"Sleeps like a baby." Yeah, right.

I left work early on Friday to take the baby to the pediatrician for her four-month well-baby visit.  She got shots, and we both seem to be handling it better now. She only screamed for a minute before falling asleep, and this time, I only got a little teary-eyed.  Then we came home and she had her first rice cereal.

Of course, she was fussy and sick all weekend. On Saturday, she barfed so much that I think we set a record in the number of outfit changes in a single day -- hers AND mine. Sometimes it seems like she holds it in until I'm the one holding her, and then she lets go.  She almost always smiles after she barfs on me, particularly if I've just showered. 

She loves to pull my hair.  I got a haircut yesterday, and when she saw me, she cried. It was like I threw out her favorite toy.

This week, she decided that she hates sleeping in her crib. She waits for me to fall asleep and then cries, inconsolably, until I take her into bed with me, which means that I'm sleeping in the guest bed about 75% of the time, so L can sleep. Then she will only sleep ON me.  Of course, on L's days off, when he goes in to console her, she seems to go right back to sleep. 

Sleeping like a baby. When it suits her.

She is SO good at daycare, all smiles and sunshine. The teachers love her to pieces: we walk in, and they all can't wait to snuggle with my baby. But they think that I'm a disaster. Today, when I took her in -- late, because she woke up at 5:30 and then fell asleep when I was trying to get us out the door --  all of the teachers were super concerned because she has a big cut on her cheek. Of course, they weren't around during the hysterical crying fit where she clawed her face.  

The worst was Friday, when they called me to ask me whether it was okay to wake her up, because she slept for over 2 hours.  Of course she sleeps there -- BECAUSE SHE WON'T SLEEP AT NIGHT, IN HER CRIB.

Three Months

The first three months went by in a whirlwind.

One minute it was my due date, and it seemed like I had been pregnant forever, not just 40 weeks.  There I was, planning my induction for the next week, and heading into the office because I would go stir-crazy at home, waiting ... and seemingly out of nowhere, my water broke, and I was headed to the hospital to have the baby.  Then, the long, long, LONG unproductive labor, followed by the c-section, and then -- the best part -- getting to meet our new little person for the very first time.

One day.

Since then, it seems like time has sped up.

One Month.

Every millisecond seems to go by more quickly than the previous one.

Two Months.

My once-teeny-tiny little newborn is now a sweet, wonderful, three month old girl.  She holds her head up by herself; she plays with toys; she giggles, squeals and coos in an attempt to communicate. Sometimes I am scared to blink, for fear that I will miss the next great achievement.

Three Months.

Week 40

We've made it in to our 40th week, and all is relatively well. I am ready for the pregnancy to be over (and the parenting to begin); the baby seems to be quite comfortable staying where she is. L says that she gets the stubbornness from my side of the family.

At the doctor this week, we picked out an induction date, just in case the baby doesn't budge. I'm glad there's an end in sight, but I really thought that things would get going on their own.

Honestly, I have to admit that I'm a little bummed that there's no sign of the baby yet today. I mean, how perfect would it be for a mom born on one all-American holiday (Thanksgiving Day) to have a daughter born on the other (Independence Day)? Then again, my sister was born on Christmas, and while my nephew was due around Easter, he wasn't born that day either. Maybe I should stop looking for patterns in these things....

Almost-Mother's Day

It's been a long time since I really celebrated Mother's Day. For the past four years without my mom it's been hard -- a reminder of what I've lost.

But this year was the start of something new for me, my identity as a mother and not just as a daughter and granddaughter. Even though the baby is not-quite-here yet, I am already her mommy, and she is already my child, my daughter. There's just so much to look forward to in that.

L sent me lovely flowers, and informed me via text message that the baby helped pick them out. I'm not quite sure how that works, since I'm fairly certain that the only one she communicates with is me, and it's through kicks and punches.


Over the past few months, with the pregnancy, my mother has been back in my dreams, a lot. I mostly just remember bits and pieces of them, but I have a vivid recollection of one dream from a few nights ago. Mom and I were arguing about the baby's name, and who to name the baby after, and the argument escalated until it ended with me telling her that she couldn't tell me what to name the baby, because she was dead and I had to name the baby after her.

Sometimes I wish I just had sex dreams like everyone else.

35 Days of Solitude

And so, with the chicken pox mostly behind us, on Sunday, L left for a five-week work training program in Little Rock, Arkansas.  When we first found out that this class was possible, it freaked me out a bit.  I mean, he was going to leave me alone for the end of the seventh month and most of the eighth.  But the alternatives were worse -- I don't think I could handle being left alone with a newborn.

And so, here we are.  I'm hoping to use the alone time to get stuff done in the house, but let's face it -- I don't have the energy to do a lot right now, and I'm slow as molasses.

The Pox, Part II

After L came down with the pox, two weeks went by . . . and nothing. I thought I was out of the woods.

And then, late last Friday night, or early Saturday morning, depending on how you define those things, I had a dream that I had the chicken pox. In the dream, I was itchy and covered in spots. I woke up that morning to find a handful of red spots -- one on each arm, a few on my abdomen and chest, a few more on my back. Most of them were hard to see, but the one on my right forearm was clear: pink, asymmetrical, and with a blister of clear fluid starting to form on the top.

Chicken pox.

After a few moments of panic, I called the OB/GYN's office to find out what to do. When she called me back, she managed to calm me down, telling me that at 28 weeks pregnant, the risk to the baby was minimal.  She also told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was not to go to their office -- or to my childbirth class on Monday night and my ultrasound on Wednesday -- because I did not need to expose a whole bunch of pregnant ladies and infants to the pox. Instead, she sent me to my primary care doctor, who had not seen a case of chicken pox in a very long time -- let alone in a pregnant 36-year-old. One of the other doctors in the practice had advised that antiviral medicine was not only safe, but recommended, for pregnant women with the chicken pox, and so, after a little bit of research, she sent me on my way, prescription in hand, and warned me to be very careful of any potential complications such as infected blisters or symptoms of pneumonia.

I spent the week taking the medicine, avoiding interaction with people, trying not to be itchy and uncomfortable, and making sure I did not get any sicker. Some things worked better than others. For example:

• I learned that oatmeal baths are great, if a little weird and slippery. 
• I learned that the worst part of telecommuting is the lack of human interaction. Every time the phone rang or I got an email, I was very excited. 
• I learned that avoiding contact with other people is harder than it seems. First, when I tried to sneak into the pharmacy at an off time to pick up my prescription, there was the woman with two small kids that, no matter how hard I tried to avoid, kept following me and wheeling her kids up right next to me.  (Hope they've been vaccinated!)  And then, on Monday, not only did the cleaning lady show up (after I had left a voicemail to cancel the appointment), but the condo manager brought two workmen in to check our air-conditioning.
• Most of all, I learned that the baby is pretty resilient. She seems just fine, kicking away, as if nothing happened. 

Anyway, as I type this, the blisters have either healed or dried up, so I am no longer contagious. Back to business as usual tomorrow.



POSTSCRIPT:  I am very lucky that this case of chicken pox was so mild, and that I got it at this stage of the pregnancy, rather than (1) early in the pregnancy, when it is higher risk to the baby, or (2) very late in the pregnancy, when there was more risk that I would go into labor and then the baby would contract it.  But more than that: according to WebMD, the Mayo Clinic, and a whole bunch of other sources, the odds of having a severe case of chicken pox increase incrementally in adulthood, and then, as many as 20% of pregnant women with the chicken pox get pneumonia as a complication -- and as many as 1/3 of people with varicella pneumonia die.  So, right now, I am especially thankful that I have good health insurance, doctors that answer my calls on Saturdays, and quick, easy, and cheap access to antiviral medicines.  I wish everyone else could be so lucky.

The Pox

The past few days have sucked in the OliRue household.

L, out of nowhere, came down with a case of shingles -- which, if you don't know, is essentially a limited -- but extra painful -- reemergence of the chicken pox. And, of course, I have never had the chicken pox, and it's super-double-plus ungood to get it while you're pregnant.

I feel horribly for my husband. Not only is he uncomfortable and in pain, but we're sleeping in separate rooms so that he doesn't infect me and the baby. (We have walkie-talkies, but they really only serve to pick up taxicab radios.)

There is, however, a little bit of situational irony in the whole thing, courtesy of my neurotic mother.

For some reason, my mother was obsessed with making sure I had the chicken pox. My siblings both had it, and I didn't catch it. Then, whenever neighbors or cousins or friends or friends-of-friends -- or the kids of people she kind of knew -- came down with it, she would take me over to their houses to catch it.

It never worked.

When I was in high school, I had friends that came down with it a second time. When I was in college, my roommate and one of my suitemates had it. Still, I never caught it.

For years, whenever I would plan anything significant, or whenever I had any major event on the horizon, my mother would always qualify it with " . . . unless you wind up getting the chicken pox."

Eventually, I just assumed I was immune. My working theory was that I had it when I was very little, and my mom -- busy with two other small kids -- thought it was just a rash. But when I first got pregnant, the doctor ran my bloodwork and told me that I was not immune, but then said that it wasn't really anything to worry about nowadays -- the majority of kids are immunized, and most adults have already had it. Then she said that she'd arrange for me to get immunized after I have the baby.

And so, of course, we're here, hoping I don't catch the goddamn chicken pox from my husband, in the last week of my second trimester.

Fingers crossed.

Pregnancy and Public Transit

I've been living in the greater DC metropolitan area for almost 12 years now, and I've never lived further than a few blocks from the Metro. I've never wanted to live further away. I love the Metro. I love the idea of public transportation. I love the convenience. I love not having to sit in traffic or pay a small fortune to park my car. I love being able to sit down with a book and relax. I never thought anything could change my mind -- not delays, not broken air conditioning, not even annoying springtime Cherry Blossom tourists.

Except now, being pregnant on public transportation is making me reconsider. I hate Metro. I hate that there's always a delay, or a broken escalator, or malfunctioning air or heat. And I hate the crowds. I hate the fact that, in the morning, I can't get a seat because of all the perfectly healthy young men that don't look up from their book or newspaper or iPad to notice an uncomfortable pregnant lady trying to hold on while the train lurches. I hate the rushing people in the evening, particularly the older men that push me out of the way, in fear that the slow pregnant lady will keep them from getting a seat. I hate the looks from the younger women when I sit or stand near them, as if being pregnant was a contagion.

For years, I've politely offered my seat to visibly pregnant women on crowded trains, thinking that one day, the gesture would be reciprocated. But no, not once. In fact, a few weeks ago, I gave up my seat to a young girl who was significantly more pregnant -- and noticeably more uncomfortable -- than I, while hordes of apparently young, healthy commuters either ignored us, or worse, looked on.

Then again, maybe it's not the Metro: maybe it's people. Maybe having this baby is making me notice what assholes people are.

Antatomy scan redux

On Feb. 15, when we had the anatomy scan, the baby was entirely uncooperative. And so, yesterday afternoon, we had it redone.

This time, she was awake and kicking the entire time.

Mostly, though, she's healthy and growing, and very very cute.

Feb 15th

It's a GIRL!

 19 weeks in and SHE weighs about 10oz.

Is it a Boy or Girl?

On February 15th, if all goes according to plan, we'll be finding out whether Cletus is a boy fetus or a girl fetus. Between now and then, however, we're giving you guys a chance to guess. If you look to your right, you'll see a poll. Vote (guess?) now.

In sickness and . . .

L and I have both been sick. I had originally caught a cold right around Thanksgiving, then got really sick when we were heading back from St. Thomas. I fought to get rid of the cold over Christmas and New Year's -- but, of course, then L got sick. Then I got sick again. Vicious cycle.

Finally, by last week, we were all but certain that we had sinus infections, so I broke down and made us both doctors appointments. Last Wednesday evening, we finally got our hands on some good, old fashioned antibiotics, and climbed into bed after taking our pills -- L took his with some Sudafed, I took mine with some cough syrup since the Sudafed keeps me awake at night. I then proceeded to cough so hard that I threw up all over myself.

Once I cleaned up, brushed my teeth, and changed my pajamas, I sat in bed crying for a few minutes. This, of course, was very distressing to my husband, who, I'm fairly certain, had not really seen me cry. In defense, though, I'm not much of a cryer, and when I do it, it's mostly in secret.

Still, he was awesome. He held my hand and told me that he loved me. Which is pretty amazing if you think about it: to still love someone after they've just thrown up all over themselves and are a weeping, emotional mess.

A love letter to stretchy waistbands

This week, we went back to the doctor, I went back to prenatal yoga, and I got my first maternity clothing.

As you know, I was very anxious about buying maternity clothing, but, last week, I realized that I had no choice, unless I can figure out a way to go to work in my pajamas and/or foldover waist yoga pants.

So, I ordered a few pairs of pants from the Gap and Old Navy (they carry petite lengths!), a few blouses, a dress from Japanese Weekend, and then, some pants and a sweaterdress from Ann Taylor Loft. Internet shopping!

The pants were the first to arrive. I tried them on, and I almost cried.

For joy.

Stretch waistbands are the best thing ever.

Well, maybe that's an overstatement, but it feels true if you're 16 weeks pregnant, and all of a sudden, you have a giant tummy and no waist. I didn't know how uncomfortable my regular pants had gotten until I tried on the maternity pants. And they're not ugly. Win-win.

Now if I could only find a maternity sports bra for prenatal yoga. . .

Prenatal Yoga

Last night, Cletus and I went for our first prenatal yoga class.

For the record, I've been doing yoga on-and-off since I was in law school a billion years ago, so I thought this would be no big deal. I've done pretty much every kind of yoga, from the kinds with gentle movements and focusing on breathing, to the kind where you move every second in a hot room and get more of a cardio workout than a good stretch. I like yoga -- or at least I think I do.

Anyway, last night's prenatal yoga class was a surprise to me in many ways.

The first was that, in a big metro area filled with lawyers and other professionals, I did not really think that 36 was old to be having a baby, despite what all the books say, and despite the fact that my doctors keep gently reminding me that I'm "high risk." Last night, I got the message. I was positively geriatric compared to most of the women in the class -- and many of them were on baby #2 or baby #3. Maybe it's because the old ladies like me work too much to go to prenatal yoga. Sigh.

Second, I realized once again that I am positively huge for fifteen weeks. Gigantic.

Third, and perhaps worst, I realized that I am now completely inflexible. Positions that I could do with no problem a few months ago are now completely outside my range of motion. My old bones just do not want to move.

So, when L came to pick us up, he asked how the class went. I told him I hated it, which is an exaggeration. I really did not enjoy myself. But I'm going to keep going, because I think it's good for Cletus.

Heartburn and Muumuus

Last night, L had a cold, and I had horrible heartburn.  I've read the books (and the internet), and I know that heartburn is a very common pregnancy symptom.  And, to be honest, I've had heartburn in varying degrees pretty much since we found out about Cletus.  (I think it kind of makes up for the fact that I haven't been very pukey, but my sister would probably disagree and then threaten to punch me again.) 

But last night was the kind of heartburn that made me realize that my kishkas are all moved around where they're not supposed to be, and OMG it's only the end of week 14 and I have 26 weeks of this shit to go, and I'm just going to get more gigantic, and the heartburn is only going to get worse . . .

So yeah.  I'm a big fat baby, both figuratively and literally.

Anyway, this brings me to my real topic:  weight gain and maternity clothing.  As in, I am getting really fat really fast, and I'm going to have to get maternity clothing soon, and I am scared to death of the idea of it.  And to think that about 3 years ago, I was the same size that I was at 22, and I will probably never see that size again.  So I'm probably going to have to clean out my closets and drawers and get rid of all sorts of things that I've been holding on to, beautiful things that I am fairly certain will never fit me again.  Sob.

I'm going to have to replace all of my cute stuff with baggy shapeless muumuus.  SOB!

L, because he is wonderful and positive and optimistic, is, naturally, excited about the whole process.  He looks forward to my "bump" (oh, how I hate that word!) looking more bump-like and less like I've spent the last three months eating nothing but pie -- WHICH I HAVEN'T, but that's what it currently looks like.  (Note:  I have gained less than 5 pounds.  It's just all in my midsection.)

So, anyway, I feel like a giant, round, blimp already, and I have six months to go.

Cletus, in profile

One week ago.  Check out his or her nose!

The Nameless Mass in My Wife's Uterus

What is this thing?  For the first few weeks we called it Zygote LaRue.  But the word "it" seems so impersonal.  So "it" was quickly replaced with "she."  That is not to say that there was any indication of sex, but the whole XX vs XY thing seems to suggest that we all start out as female; thus, "she."  Soon after this, we noticed a trend among recent new parents:  it seems that all of our friends and family have have had boys as of late.  Bucking the trend as we often do: "she" seems to stick.

A few weeks later, Zygote LaRue was appropriately replaced with Embryo LaRue.  We made this official by taking a peek at her via ultra-sound.  Sadly, she looked more like a chocolate-glazed doughnut hole than a person at this point.  Not just because of her spheroid shape, but also due to the horrible color contrast of the video monitor.

The magic moment for me was when we first got to hear her heart-beat.  She played hide and seek for a moment, and then performed her first composition which sounded a bit like a Slurpee Machine sloshing away at a perfect 160 beats per-minute.  Embryo is now a Fetus!  Dara quickly named her Cletus the Fetus, and the name remains.

Last week we had a formal ultrasound.  Cletus was quite the drama queen.  She kept raising her arms over her head like a 1940's movie starlet voicing "I do declare."  When it came time for her close-up profile shot, she promptly rolled over and mooned us.  Yes.  This is our child.  Indeed...

So...  Cletus the Fetus of the Oli-Rue clan is well.  Soon we will find out sex.  Then comes the hard part: A NAME.  My favorite suggestion so far came from Jennifer Browne via Facebook:
Lara Dance Oli-Rue.
Awesome...
For a boy's name, I am leaning toward Devo Lucian Oli-Rue.  (Dara says "veto.")

It's official! We're having a baby!

Today officially marks 14 weeks -- the start of the second trimester.  And so, we started to share the news over the past few weeks -- and, after telling my boss, I posted it on Facebook on Tuesday.

Now that everyone knows, there are a few things we can share.

1.  How we found out.  We really didn't think it would happen so fast.  L and I had pretty much decided that we were going to get married and have kids, but were in no real rush to do the former.  But, because we're over 35, we knew that we probably had a limited window for babies, at least the old-fashioned way.

For some strange reason, we were convinced that it was going to take us a while to actually get pregnant, and so we came up with the clever idea to stop trying to not get pregnant.  And then, a few weeks later, early one Saturday morning, there it was, on the pregnancy test, clear as day.

So I did what any normal girl would do:  I went out to the sunroom to check my email and process the information while L made breakfast.  (We were doing a low-carb diet at the time, so it was eggs and bacon or something of the sort.)  When I came back into the living room, he hugged me, and I said something to the effect of "Oh, by the way, we're having a baby."

Nice, huh.

2.  How pregnancy has been so far.  In a word, crazy.  I mean, since we've found out, it's been nonstop doctors, discussion of risks, weird test results, food (and smell) aversions, sheer exhaustion, and a non-functioning immune system -- combined with work stress, holiday stress, family stress. . . .  Oh, and we managed to elope in the middle of it -- wedding stress.  (Well, sort of.  We do realize that by eloping, we saved ourselves about 99% of the stress of a "real wedding."  But we probably would have eloped anyway.)

Still, it's been worth it:  according to all the tests, we have a healthy fetus.  So there's that.

3.  The worst part.  Not telling anyone was pretty challenging for me.  I mean, I wanted to call my Nana the second I saw the positive test, but I didn't want to get her hopes up.  Every day, I would vacillate as to whether I should just call her and tell her.  I needed to tell SOMEONE.  And lucky for me, one of my friends was getting coffee with me when I got a call from the doctor's office with some of the weird test results.  So I had someone to tell.

But really, that wasn't the worst part.  The worst part has been not having my mom here.  She would have been ecstatic.  And then, one day, when I was really really sick -- with the cold that still won't go away! -- I said to L, with tears in my eyes, "I love you, and don't take this the wrong way, but I really want my mommy." 

4.  Why I love my husband.  Well, there are so many reasons.  But a really good one is that he talks to the fetus.  It melts my heart -- and I'm not the sappy one.

Oh, and you should have seen his face the first time we heard the heartbeat, and then, when we saw the baby on the ultrasound.

5.  Why I love my baby already.  Again, so many reasons.  But during the ultrasound, he or she kept doing all these super-dramatic things with his or her arms -- and then, right at the end, he or she showed even more attitude by flipping over and mooning us. What a little jerk!  I am so proud.