And now for the real thing...

Good thing we practiced the trip over the weekend. Now to see if we can make it in the dark ;-).

I'll be back in a few days!

Driving practice

This weekend we decided to practice driving to the maternity hospital once again. Now, I suspect that in most cities driving from one major highway to another and then pulling off onto a short side road to visit the largest hospital in the area might not be something to be overly worried about, but Prague is a city averse to navigational convention. Highways, while named on maps, demonstrate a modestness when met that is amazing to see. They don't flaunt their numbers, they'd never overwhelm you with a compass point. If they admit to their existence at all, it's to state where they head to - neighborhood, town or city.

We found the highway to our hospital by following signs to Vienna, and then veering onto the road to Nuremberg (three hours west, in Germany). Finding our way in the first place took a try try again approach. We wanted to make sure we could find it again when circumstances might be a little more stressed. Hence our rehearsal drive, Sunday.

I should say right here that I’m a fan of cars. I love traveling out of the city to visit green hills and castles, to drink beer and eat pickled cheese in pubs discovered by chance. I like being able to turn on the radio loud and listen to driving music without having to wear headphones, and I really like being able to take back roads to mysterious places not marked on the map and figure out how to get home from there.

My family, however, does not share my enthusiasm. As soon as Caroline gets in a car she rotates between discussing her sensitive stomach and demanding to stop for a hamburger. Will grits his teeth, eulogizes public transportation, and loses all ability to navigate himself from point A to point B, even if those two points are around the block from each other. I keep a plastic bag in our glove compartment for Caroline (handy for those moments when she really does throw up) and there are times when, ten minutes into a trip, I feel like pulling it over my head and gently pulling the tabs taught.

To avoid family contention (and diminution) we don’t drive much. The last time we filled up our gas tank, we were on our way home from a Christmas trip in late December. We still have half a tank of gas to go before we face the sticker shock of gas prices, I'm guessing June will mark our next trip to a gas station. Due to extenuating circumstances however (the eminent arrival of child #2) and my lack of desire to take a taxi while in labor, Will has agreed to drive to the hospital when the time comes. To make sure we get there, we've added rehearsals to our Sunday schedules.

These practice drives have served us well, because while we still have never returned home from the hospital the same way twice, we’ve finally worked out how to get there, and all that practice has given me a chance to put together a photo map of the route for Will. I'm planning on taping it to the windshield so that I can take comfort in knowing that, even if I lose the ability to formulate sentences such as TURN RIGHT NOW, I DONT CARE IF IT SAYS AMSTERDAM, we may still make it to the maternity ward before the baby is born.

By the end of our rehearsal drive Sunday, Caroline had turned pale green from all the twisty roads we'd taken to reach home. Calling the trip done, she and I stumbled out of the car several blocks short of home and claimed an outside table at a café nearby. Will parked and found us sitting there a while later, soaking in the sun. He sat down, ordered a beer to match our apple juice, and peace reigned for several minutes. I revelled in the sunshiney weather and the knowledge that our flat was only a few short blocks away - ahh city living. Then Caroline demanded to know when we were heading to McDonalds, she was hungry, and could we go through the drive-in?

Portrait at 36 weeks

I took this picture today as I was about to run out the door (or rather walk in tiny, mincing steps as quickly as possible) to meet a friend for coffee. I liked it because it highlights the belly and shows off a present Will made for me, just framed and ready to hang.

Anyone want to guess what's in the frame?

Pre-assembly instructions, or, what I learned from a manual last night

Caroline wants to know how she is put together. "What’s inside my tongue?" she’ll ask, or "What do ribs look like?", and of course, "How do babies get borned?" The internet is great for answers to these important questions, and I look out for sites that have just the right amount of info for her - pictures that illustrate without being gruesome, that show just what she’s asking for rather than overwhelm with details.

Yesterday I found a drawing that showed the inside of a pregnant woman’s belly at 36 weeks. "That’s me!" I said and C and I poured over the picture to figure out just how the baby could fit into that tight squeeze of a belly and where other organs normally present had wandered off to.

It was no surprise to find that my lungs are stuffed into a space about 70% the size of their normal home, and that the baby is headbutting my bladder. What I did find amazing was the sight of liver and stomach lodged high beneath Ms. 36-weeks' ribs. I pondered this for a bit, and even dragged Will over to see the view, but then Caroline got tired of torsos, and we switched to dressing up Max and his sister Ruby, over at Nickjr.

Last night, hunger struck in the early hours of the morning and my stomach started growling. I patted my belly in solidarity (comfort was all it could hope for that late). Then the illustration flashed in front of me and I realized I was patting the baby’s shoulder and side, not my stomach. But wait, where were those hunger pangs coming from? With thought they disappeared and they’ve stayed gone ever since.

This morning, C asked me how her feet grew. I was relieved. Discussing feet expansion seems like a nice safe subject - guaranteed to not keep a person up at night chasing elusive hunger pangs in what might be the silliest self-inflicted case of insomnia yet.

Epidurals in the Czech Republic

Will and I still remember the screaming. It was the woman in the next room in the hospital and she screamed to hoarse silence as she gave birth. I hadn’t gotten tired yet and was still in a chatty mood, but the screaming made us scared.

"Will it get that bad?" I asked. "Is this usual?" The doctor shook her head. "No, that lady didn’t want an epidural, and now she is regretting it. Don’t worry, pain like that isn’t common with an epidural."

The doctor was at least partially right - I never felt like screaming. I did sing Beethoven very loudly when they cut off the analgesia for the last stage of labor (apparently music is my dinosaur brain’s way of coping with pain), but labor hormones combined with the epidural helped me remember C’s birth as a challenge rather than a trauma. I'm guessing, though, that the doctor was wrong about why the woman didn’t have an epidural. When epidurals are provided to far less than 10% of women giving birth in a community, your next door neighbor's drug-free delivery most likely isn’t about a real choice.

Less than 10%. In 2002, MedLine reported that over 60% of women in labor in the United States used epidurals (65% in California). In Western Europe and Scandinavia, the average seems to hover around 30%, depending on location (women in the countryside have a lower epidural rate than women in cities). Availability of an anesthesiologist, cost, hospital willingness, and the education of families are the key contributing factors to women receiving epidurals.

How do I know this? Besides a MedLine/Google addiction, I am in the middle of reading through a worksheet on epidurals, provided by my obstetrician. It is actually part of a packet of documents that I have to sign and hand back to the clinic next week. Most of these papers are related to the birth certificate or to reserving a space in the hospital and I’ve read through the lot, but the epidural pamphlet, that kept my attention. Eight pages long, it not only asks for my approval and sign off on all risks (which I expected), it also presents a history of epidural analgesia, a list of frequently asked questions, and anecdotal stories from doctors and patients.

One doctor’s story: "I personally recommended delivery with the help of an epidural to one of my patients...to my surprise the anesthesiologist informed her that her legs could become paralysed as a result of the epidural."

The doctor had three possible explanations for this. "Either this anesthesiologist had little experience with epidurals and was afraid to apply them, or he didn’t want to spend the night monitoring his patient, or he wanted to save his hospital money, as the insurance companies reimburse clinics only for a small amount of the actual cost."

Sounds like an honest appraisal to me, and I’m guessing the lady next door to us had a similar story to tell. Or maybe, based on one of the FAQs in the brochure, her husband talked her out of it. See below. I liked the answer, though I would have been more blunt.

Q. My husband calls me a coward for wanting pain relief.
A. That is a somewhat old-fashioned and incorrect opinion, especially since men will never have to go through such pain.

Based on Will’s still remembered fears from listening to the lady next door, I’d bet that husband called his wife a coward before her water broke. At least she got the birth hormones.

The Little Bitty Egg

Reading through my old commonplace books written in a preblog time, I found this story from my pregnancy with Caroline and thought I'd share.
...

The other day I went to a corner store that has just opened up close to our apartment. We needed eggs, milk - the standards I suspected even a local grocery would carry. After picking out my favorite boxed milk and admiring the displays of pickled cabbage and Coca-Cola products carefully arranged, I still could not find eggs. So I went up to the deli counter and mentioned to the lady in my most polite Czech that I would like, if at all possible, some eggs: "Chtela bych vejce."

Now, the way you say "vejce" in Czech sounds a lot like "vaysay" and it's a pretty easy word to pronounce, so when I made my request to the counter person, I was surprised at how startled she seemed for a grocery store employee. But then she looked me over and told me (also in Czech) that yes, in the office I would find them.

It takes me longer than it should to translate a simple sentence back into English, but after only a few seconds spent considering the ceiling tiles and humming aimlessly, I had jumbled all her words together enough to figure that we were in what might be called a communication breakdown. I knew for sure that most little stores in Prague didn't keep their eggs in their offices - they kept them on the floor right next to the cleaning products.

I started talking about hens, round objects, small children, any word or phrase I could think of to somehow clear up the confusion. The lady, perhaps thinking I'd lost my head and memorized a thesaurus of oddly related Czech terms, came around the counter, grabbed my basket and marched me off towards the office. My heart sunk, the baby kicked in objection, and I realized I'd obviously violated some obscure local shopping etiquette and was going to face the manager and be told all my sins.

I considered bolting out the back through the loading dock, but then I'd have to leave my milk and sugar behind, and after all it was such a convenient location for a grocery store. Suddenly we stopped, no manager in site, and I came out of my miseries to find the grocery lady triumphantly pointing out the "VaySay" (WC).

Illumination dawned! She'd decided that I was a pregnant woman in need of a bathroom!

I'm pleased to report that after I drew several pictures of eggs and chickens (the office came in handy after all) we solved all communication errors, and, both rather red about the ears, returned to the store to find the eggs so I could check out. They were next to the cookies, not the cleaning supplies - an important lesson I tucked away for future purchases.

I also learned that, though "vejce" is pronounced "vaysay", no one except television commentators uses such a formal version of the word. "One little bitty egg", or "vajíčko", is apparently the term of choice amongst the smart shopping set of Prague.
...

Thankfully, my Czech has improved since those days, but we still find eggs in all sorts of unconventional spots in the little groceries around our neighborhood.

At least I didn't trip over my tongue (this time)

Not the most graceful of souls in balanced times, the addition of a bolded b belly* has thrown off my center of gravity. I blame my shoes too - wobbly slides that threaten to slip off if I lift my feet too far off the ground. They're perfect for pregnancy (no laces, no heels) but if I get distracted, I just can’t help but add an extra trip step to my walking routine.

I shuffle stepped Caroline over to school today since Will had an early presentation to give and C wanted to show me her school artwork. After admiring a brown rabbit (an original drawing) and a bowtied duck (identical to all of its sibings - I suspect teacher churn out), I helped C change into her playclothes. She showed me off to several friends, we kissed and I turned to leave.

Suddenly, Pani Director was by my side, a sheaf of papers in her hand. Summer term documents, I must sign immediately.

"That's right," I confirmed, "Caroline will not be in school for July, she has camp then. On the other hand, I’d like to sign her up for August, we don’t know exactly the weeks we'll be in town, but we will shortly and of course we’ll pay for the whole month since that is the only option."

This lack of August organization kindled fire in Pani Director’s eyes, her voice raised to a sawlike pitch and she began to complain about the difficulties of working with foreigners - their inability to make decisions, how they thought they could pull children out of school at any time. I turned off my ears and pretended to not understand the rudeness. I reminded her we had six months till August, I was sure all would be resolved well before then. She counted the months on her fingers (satifyingly fat and rather stubby), and seemed surprised to find it true. I reminded her again that I was paying for the pleasure of my inconsistency, bid her good day and left, carefully managing not to trip over my shoes until I was well out the door.

* bolded b belly = how C remembers the difference between small b and p right now.

Help is all around us

Imagine the scene: The hardware section of Tesco, an old fellow absorbed by jigsaw blades, and me - seven months pregnant, holding tight to a four year old so she won’t wander off and get lost (she’s pretending to be a puppy, she wants to sniff everything, I’m considering a collar with a radio frequency tag attached).

This far into pregnancy, I can’t reach my shoes any more. Leaning down is not an option. The bottom shelf in front of me may as well be in sports and fitness, so useless and inaccessible it appears. But then I decide to use for good the pup straining by my side.

"Caroline, can you reach down and hand me that drill bit just there. No, not that box, the next one, the one just under your freckle hand. Perfect!"

"Hm....which bit works with cement? Damnation they have a bit for wood and one for metal but nothing says beton! Oh, sir sir!!" (I turn to a high schooler dressed in Tesco blue, and start babbling away at him in something resembling mechanical Czech.)

The old fellow edges closer and bends a beady eye on the Tesco help to see what he will say. The kid is at a loss, but after consultation between old and young, we settle on a set and go in search of Will, who has studiously avoided our corner of the store - he suspects I will indulge in chattiness. Thankfully Caroline doesn’t see anything embarrassing about a pregnant woman discussing hardware in ungrammatical Czech with the male population of the Tesco drill bits aisle and we quickly find the rest of what we’re looking for - newborn-sized diapers, Scotch tape to replace the last dispenser C devoured, a chicken for supper - and head towards home.

Caroline is enthused by her helpfulness and becomes generous: "I’ll set the table Mommie!" she says, so I gather silverware and placemats together and let her go. By the time the chicken is finished, so is she and we carry plates to the table to find it set with silver candlesticks, forks and knives carefully arranged, spoons placed randomly, small books on each placemat, a drawing wedged between the candles, and sunglasses in front of C and myself.

She begins dinner by flipping through her book, and asking Will for "some juice in a little glass, and this" (she says, pointing to a Flopsy Bunny). I pick up my menu (Now We are Six) and order chocolate ice cream. We all agree ice cream sounds better than rabbit, and then we dig in. Dessert - chocolate ice cream with bananas and nutella on top, is delicious.

And I thought the naming of cats a difficult matter

Eleven weeks till baby launch and still he swims, nameless, in the belly.

Actually he’s not swimming any more, he’s a tightly packed in fellow by today. I can tell when he’s awake and wants to suck his thumb: he elbows me politely as if to say, “Oh, pardon, could I just move my arm a tad? Right, that does it, thanks.” He's less polite when he feels like stretching. I've rolled from one side of my chair to another following his feet across my ribs.

With all the pokes and rolls and internal conversations, you’d think by now I’d have a character sketch I could pin up and say, “Yes family, this is our guy, our X.” But, no. And no name has come to me in the middle of the night, while standing in the metro, or while day dreaming over Amazon book lists. No one idea that makes it clear the right choice has arrived and I can check ‘name’ off the baby to-do list.

In desperation I have tried the following:

Polled friends at dinner parties. Results: discovered this method to be slightly painful depending on how late in the evening you start the poll, and how much humor you have hung onto throughout pregnancy. You do get to know your friends better.

Polled immediate household. Results: adventurous additions to our list of “Future Names for Pet Fish”. Examples include Budvar, Elijah, Cellar, Kittycat and Boy. These were not all from Caroline.

Read up on ancestors in search of interesting precedents. Results: discovered that people changed the spelling of their last names quite freely two hundred years ago, but first names stayed the same from one generation to another, to another. Also, that downloading census records is slightly addictive.

Scanned junk mail daily. Results: More names for our fish list! Favorites from last night: Manumit, Eloy, Vinicius.

Used the web to look up lists of names. From the U.S.’s Social Security website to Czech saints’ names, there seem to be over 12 million baby name lists on Google today. I'm not kidding, go run a search and see. Results: I believe I’ll skip Bohumir, and while I’m a big fan of iVillage’s Name Voyager tool, I’m still puzzled in Prague.

I’m now holding name auditions - calling the baby a likely name for at least 24 hours to see if it sticks. Caroline and I also practice yelling our favorite names to see if one feels right paired with “Caroline B. B. get over here right now!!” Audition time slots are still open, so suggestions are welcome. The winner gets a free book of Czech baby names, mailed to their address of choice.

* Name Voyager: A timeline that charts the popularity of a name from the 1880s till today - fun with statistics!

In which I forget the existence of hips

Saturday night, home from a party, none of us were ready for sleep. Caroline and I lounged about reading and listening to music set to random. Blues followed country followed jazz. Then “99 Luftballons” came on. I solemnly took C's hand and said, “This, Caroline, was the European youth anthem of the 80s. Perhaps the most fabulous song recorded that decade, it will stop a room full of grownups in their tracks and make them dance.”

Then dance we must, in the kitchen on the wide oak boards just right for bare toes. Pajamed, stamping feet, C and I threw ourselves into the beat. I picked her up and twirled her around, we tried a few swing steps, then Caroline grabbed my shirt and pulled it over her head, “Hello baby are you dancing too, let’s all dance” she said. And we did.

I’m a little stiff today, but glad to know that I can still boogie with less than three months to go.

Maybe wallpaper

Caroline is moving. To herald the arrival of the baby, and make space for a crib in the smallish room our relatives call a walk-in closet and we call the nursery, we're turning our office/guest room/library into C's bedroom. To get her used to the idea, we've transformed it into a play room already. Once painted and decorated, we'll move a bed in too.

The painter came today to pick out colors and we finalized our deliberations. "White," I said. "Rainbow" argued Caroline. "Red, black, purple and pink." A brief melee ensued, involving painter, babysitter, Caroline and myself in various languages, but finally we agreed. White, and we'll hang lots of paintings all about and set up shelves in different colors above the bed (tucked out of site from the dinner table by a very convenient door).

Tonight we dabbled in watercolor and talked about color again. Red pink purple black are C's favorite colors and have been since she knew how to ask for them, but she's starting to like blue too. We played with repetition and then I made up a square for her of blue and black rain drops. Tomorrow I'm due to repeat the project in red and black, and maybe purple and black and for sure pink. Caroline is thinking of a new line of wallpaper - to go over the bed or cover her wardrobe, and wouldn't the baby like some watercolor wallpaper too?

“22 Weeks (and 11 inches)”

Tonight you rest content to roam
within the small space we two
have spun. Home is a narrow room
you’ve backed into, head tucked tight.
“She feels safe that way,
look, there’s more room behind her,”
the doctor says as she ciphers light
from silent sound on the monitor.

But times are, I feel you
elbow out, reach beyond those lines,
stretching my longing point too.
Time soon will be, face to face
we’ll begin our divide. Then will
I remember this balance of roll
and righting? How easy it seemed
to carry you, by my side.

-me, February 19, 2003

Though truthfully I'm actually 23 weeks pregnant today. I meant to post this yesterday but fell asleep with Tuesday-ness. How's that for some news?