Week Seven

The child is not herself this week. This week being, week seven of her existence. Ok, so who exactly is "herself," and who am I to say that she is not being herself? I am her biological mother this is true, but it is unlikely that she is too aware of that apart from the smell of the boob. That established, she does appear to be having a clingfest combined with a possession. She is only calm when I hold her, facing inward, squished up like a grapefruit. The only way I managed to calm her today was to place her in the ergo carrier and walk around with her until she fell asleep. Otherwise she just cried and cried. Real tears. Real tears make everything much more drastic. I feel a thousand times the worse mother thanks to the real tears. Oh damn you tear ducts! That and the dirt under her finger nails, must I now bathe her daily? Or the acne, should I alter my diet? (My diet of chocolate and bagels. Oh how healthy we have become).

She poo'ed all over me today, and the duvet cover, followed after the clean up, by a pee, rinse and repeat. Charmed, I'm sure. She screams hysterically every single time I change her diapers or change her clothes and little distractions, say rattle shakes or loud music, work to appease her for seconds, at best.

Andrew got a few minutes peace with Metallica or so he said, but I was in no mood for his remedies having endured about seven hours of non-stop joie de pill.

She also likes to HOWL after I remove her from the boob.

So, she doesn't know who I am, but only wants to be with or on me.
She has no sense of self and yet has managed to convince us all that she is satan's offspring.
She is covered once again in baby acne and has me feeling extra guilty for my lousy diet.

and yet... she is perfection and I love her.

But when she finally sleeps I will pluck out the eye boogers and trim her nails. Oh yes, and then I'll smear Aquaphor all over her dry, acne face and hope she doesn't wake up.

Come out, Come out, Whereever You Are

My official due date is tomorrow. I am *trying* to "go with the flow," and just hope that this baby decides to come on out soon. I have had three, today will be number four, days of semi-encouraging Braxton-Hicks contractions. I guess they are Braxton-Hicks because they stop and have not lead to "real" labor. They seem to start around nine p.m. and last until about midnight. When I awake, they are gone.

It is so frustrating and inconsistent, that I begin to convince myself that the whole experience is my imagination and that nothing is happening at all. However, my doctor, who has a wee bit more experience with this whole baby thing than I, truly believed that I would deliver over the weekend, so I can't be completely insane.

I've tried actupuncture, massage, red wine, walking, spicy food, no food, too much food, fat food, fried food, sex and all sorts of ridiculous visualizations, mantras and chants. Nothing is too kooky for me at this point. It's not even that having her around inside is *that* uncomfortable. It is no worse, or no better than the previous eight months, it's just that I am BORED. I am tired of the transition phase. I want to meet my daughter. I want to endure the labor, deal with the pain, and move on. Enough talk already, let's have some action.

I'm fairly sure, in fact, that the evolutionary plan is to break down any sense of control ever felt on my part in order to allow me to endure the pain of child birth. I no longer am saying to myself "it's going to happen today, or tomorrow, or .." I am just thinking, asking, begging, her to come, and to come soon. I am resigned.

Yet, I am fearful of the induced route threatened for the 22nd of January. I'd prefer not to have to do that. Although, increasingly, even that seems acceptable if nothing happens prior. I can deal with that too. Natural or not, drug-induced or not, I just want to meet her. To see her, to know that she is in fact ok, alive and kicking and to begin being a mother.

My own mother's absence is so prevalent at the moment. I want to ask her so many questions and wonder what she would be experiencing or saying were she alive.

Meanwhile, the living relatives make me nuts. I've turned my telephone into a baby update line in order to avoid how is your vagina conversations which frankly, bore me to tears.

Flip side of that is, not so much interests me either. I am in a bit of a fog. I feel between worlds, semi-alive, zombie-like, going through the motions of a day but not with much sincerity or interest which is a shame. I should really be thriving and enjoying these quiet times, these peaceful days. these work-free afternoons. But I can't make myself enjoy them. I can't guilt trip myself into productivity or zen living, I have to accept a certain degree of anxiety and mixed emotions. Chalk a few of them up to raging hormones, a few to boredom, and a few to frustration. Pure and unadulterated.

Little B's kicks hurt now. She is large, I fear, VERY large and she needs to come out before I explode. I can't quite figure out how she manages to stay in there given how large she feels. Sometimes, she kicks me and I curl over. I think she is a big baby. Yikes. I can't tell what parts she is sitting on, but I do know she is wedged down there, awaiting her exit plan, so at least I have that going for me. We have that going for us?

When does the I become the Us exactly? Sometimes I feel it has, but at other moments, I don't feel that way at all. I have moments even of wondering if this desire to have a child is even a good desire, I know it's biological, evolutionary, and has felt very real, but does that make it mine? I also know that I love her and will love her and will do my best to be a decent parent, whatever that means, but that doesn't make the occasional ambivilence dissipate much. I have selfish times when I fear that my marraige will suffer because of parenthood or that I will lose my identity or become less of a person because of mommy-dom, or is it mommy-dumb? Does this make me a freak or human?