Shot Through the Heart, but I'm OK!

Today we went for another round of baby immunizations. My doctor doesn't give them all at once, she spreads them out a bit so there aren't as many needles at one time. I'm not sure how much it helps, each time the needle jabs into the baby's leg, I can feel its icy coldness go straight through my heart.

I'm still smarting with the pain. His little red screaming face is burned in my mind. Nothing about the shot was fun. But even though it hurt him physically and tears me up inside, I will continue to take him for his shots as required. I will bring him home and nurse his sore little leg because of a scrap of paper I found in my grandma's files after she died.

It's a bill from the late 1940s sent from St. Paul's hospital in Vancouver. It has yellowed with age and every time I read it I pledge to vaccinate my children. The amount of $2.73 is less than the price of my morning coffee, but its not the number nor the the threats for non-payment it contains. The bill is for the care and disposal of Larry - her son who died at two years old of whooping cough. I don't know why she kept it for 60 years, but I can imagine how hard it would be to lose a child. How hard it would be to have two sons running around and then one day to only have one.

Whenever I think of vaccinations, I think of my grandma who moved to Vancouver with two babies and moved back to Prince Albert with only one. Why would I open myself up to repeating her experience? Babies die every day all over the world from diseases that could be stopped with a simple jab in the leg. Even if there is a risk of some side effects from a vaccination, I'd rather take that risk than the other one. The risk of not having a baby anymore. The risk of kissing my baby for the last time.

It's easy to forget how many children died of diphtheria and whooping cough and how many children had their lives changed by polio. I'm not a medical expert, I'm just a mom. But I'm a mom who doesn't want to go to the hospital with a sick baby and come home without a baby because I decided to tempt fate and not vaccinate.

Not a crybaby

I think so far I've got an easy baby. He sleeps. I just put him down and he falls asleep. Sometimes he falls asleep before I put him down. Sometimes I put him in his bassinet and he falls asleep there.

When he was born, because he was early, we had to wake him up every three hours to feed him. Sometimes he'd fall asleep while enjoying a meal. But within a week the doctor told us to let him sleep until he woke up and then feed him.

He's two months old and he's kept a pretty consistent schedule, every few hours he wakes up, cries a little, has a diaper change and some dinner and falls back asleep. Sometimes he sleeps for an hour and sometimes he sleeps for four (that means I get to sleep for at least three hours in a row!)

It would be easy to complain about getting up for two feedings a night, but I know I'm lucky. I went for coffee with one of the other moms at the infant-parent group and she talked about having to cradle her baby's head while her husband ran a vaccum cleaner every night for the first two months. Now they just have to play a tape of a blow dryer and the baby falls asleep. It's still far harder than just putting him down.

The health authority gave us a DVD on purple crying -- formerly known as colic. PURPLE crying is apparently very common for babies between two weeks and three months. So far, we've hardly had any of that inconsolable crying. Yes, I'm knocking on wood that this lasts, rumour has it I cried for my first nine months.

Now, he's starting to wake up more and more. I have to learn that nothing is wrong with him. He's just awake and looking and thinking. He's started to gurgle and coo. He has a rattle that attaches on the side of his bassinet and he bats that with his hand. Sometimes he just stares at the ceiling fan or the bassinet's warning label. And now he's waking up....

Baby pile fears squashed

When I had Baby W, I was worried that I wouldn't recognize him if we were separated. I admit, I've had little experience with babies -- I tend to look at them in others arms and not even offer to hold them myself.

Aside from birth videos, I don't think I'd seen a newborn in the flesh. My baby, though beautiful, looked like a baby. How could I tell him apart until he became more defined? I was worried if they piled all the babies in the hospital in a big baby pile (like they do with puppies) I wouldn't be able to tell mine apart. Though I'm sure Canadian hospitals don't routine make baby piles -- what if something happened when I wasn't looking.

So this week I went to two parent infant classes at the local health centre. There were babies of all ages, many around five months. As I looked the 10-week old on my left, I realized that my baby looked totally different from every other baby. His hands are bigger than that ones, his hair is thicker, his mouth is more... like mine. Much as I wouldn't mistake another man for my husband, so too will I always know my baby. A relief.

The classes were interesting. Ok, they weren't. They were horrid and boring presented by people who were reading off a piece of paper they picked up off the internet. I didn't realize so many parents were illiterate. But most parents had figured out the gig, it wasn't about learning about play or infant massage it was about looking at other babies and talking to other adults.

So when the presenters inhaled or took a break everyone started talking. Having a baby is like backpacking through Europe, when you are in the throes of it, you have something to talk about with everyone. "How old? What's his/her name? What was labour like? How's breastfeeding? Are you tired?"

W. lay on the mat with the other babies (very close to a baby pile) and slept after examining the other babies. In situations like this I'm always super nervous. I don't even know what I think people will think but I clam up. I get so mad at myself after I leave -- why didn't I ask that nice lady to go for a coffee after? Our babies are the same age, we can go for walks together or go for coffee or anything...

However, I made up for it after berating myself after leaving the first class. I saw the lady who sat next to me about to cross the street as I got ready to sit down for coffee alone. "Hey, E.," I shouted out the door, "Would you like to have a coffee?" So we sat and talked and it was lovely and I felt like I was doing ok.

No one expects the Spanish Inquisition -- or a premature baby!

I wrote about writing a birth plan and turns out, I was almost entirely correct. I just missed the date. Turns out the baby was ready to come out five weeks early. In the middle of our renovations. Did I mention five weeks early?

C and I were both late babies. Most first babies are late babies we heard. We were both two weeks late so we assumed that the baby would be late as well. We were worried it would be a Christmas baby. I had sort of wanted a baby born on November 11, 2011.

As far as being pregnant I was starting to get uncomfortable. I felt as if there was a lever pushing my ribs up and arching my back -- but other than that I still knew the worst part was ahead. Or I assumed it was. But I liked being pregnant. I finally showed pregnant enough that people would give me a seat on the train and stopped pushing me on the platform. Pregnant was fun.

The day the baby was born we sold our washer and dryer. We went to Home Depot. We went to Costco and argued about what diapers to buy. I was in favour of buying the bigger ones only (for 10 pounds and up) because the baby was going to be big. I ctleaned out the cabinets in anticipation of having new tile laid in our apartment. I watched television. And we ordered delivery pizza. We never order delivery, little did we know what type of delivery we were getting.

I went to the bathroom. "Chris, I don't want to alarm you but there was a bit of pink in the toilet. Probably nothing but just thought I'd let you know."  We talked and since it was 9 PM on Sunday night I thought I should call my doctor. I'd rather talk to her then than at midnight.

"Well," she said, "It's probably nothing, but we should just make sure your membranes haven't ruptured. Come to the hospital. You might want to bring your bag." Bag? What bag? I wasn't supposed to have a bag until the end of November. There was no bag. I grabbed a suitcase and threw in my toothbrush, a pair of socks and a bottle of water.

We went to the hospital. It felt like a joke. I hadn't felt anything like a contraction. I felt a bit funny but fine. We were walking in from the parking lot and I had to slow down going in the main door. That wasn't a contraction -- was it?

Then to the examining room where my doctor said, "Well your membranes haven't ruptured." Whew, I was ready to get off the table and go home. "But you are fully effaced and one centimetre dilated." I forgot what that meant -- but I knew it meant we had started the journey to having a baby.

Writing a birth plan

I'm at 33 weeks and my handy pregnancy app tells me it's time to write a birth plan. What is a birth plan you might ask; well I'm asking the same question.

A birth plan is, according to babycentre.ca: "a way of communicating with the midwives, doctors, and nurses who care for you in labour. It tells them about the kind of labour you would like to have, what you want to happen and what you definitely want to avoid."


I thought  most communication when I was in labour would be pretty old fashioned. "Does it hurt?" "Yup, it hurts." But now I need to write a birth plan about the type of labour I would like to have. Like to have? Do I get a say in the end? 


It's pretty easy. I'd like to wake up in the morning and realize that I'm having gentle little contractions. I'd stay at home and hang out while that first stage of labour moves along. At some point, I'd call my husband and we'd head to the hospital. No dramatics. Maybe we'd stop for a hot chocolate on the way.


I admit that I know it doesn't work like that so at this point it would start to get slightly uncomfortable, but nothing severe -- like wearing high heels for an hour too long at a party. The nurse in charge would admit me right away and say, "Hey wow, you are eight inches dilated. You are going to have a baby in an hour or so. Here make yourself at home in your room." 


Then, an hour later, everyone would gather around me, and 10 minutes later the baby would slip out like a banana from a peel and I'll have a happy healthy baby snuggled in my arms. No worry, no fuss, no drugs. They'd bring me my dinner in the hospital room and it would be awesome with no onion soup in sight. The baby would sleep through the night and wake up coo-ing when it was hungry. 


Of course, if I get to write the plan, my baby will be perfect in every part and will never get a cold or get sick and will toilet train itself (much like the dog did). We'd discover some hidden genius at five years old or so, like the ability to play complicated Mozart concertos on the piano by ear. But other than some secret talent, there would be nothing too extreme, just something that would ensure the child a happy, healthy life.


You know, that's the way it works, because it's in the plan. Isn't it?

What is it?

I think when my mom was pregnant with me, people might have started conversations asking if she was  pregnant. Or perhaps when she was due. That must have snuck into modern etiquette as bad manners. But I'm not sure the alternative is much better. The only question I get asked is, "Do you know what it is?"

It's so odd. At first I'd look around in a bit of fear and wonder, "Oh god, what IS it? Where is IT?" before I realized they were referring to my expanding waistline.

I've gotten used to it, particularly as my thoroughly pregnant waistline says more than any clever t-shirt could. I'm so tempted to answer, "I hope to hell it's a baby, because if not it's a hell of a tumour!" Instead I usually say, "Oh, our parents don't want to know so we're not telling anyone until it's born."

I could lie. But why? Does anyone need to know? Really? What does it matter? The next question will be about names -- and frankly, I'm not willing to talk about baby names on the train, in line at Starbucks or anywhere else.

Then they might ask when I'm due -- which is invariably followed by speculation about my size and weight gain, "Wow, you are so small! I (or my wife/my friend) was your size when I (she) was three/five/six months along."

So? I find discussion of my weight and size also a strange comment. No one has ever once turned to me in the change room and said, "Wow, my boobs weren't that big until I was at least 18." I'll be honest though, no one has ever referred to my breasts and any word meaning "big" in the same sentence. But it's the idea of comparing two bodies and being surprised that one is bigger (or smaller) than the other.

But I can't imagine it happening in any other situation. At urinals, do men stand next to each other comparing penis size out loud, "Wow man, you are huge!" People accept variation in all bodies -- why on earth is it considered so normal to comment on it during pregnancy?

My baby is clearly going to be different from yours -- just as I'm different from you. Why would we look the same?

I guess I understand. People want to talk about babies. They want to acknowledge that something very special is happening with my body. It's sort of nice to have a built-in icebreaker, even if I can't zip up my jacket anymore.

While I can understand the questions they still feel very odd. But, on the other hand, I can't even suggest alternate questions, except perhaps, "When are you due?" or "Are you excited?" (For reference, November 30 and Sure.) It's also far better than a friend who seemed to get every scary labour story told to her. These often end with "And then she gave birth in the toilet."

To be honest, the whole experience of being pregnant is odd. I think they gave us too much sex ed in school. There was too much emphasis on how NOT to get pregnant. There were threats of having to carry around fake babies to see how much work babies were. Getting pregnant was a very very bad thing and no one talked about the day that you might choose to have a baby. I'm sure there's a great study in women delaying pregnancy and the depictions of pregnancy in early adulthood.

So sometimes I feel a bit like Juno. Like everyone looking at me knows I had sex and GASP got pregnant. Nevermind that I'm married and have been for three years. Nevermind that people have babies all the time. Nevermind that we're so lucky to have been able to get pregnant so quickly (because hey, I'm over 35!).

Perhaps that's why I'm a bit uncomfortable talking about being pregnant -- particularly to strangers. It feels a bit like they are asking about sex. I understand the ideas of "hiding" a pregnancy or the custom of prenatal "confinement" that used to be so common. It's hard to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary is happening when you're walking around with a beach ball in front of you. But maybe there's a better opening line than, "What is it?"

On Divorce

I re-read my last post "Why Marriage?" and I felt I should add another post about divorce.

Because though I like marriage and think it's generally a good thing, I also know people divorce.

Heck, I think some people ought to get divorced. There's no use spending the rest of your life being unhappy or making someone else unhappy. My parents divorced when I was 11 or 12. It was pretty yucky. I coped by making mountains of shaving cream in the toilet and flushing it. (Honestly, it was a lot of fun, you should try it sometime).

We had to sell our house, give away our dog, and frankly my relationship with my father never quite got back on track. (I am really sorry about the shaving cream thing Dad! I'm also sorry for acting like such a teenager... but in my defence I was a teenager and was just as crummy to everyone.)

But four or five years out, everything started looking up. Both my parents remarried. Their partners were far more suitable to who they were becoming than they had been for each other. There was a lot of love and warmth between them and their new partners, it was nice to see. It was a good example for me of what healthy relationships could look like.

Since then I've had a number of friends who got married, and then got divorced. For the most part, the divorce made them happier. Having gone through both made them far stronger people and far less likely to take love and happiness for granted. It's true, there's nothing like a little misery to cheer you up.

(No, dear husband, I don't want a divorce. I'm very very happy I married you.)

A few years before I actually got married, I was engaged to a different man for four or five years. We just never quite made it to the "I do" part -- though we acted like we already had. There was always something we were waiting for. When we eventually broke up, I felt sort of cheated. People don't understand the heartache of breaking up with "just a boyfriend" but somehow they understand what it means to get divorced far easier. I was devastated. We had planned a life together. We had named our invisible children and decided on what breed of non-existent dog we were going to get. We planned out our vacations until retirement. One day it was gone.

Just being a "girlfriend" meant that those four years meant virtually nothing. There was no official "end" to the relationship, no forms to sign, no recognition that something had been started and broken. One day there was a phone call and then there was nothing but chocolate cake and daytime talk shows. I couldn't bear to take off my engagement ring until one day in yoga class I had eaten enough chocolate cake (and nothing else) it flew off my hand and never got put back on.

It sounds odd to say you are in favour of marriage, and marriage forever, while at the same time advocating divorce under the right circumstances.

Divorce gets a bad rap.

People want to use the fact that a divorce means one of the partners (or both) were somehow morally inferior or wicked. There was a poem I liked that said something like, "Must we say it wasn't love; just because it ended?"

But in the end, it means that two people changed in different directions. I said to a friend who was getting a divorce and trying to explain why he and his wife had broken up, "You are an intelligent person. You aren't evil. I wouldn't expect she was either stupid or evil either." Sometimes it just doesn't work -- and that's ok. But I still think seeing, finding out, is worth stepping off the cliff and finding out for sure.

But that was my choice, it may not be your choice. And that's ok.