While My Boyfriend Was Sleeping

What I write after Joe and Henry go to bed

Rock me mama: Growth and change in 2014

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I started this post a couple weeks ago and my intentions were to discuss the ways in which I think I’ve grown as a person, a mother and a journalist. I also intended to discuss the ways in which I think Joe has grown as a person, a father and a journalist. I thought this would be semi-interesting to at least four people.

I intended to share some of my brilliant and ghastly time management strategies, as well as some of my brilliant and ghastly potty training strategies.

I thought I’d tell you that Henry regularly uses the toilet, but since he also regularly bites other humans, throws close-fisted punches and flings chewed food on myself and the dog I wouldn’t say he’s 100 percent housebroken yet.

I thought I’d tell you we got a new dog.

Folding him into our life has helped fill a void and mend an ache. After months of huffing Cubbie’s favorite blanket in an attempt to bring him back, I washed it today for the first time with a load of sheets.

I thought I’d tell you that after a year of hustling as a freelancer, work is starting to happen with as much surprising regularity as Henry’s good potty days. This month I filled my calendar with so many projects and assignments I had to turn down work.

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The King has entered the building.

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Surprise. Surprise.

The King is here.

Holy anticlimactic!

I let 12 days go by after his birth without so much as posting a picture.

Sorry. I’m easily distracted. I’ve had non-stop company and I’ve been nursing a newborn around the clock, which for a novice such as myself, requires both hands.

So yes. I’ve neglected to update my favorite corner of the web.

But what about Henry, you ask.

I’m sure it’s why most of you have pulled up this site repeatedly over the last couple weeks.

The newborn I birthed! Where is he? How did it go? Did the birth center live up to its expectations? Would I recommend natural childbirth? (More on that later…)

I know some of you grew impatient and decided to find my Facebook profile. As cringe-worthy as FB can be sometimes, it’s much less time-consuming than writing a real blog post. For someone whose friends and family are scattered all over the world Facebook is a requisite social networking tool. My profile has been a hub of activity since Henry’s birth.

In this space, however, I like to take my time.

Just like Henry.

Who, by the way, was born at 1:05 p.m., Sunday, June 5 at Breath of Life Birth Center.

He weighed 8 lbs., 12 oz. and measured 21 inches long.

“Ooo! It’s about time we got a trucker,” said my midwife, who sized me up with a disconcerting GRIN as I waddled painfully into the birth center in the throes of active labor. “We’ve had a lot of pipsqueaks lately.”

The most coherent thing I said that morning: “A TRUCKER?! I don’t want a trucker!”

But I got a trucker, who one hour after being born attempted to crawl. No kidding.

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Home on the strange

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Today I’m six months pregnant.

SIX MONTHS.

I’ve been pregnant for half a year. 180 days. Longer than My So-Called Life was on air.

Like my baby boy, this post has been incubating for some time.

My sentimental soon-to-be-brother-in-law recently asked me to write something emotional about pregnancy.

“I want to read your feelings on the subject,” he said.

I told him I’d get around to it.

So here goes:

Pregnancy is a strange and beautiful thing.

For eight bucks I purchased a stick at CVS. I peed on it and I took a bath.

I shaved my legs and I read an issue of Vogue. I let the stick sit for a while on the bathroom counter because I was too nervous to look at it.

When I emerged from the tub, I tiptoed past it as if it were already a sleeping baby and I closed my eyes because I was too nervous to look at it.

I walked into my bedroom and slipped into a pair of PJ pants. I headed for the living room and as I passed the bathroom, I turned my head away from the door because I was too nervous to look at it.

I sat on the couch beside my husband and thought about the work I had yet to do.

Pregnancy tests develop in three minutes. Yet I let mine sit for half an hour; long enough for Joe to watch The Daily Show because I was too nervous to look at it.

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Pregnancy Confession No. 2

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[I can't give up baths.]

This one came as a huge surprise to me:
Pregnant women are not supposed to take hot baths.

Your body temperature rises, which can be harmful for fetuses.
Especially in the early months of development.  

A prolonged spike in your core body temperature could cause birth defects.
 Avoid the bath tub, avoid overheating, avoid birth defects.

But we all know fetal development isn't this simple.
And common sense, as I'm learning, can serve a woman well in pregnancy.

There are a lot of "rules"
A lot of old wives tales.
A lot of fear-rooted dos and donts. 

I love my baths.
Love soaking my bones in a hot tub.
Love sinking my shoulders under the water
and feeling the tension of younameit loosen and release.  

I love to read in the bath.
All of my books are warped from water.

I never would have guessed that this habit,
my most therapeutic habit,
might harm my unborn baby.

So I read some more on the topic
and learned that while HOT baths aren't safe,
WARM baths are just fine.

Which was a relief.

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