there is no way you can carry on a leisurely conversation the way the characters do and walk two abreast on any sidewalk in Manhattan.  First of all, you cannot hear each other because there is so much background noise of people in front of and in back of and to the sides of you. There are constant sirens and car traffic whizzing by. The sidewalks have cracks and potholes and manholes and underground loading docks all over them. You have to watch where you are going or you'll meet up with some kind of accident soon enough. Having a conversation diverts your attention from simply trying to stay alive. Don't have one!  In Sex and the City, Carrie and one of her friends are always chattering away. Impossible Ain't gonna happen.  So, for a third trimester 46-year old on the streets of Manhattan,  absentmindedness has to be thwarted. Clumsiness has to be avoided. Socialization can't be had. Only purposeful, steady, slow, mindful, and silent walking is allowed.  And when I get home, more reading and brain exercises need to be done because in two months' time, I had better be the most alert I have ever been in my life.

The Waiting Game

In pregnancy there is a lot of waiting, especially in the third trimester and especially in your forties. Everything seems to move slower, mostly time. Now, I would never wish for time to go faster. Gosh no. At this age you want to start savoring every day (you should do that at any age!). And I want to relish every moment I'm blissfully pregnant when the chances of me being in this condition at age 46, I'm told, are so slim to begin with. Plus, let's face it. This is my last time being pregnant. (If you do find me blogging in two years on the same subject, I would hope to be on the talk show circuit.) So, how should I wile away the next 9 and a half weeks waiting for baby to come out? And I mean in the "getting ready" for it sense. I don't want you to think I do nothing all day.

Take today, for example. I did remove my fall clothes out of the trunk, which doubles as a table, and insert my summer stock in there. I got the neutral-gender infant clothes from my daughter's newborn days into some bags for laundering,  The layette is quite complete. But I did tell my mom, who has been bugging me to let her know what I need, to get some long-sleeved onesies as this one will be born in winter time, whereas my daughter was born in the heat of the summer.  I sorted by three, six, and nine months bags the rest of my daughter's first-year clothes, which are all pink, purple, flowery, little girlie, fringie. In case I have another girl, the clothes will be ready. I wouldn't need a thing if it's a girl. I do have some clothes for the first year that can be worn by a boy, as my sister lent me some hand-me-downs from her son when my daughter was in her first year. I had no qualms about putting a pair of pants on her with a fire truck on it. But I do have qualms about putting anything purple or with a flower on my maybe son. Is that a double standard? Little girls can be tomboys, but little boys mustn't be feminine?

The next task I performed was to move my dresser to make way for a crib.  Am I getting ahead of myself? I just need some things to do to get ready, but maybe it's too early. I need to wait three and a half more weeks when I hit 34 weeks, just to be on the safe side.  Until then, I guess I should just wait.  I'll simply think of my big belly as being an accessory to my body.  The waiting game will have to be played longer.

Energy Levels

When my doctor told me at my last month's check-up that I was like a 20-year, while I was inclined to jubilate over the wonderful compliment, deep down I knew it couldn't be further from the truth. Physically I have nothing in common with a 20-year old, least of all levels of energy. I remember 20 well. What bounding awakeness, alertness, athletic gusto, and force I had. And now? I simply feel like an old lady almost all of the time. You should see me go up a flight of steps. At the top, I am breathing hard.  No wonder I don't mind taking seats as soon as they're offered to me, as if I have the God-given right over anyone else to take them.  NO, it's not that. It's that I have to sit down or else I might collapse!  Energy levels? Mine is on "0". I walk across the length of my apartment and I am ready to sit down. Going from the couch to the bed can sometimes be arduous, especially in the morning when I first wake up from my daughter pouncing on me.  Thank goodness for Sesame Street. I let my daughter watch 30 minutes of it while I continue to lay down. When it was hot, my energy level dipped into the red. If they were measured on a graph, my levels would have been below the "x" axis. My pregnancy at age 46 is just that: a 46-year old who is pregnant. Without the pregnancy, my energy would be entering into middle age. Now add pregnancy to the equation, and it takes a toll, it is a drain, on the already fleeting energy levels that get sapped as each decade of life is lived.  It was a lot of fortune and good luck that led me to where I am today at 7 months pregnant.  Now I just have to figure out a way to fight for pieces of energy everyday.