American Woman has generally enjoyed being pregnant. But the final couple of weeks are going to be rough, especially as she needs to keep working for a while longer. Here is her List of
Top 10 Rubbish Things About Being Pregnant
10. Inane Conversation. The usual pointless question "Hi, how are you?" has been replaced by "How are you feeling?" Why? No one ever particularly cared how I felt before. Why am I suddenly among the potentially poorly just because I am with child? And does anybody really want to hear that my pelvis feels like I'm an 80-year-old in need of a hip replacement? I doubt it. All too often I can't help myself by replying in a sarcastic, mock-sympathetic voice, "Fine. How are YOU feeling?" Almost as bad is the shift from varied conversation (film, holidays, news, work, whatever) to single-topic conversation: the baby. Although I have to say, this bothered me a lot more at first. These days, I'm probably as guilty as anyone else of talking LOTS about baby-centric issues.
9. Restricted Eating. Not that big a deal, but I will sure be glad when I can eat any old kind of cheese again, consume caffeine, or chow down on my usual snack of choice: nuts. It's a cruel trick of nature that I've really been thinking how yummy boiled peanuts are (don't cringe--it's a southern thing) at just the time that peanuts are off the menu for me.
8. Restricted Movements. O.k, I can't even WASH DISHES properly, because my girth prevents me from getting close enough to the sink! Sleeping usually results in numb limbs because I've been stuck like a beached whale in the same position for half the night. The stairs at work leave me more breathless than my 8-mile jaunts across London once did. Worst of all is probably the contortions I have to get into in order to throw myself into the Mini. Curses generally accompany this activity.
7. Touching. Oh. No. Do not even think about it. To their credit, as far as I can remember, the British have managed to maintain their DELIGHTFUL reserve in this department. I can't recall a single Brit who has attempted to pat my belly. Can't say as much for the Americans with whom I work (total strangers until 3 months ago), nor for our otherwise lovely Ecuadorian neighbor, nor for our equally lovely Indonesian tenant. I've managed to develop a strategy which works pretty well as a result of my aversion to this uninvited physical intimacy: when I spot someone closing in for a feel, I swing my handbag in between my baby and my assailant. I'm also pretty skilled with my "giant step backwards" maneuver when absolutely necessary.
6. Morning Sickness. This has abated, but it still deserves a mention. For someone who is never ill, much less of a vomitous inclination, daily upchuck was a pain. So much so, in fact, that I actually kept track of the number of times it happened: 41.
5. Low Pain Threshold. This isn't so much a complaint as a worry. I'm never ill, but when I am, look out. I am the world's crappest sick person. The worst pain I can remember, in as long as I can remember, has been from occasional headaches (which almost ALWAYS happen at work--go figure--or as a result of caffeine imbalance). I try to think Earth Mother thoughts about how I'll be able to handle the "discomforts" (HA!) of labor since I'll be focusing on the glorious arrival of our child. That's what all the books and folks at the National Childbirth Trust classes keep telling me. I'm pretty sure this isn't actually going to work at all. "Drugs," you may suggest. Here's a good one they told us at the hospital early on: "If you want an epidural, you can have one, as long as the anesthesiologist is available--which he might not be if he's busy somewhere else in the hospital. By the time he gets to you, it might be too late in your labor for you to have the epidural." So that's something to look forward to.
4. Where to put her? Have you seen our flat? 741 square feet. Do you know how big that is? My classroom at work is bigger. Enough said.
3. Mothercare. This is the only remotely affordable show in town as far as maternity clothing goes. London is peppered with delicious little boutique maternity clothing shops. I ventured into one the other week. Tops started, STARTED MIND YOU, at ₤215.
So that brings us back to Mothercare. The ever-patient Pad Dad accompanied me into the FLAGSHIP STORE on Oxford Street yesterday. My quest: to find nursing bras, since I as yet have none. After both of us scouring the racks of said undergarments (which could only be viewed/reached by clambering up on a footstool--always a good plan for the pregnant lady), Pad Dad and I managed to find two which were not my actual size, but were at least somewhat close.
We then waited for ages for access to the ONE changing room they have available. A basic review of their customer demographic should indicate to these vendors that somewhere to SIT while queuing for the changing room would be really quite a good idea. Mais non.
When finally I made it into the changing room, I discovered that in a cunning use of resources, they had used a security tag to clamp both bras in a 2-pack TOGETHER. This would be, just, STUPID enough on its own, but they had strategically placed the bulky security tag right on the part that circumnavigates ones ribcage, thus making it absolutely impossible to judge whether the damned things fit or not. Now, when you're pregnant and standing in front of a giant, oh-so-well-lit changing room mirror, you're not at your most emotionally stable. Trying to remain calm and reasonable, I buzzed the little "help needed" buzzer. For about 2 minutes I overheard the staff trying to figure out the origin of this noise. When finally they worked it out ("Oh wait, could it be coming from the changing room?"), along came my rescuer. When I explained the problem and asked whether the bras could be unattached so that I could try them on, you know, SEPARATELY, she got all huffy, acted like she had no intention of humoring me, and told me that it was quite possible to try them on even though they were clamped together. My genuinely spontaneous, aghast reply: "Yes, but that's ridiculous! Can't you just separate them for me?" Off she went, hardly able to walk with the struggle of it all, and back she came with the garments detached at last. Just my luck, though, they indeed did not fit.
Pad Dad stayed behind and complained [about the idiocy and the changing room provision and the security tag provision] Apparently they agreed with everything he said, and he can expect a letter from the manager. Fan-flipping-tastic. That will make it all better.
2. Roz. This is the woman who conducts our weekly NCT (National Childbirth Trust) classes. Since I went on a quite therapeutic, lengthy rant about Mothercare, I shall try to be brief. There are two main problems with Roz. Firstly, the sound effects. She provides what I guess she must consider amusing little noises whenever she's describing physiological aspects of childbirth. Which is often. An example: apparently, when the baby is in the final descent through the birth canal, the sound we can expect to hear is similar to that produced by a donkey: "Eee--aww--eee--aww." I swear if I get through the next 2 weeks without slapping her it will be only through extraordinary self-restraint.
Almost as bad as this is the funny voice she puts on whenever she uses a word of more than 3 syllables. Which is often. I can't really convey this in cyberspace, but imagine the voice someone would use when talking to a small child or perhaps a puppy: high-pitched and squeaky, but with the cheeks (of her mouth) sort of squeezed together: "UUUU-ter-ISSS, cae-SAR-ea-ANNNNN, ep-EEEES-i-OT-omy."
1. Doctor vs. Midwives (plural). A quote from a midwife at the hospital several months ago: "Oh, you won't see a doctor AT ALL unless there's a problem with your pregnancy." AT ALL!
I have, in fact, got over the initial shock of this. O.k, so they do things a little differently here. Instead of an obstetrician, you have a midwife, who is a highly-qualified (if medievally-named) professional, perfectly capable of delivering your baby, just as she has delivered hundreds of others. It isn't as if we're living in the middle of the Sahara. This is a civilized country. They have fantastic health care, in the great scheme of things. It'll be fine.
Yeah, just when I got used to THAT, they lay the really good news on me: there is no way of knowing whether I will even have MET the midwife who delivers our girl before the actual "moment of truth" (or, more realistically, the actual "16 hours of truth"). We have seen about 6 different midwives so far--a different one almost every time we've been to an appointment--and it's perfectly possible that NONE of them will be with us in the delivery room. So basically I get whomever draws the short straw and has to work over Christmastime. Brilliant. I am awash with confidence.
