Thursday, October 14, 2010

Better Late Than Never - Birthday Post

Drafted October 2010, Finished August 2011.

Somehow I have Diana Ross singing in my mind's jukebox. You know the song. You used to hit the roller skating rink to it with your neon jelly bracelets and side ponytails. "Upside down, boy you turn me, inside out, and, round and round." We had it on vinyl. Pretty hip for a wonder bread family in Utah.

It pretty much sums up my life ever since Mr. Man arrived. That was August 10th. Somehow I lost over two months in the meantime. Here's the fun story of how it all went down.

On August 9th at my 38th week appointment our beloved OB stated, "You know, tonight would be a good night to go into labor. I'm on call and it's my last call before I leave town. Did I mention I'll be out of town on your due date?" Yeah. Out. Of. Town. Not what you want to hear. We replied it wasn't going to happen because my dear J was taking his Board examination the next day.

Boy we're we wrong.

Cue the Fates, God, and Beezelbub rubbing their hands together in delight at the silly folly some chick in Wisconsin made. It was too tempting and they had to intervene. I really don't know who to blame/credit, but I envision it going down as a winner takes all kind of a thing doing something ridiculous like rock/paper/scissors.

As you may remember, I'd been experiencing regular contractions (or "surges" as my hypnobirthing people call it) since 33 weeks. Nothing new on that front. J had taken the day off to cram last minute before the test day and somehow the familiar pressure in my belly was feeling a bit different about 4:00 PM. At 4:55 he asked if he needed to reschedule his exam. No, no, not to worry! I just headed to take a bath to reduce some of the pressure and eat a light dinner. We went to bed early, but did not fall asleep. You see, J had some massive anxiety heartburn and my belly was feeling like someone put a corset on it then cinched it every 5 minutes or so. However, I didn't want to worry him so I pretended to be asleep. Yes, I PRETENDED. By midnight we were still attempting to find Mr. Sandman.

Here's what I thought: if I could fall asleep I would relax and delay any labor advancement. Then all I needed to do was get J off to his test in the morning without having him worry anything was wrong and then I would take a cab to the hospital to check myself in. It was our first baby so certainly it will take a long time to progress and by the time his 10 hour exam was over, I'd be ready to push and he'd be there for the birth of his first child.

I realize this is flawed thinking. Now. But it seemed like a reasonable plan at the time.

At 2:19 AM J woke to find his charming wife on all fours on the bed and groaning like a dying cow. When I told him I think we should go to the hospital his response was, *sigh* "I know." As my cow impressions continued, J began packing for the hospital. Yes, yes, we were one of those couples who didn't have a bag packed even though I'd been in early labor for 5 weeks. I made my way downstairs and would instantly drop to all fours every time another contraction hit. I was groaning so much that I scared Edgar. I tried to reassure him by calling him over for pets, but another one would hit and I'd be moaning again and he would run away ears back and tail between his legs.

Off to the hospital where upon checking into the L&D, the nurse asked where the patient was. Don't mind me. I've just hurled myself onto the floor from the wheelchair for another on-all-fours mooing session. I made it to a 8 to 9 cm before I asked/begged for an epidural. The nurse (ex-miltary) was about to make J leave for the actual procedure due to potential fainting when I told her that he needed to stay. I don't think she knew he was a doc. About 20 min after the epidural I asked for the anesthesiologist to come back in and turn the medication dosing down. I didn't want my legs to be numb, I just wanted to dull the sensation a bit. He replied, "I don't know why you had me place it at all. You will call me back and ask to turn it back up." I didn't.

The nurse was, shall we say, "assertive," to say the least. Maybe more of a drill sergeant? The actual pushing began somewhere around 9:00 AM. I first tried to "breathe the baby down" a la our hypnobirthing method, but that was going nowhere fast. Turns out our child-to-be was sunny-side up and I had to rotate him in the womb. P-A-I-N-F-U-L. However I persevered. Dr. Safety OB-man was encouraging and pretty damn funny through the whole thing. I knew he had to leave his shift come 1:00 PM, so by damn I was going to get this kid out before he left the hospital.

At 12:32 our Mr. Man arrived into this world. 7 pounds, 11 ounces. 20 inches long.


Monday, July 19, 2010

Bed Rest

I absolutely love our OB doc. He's a goofy nerdy guy who is about our age and has a comb-over. He has no self-delusions, is wicked smart and has one of the funniest senses of humor. One of the reasons I chose him was his reputation for being Dr. Safety. I know this because I was assigned to work on a project with him assessing the culture of teamwork and patient safety in the department. I'd been working with him on the project for about a month when we found out we were pregnant. Part of my role on this project is to assess every physician on the service. With the ethics involved my choice of physicians was pretty much cemented, which is awesome because of the built-in rapport I already had with him. In fact when I called to ask if he would be my OB, he replied, "Thanks for your vote of confidence." He's imparted a few other gems during our visits.

31w appointment:

Me: "I really, really don't want an episiotomy. I also don't want to tear. What can I do to prevent it?" I was thinking more along the lines of perineal massage or something.

Dr. Safety: "You could start smoking."

Me: "What?"

Dr. Safety: "Well, at this point you are going to tear no matter what with a normal weight kid. Smoking to keep the baby's weight down is the only option, but I don't recommend it. We don't do episotomies anymore routinely, but you will tear. I'll sew you up."

28w appointment:

Me: "When will I know the results of my glucose tolerance test?"

Dr. Safety: "I'll call you tomorrow and then you can celebrate passing."

Me: "Celebrate? On what? I'm pregnant."

Dr. Safety: "I just wrote you a prescription for pain killers on your costochondritis. Take one of those."

I must have looked shocked.

Dr. Safety: "I'm kidding!"

33w appointment:

Me: "I'm swelling."

Dr. Safety: "That happens. Uh...how long have you been itching your belly?"

Me (mindlessly scratching the belly bump): "I don't know. It itches. I take benadryl."

Dr. Safety: "What about other places? Legs, feet, palms of your hands?"

Me: "Yeah, usually at night sometimes."

Dr. Safety: "Let's put you on the fetal monitor."

15 minutes later

Dr. Safety: "Um, do you know you are contracting every 5 minutes. Do you feel that?"

Me: "Yeah. Didn't know it was that close. It just feels like tightening."

Dr. Safety in disbelief: "Tightening."

I nod.

Dr. Safety: "You just bought yourself a pelvic exam."

10 minutes later.

Dr. Safety: "And you are now 50% effaced and 2 cm dilated. You win an admission to Labor and Delivery. I'm afraid to do anymore tests because you've failed every one I've given you."

Me: "Shut up! You're joking."

Dr. Safety: "Not remotely. You are in active labor."

Me: "You mean false labor."

Dr. Safety: "No. I mean active labor as in pre-term active labor."

Me: "But I just came in for swelling!"

I must have repeated, "I just came in for swelling," about 15 times to anyone who would listen as they wheeled me off to L&D. I told the transport person, the guy who held the elevator, the nurse, the tech, the desk clerk, etc. Think I was shocky? No, what would give you that idea?

Since Dr. Safety is by the book and literally quotes recent medical journal articles from his photographic memory he imparted that at week 34, there is no need to stop premature labor. Since I was still 33 weeks for another 8ish hours, they would give me the drugs to stop labor until midnight and then just stop. Stop? Yes, stop at the arbitrary cut off time of midnight when I turned 34 weeks. In went the smooth muscle relaxant drug, the antibiotic, and the steroids to quickly develop the kiddo's lungs. And there I sat for another 24 hours watching my contractions come and go.

By late morning of the next day I was contracting less regularly so they allowed me to go home. However, I was on strict bed rest. It's like a recurring nightmare from karma-land for me: how to be still and not do anything. It always involves something medical like an appendicitis or a back surgery and now a kiddo. I was also informed that any subsequent pregnancy I will automatically be considered high risk and put on bed rest. Oh Goody.

For the past 3+ weeks I've laid low. I've read books, surfed the net, tried to work clandestine from home, talked to girlfriends, and played the Wii. This was a challenge as the nursery still isn't painted, furniture is haphazardly relocated into other rooms, chaos reigns, the lawn continues to grow, and we're now considering anything frozen from Trader Joes as Gourmet. My exciting outings include car rides to the grocery store parking lot or the dry cleaners or to pick up Edgar's dog food. Seriously, they were the highlights of my weeks!

On Monday at my 37w appointment I was released off of bed rest. Now that I have a semi-greenish light to move ahead with my to-do list, my energy level won't cooperate. It's like revenge of the first trimester.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

The Pre-Labor for the Labor

When we announced our pregnancy to our families in January we were met with unbridled enthusiasm. We were sent home with various items and well wishes including a set of gently used pregnancy and child development books. They proved to be extremely helpful roadmaps on this journey of ours.

Girlfriends, sister in laws, and other moms proved to be an extraordinary resource of advice and wisdom so far in my 7.5 months. While I was warned that the What to Expect book was written for the sole purpose of scaring the expecting mother to death, it was the sole choice my insurance company sent me once I registered with their pre-natal department. One girlfriend recommended I get The Girlfriends Guide to Pregnancy for the real scoop on what to expect. That was some wise advice. If I have any kind of odd question I go there first. While at Costco, we picked up Dr. Oz’s latest take on the owners manual of your body with bambino. That was the most unhelpful book thus far. This tv man assures me that the kid can taste what I eat thus learning to like the veggies or pizza I put in my mouth. Really? As J put it, “Why don’t you write to him and ask him to explain the pathophysiology behind that statement.”

One book went into the importance of a birth plan. When I mentioned this to the same girlfriend who suggested the Girlfriend’s Guide she said, “Oh. My. God. Please tell me you aren’t going to be one of those. They never work.” While every book suggests writing one, they also say be prepared for the hospital staff not to follow it. For the record, we haven’t written one yet. However, the book did spur me on to getting more tools under my belt when it came to labor. The one thing I fear the most is pitocin. That’s the drug they give you to speed labor along. I learned more than I wanted to know from a documentary and other readings. Once given, a vicious cycle ensues. The pitocin causes stronger and longer contractions that HURT, so you request an epidural and the pain meds slow your labor down which then leads to MORE pitocin and then more pain meds, etc, etc, etc. I want to avoid that drug like the plague.

As a result of my fear I looked into other ways of managing my labor. At first I looked into the Bradley method. This philosophy centers around husband as birth coach. While this sounds like an encouraging partnering method, I would like to refer back to 1992 for everyone to understand why it wouldn’t work for me.

In 1992 a combination of sucky genes and athletic overtraining landed me in the operating room with a cocky orthopedic surgeon. It was a complex surgery with a 7 inch scar to prove it. When I woke up from anesthesia, my wonderful patient mother was by my side. “Can I get you water? How about a blanket?” Instead of the soothing nurturing maternal voice, I heard a pitch like a screeching out of tune violin. It was so bad that I finally kicked her out of my room and had the nurse put a sign on the door that literally said, “No Moms Allowed. All Visitors Must Check In With the Nurses Station.” Aunts and other visitors paused to confer with my mom who was now banished to the visitors’ area. Mom had a great sense of humor about the whole thing. She got her last laugh when I was left to maneuver my groin to ankle bulky brace and crutches to my bathroom and then got stuck. I was so pissed that no one was coming to help me I finally threw my crutch outside the door while swearing at the top of my lungs. At that point Mom just looked at the nurses and said, “Yes, that is my daughter. Isn’t she lovely?” It wasn’t one of my finest moments. Somehow I just don’t think a coach will cut it when I’m passing a watermelon.

I then looked into Hypnobirthing. I will admit, it’s a little “out there,” but then again how could it hurt? Invoking the relaxation response seems natural enough. There have been studies about hypnosis/relaxation use in surgery as a substitute for anesthesia. I was worried my biggest hurdle would be J’s scientific nature. I was shocked to find he was open to the idea AND there was a certified instructor in our city! Somehow the stars aligned and we landed in a 5 week class with 2 other couples.

Let me introduce our cast of characters (names changed of course): Gary and Lisa are two PhD’s. Gary has his PhD in animal physiology biology and embodies the scientific method. Lisa has her PhD in something with the brain. She looks like she only shops at organic fair trade stores. How they met, got married and had a son is a little baffling. They embody the skeptic and Mother Nature. We also have Lindsey and Matt. Both are CPAs. She is a tri-athlete, Iron Man, marathon competitor. Matt is still traumatized by his ex-wife’s pregnancies and deliveries. They are more of the “Die Hards.” And then there is us: we’re treated as the medical experts and are go-with-the-flow.

Our instructors are a husband/wife dyad: Danielle and River. I think the name “River” is a dead giveaway. He too is a PhD in biology and specializes in invertebrate marine biology. Danielle has never had children, but is a licensed hypnotherapist, massage therapist, and Hypnobirthing instructor. River has 3 kids from a previous marriage. All were delivered naturally.

We began our first class with introductions and get to know you time, although most of it was spent with River and Danielle pontificating. There they were espousing the benefits of having a physician who is pro-hypnobirth/pro-natural and the power of belief and intention because it’s better for your baby. The computer used for the power point was propped up on the drum River uses for his male bonding drum circle and he went into detail about hormones and neuro-receptors. It was an odd juxtaposition.

We then went in to watch birthing videos where hypnobirth techniques were used. I was anticipating the other couples to squirm, but the only person making any kind of noise was the only physician in the room. It was a dead giveaway of his 100+ births he’s attended and the trauma that remains. His facial expressions were priceless as they put the blue limp baby on the mom’s chest. You could almost hear him say, “Hello? Where’s the resuscitation?!?” Yeah, we're going to be a good time.

Friday, May 28, 2010

Reconsituting Ambitions

I generally pride myself on being somewhat of a gardener. There is nothing better than digging in the dirt, feeling the warm sun on your back, and at the end of the day sitting on your porch with a refreshing beverage admiring the work you’ve done. I also don’t mind the occasional sore muscles the next day from reconstituting the soil and mulching. In a lot of ways, playing in the garden is my version of going to church. I feel whole.

When I was younger I remember the dreaded yearly visits to Western Gardens with my mom and Ginny. Mom planted formal gardens complete with alternating orange and yellow marigolds along the boarder. Ginny was more free flowing and tried her hand at veggies, herbs, and wildflowers. As a result of the two influences, I like a natural garden and I completely 100% without a doubt ban all marigolds. They always depressed me; kind of like 4:00 in the afternoon. I don’t know why I have an aversion to the 4:00 – 5:00 witching hour, but I always have.

I spent a ton of time trimming wild honeysuckle mounds and weeding my parent’s garden after break-ups. You could generally tell if I had hit a rough patch in my love life because the yard was immaculate. After one particularly ugly break-up in 2000 I weeded their lawn. Yes, their lawn. By hand. I’m not talking about just the dandelions. I’m talking the crabgrass, morning glory, violets, henbit, sorrel, and the dreaded spurge. My poor mom has been trying to get grass to grow in my weeded spots ever since.

When I bought my first house my first summer was tormented with boyfriend issues. As a result I grew fantastic zucchini, eggplant, broccoli, sage, thyme, basil, and tomatoes. I bought tons of good top soil and spent hours upon hours with my shovel tilling the garden. I had so much produce I finally had to invite random family friends to stop by and harvest their own. I bought my first lawn mower – which proved to be entertainment for all the men on my street to watch me attempt to maneuver it up the steep hill. I had never operated one of these things before given my brother’s penchant for the task. My neighbors would seriously come outside with a beer to watch. After that humiliation I practiced with my weed eater over at my parent’s house. As a result, my parent’s garage needed to be repainted because I had whacked all of the paint off.

Moving to Indy I had to downgrade my garden adventures to a small patch along our sidewalk and pots. That year we made a container Victorian twilight garden. It was magical. Think of tons of pots on a deck with highly contrasted and variegated foliage of texture and color – most of the colors being pale yellows, pinks, purples, and whites. As twilight would approach, the blossoms and contrasts seemed to float and glow. Add a little candlelight and wine or a homebrew for a perfect way to wind down from a hard day.

We haven’t had the opportunity to plant our pots again until this year. Selling our place in Indy then moving in and out of Boston mid-summer kind of put a damper on that. But this year? We’re ready to go! Or are we?

I didn’t exactly grasp how being 7 months pregnant would impact that whole gardening thing. After all, those pioneer women were still planting crops and trekking down the Oregon Trail in their third trimester! Being an ex-athlete I have a great ability in tuning out whatever might be aching until after the event was over. Come to think of it, maybe it’s not such a “great ability.” I typically overestimate my capabilities and pay the price later. I don’t notice that I’m limping, grabbing my ribcage, or stretching awkwardly to compensate for my 2008 back surgery until I’m almost done with the project. The rest of my evening is spent laying on ice with some sort of painkiller on board, barely moving while J either says, "I told you so," or "Why can't you just take care of yourself like normal people? I'd like my wife to be around when we're 70."

I’m trying to learn how to ask for help. What’s difficult is then realizing the timeline is out of my control. I realize I cannot reconstitute the topsoil, move the bags of potting soil, crawl around on my knees weeding, or lift the pots once their filled with flowers. It sucks. I try to sit on the porch calmly and fight the urge to pick up a rake or trowel on a daily basis. In order to calm my inner grasshopper I think I’ll go try and prep the nursery for painting instead. Really?!? Because moving furniture into the center of the room and crawling around with painters tape is easier?!? Ok, scratch that idea. What about doing the floors? You know, vacuum, swiffer, mop the suckers? Oh yeah! Because the vacuum is so light and easy to maneuver up and down the stairs. Ok, so I'll scrub the bathtub. Have you tried leaning over a basketball to scrub the bathtub recently? Add in a kicking squirming basketball. It doesn't work very well.

Today I had a whole conversation with J about limits and what constitutes being “active” during your last trimester. Sad to admit it, but I think I figured it out. We went to have lunch outside the hospital at the park which involves traveling down a hill. For one, my balance sucks. I almost fell a couple times. This is a new development. Then after lunch (the small lunch due to the compressed stomach) I had to get back up the hill…with limited lung capacity. It was a small hill. I sounded like I had advanced COPD by the time I literally heaved myself up it.

My dream for Memorial Day weekend was to conquer raking the yard of all maple whirligigs, getting the topsoil and grass seed in, planting more pots and flower beds, ordering mulch to be delivered, cleaning the house top to bottom, AND priming the nursery. I’m beginning to think I’m a little overambitious. Maybe I'll settle for doing a load of laundry...that is, if I can carry the basket to the basement without falling ass over teakettle.

Friday, May 21, 2010

The Two Extremes - A Preview

I always knew that we would fall into one of two parenting camps: the over-protective’s or the shake-it-offs. Given our pediatric medical backgrounds I could see us wrapping the kid in bubble wrap, helmets, various athletic pads, and using Styrofoam to seal off any gaps we might have missed. “Ok, honey, have fun getting the mail! Remember Stranger Danger!” I could also envision the opposite with us glancing at the kid scraped up and bones broken after attempting a new trick on the homemade skateboard ramp, “You’re fine! You have an airway, you are breathing, and you definitely have circulation! I mean look at all that blood! Just grab a paper towel and add pressure to that gaping wound to stop the bleeding.” I always worried we would swing like a pendulum between the extremes without any rhyme or reason.

Edgar gave us a little preview of our lives as parents. However, handling crisis and the art of preparation call for two different approaches. In the heat of the moment of a crisis, I completely over-react – see the entry about his frienemy. J handles things with logic and calm while I’m hysterical. It’s good to have a balance. Then we take the Boy Scout method of Be Prepared. J’s style is to completely over-plan and safeguard against the worst possible scenario. The planning effort can sometimes be completely overwhelming and gets us stuck with no movement what-so-ever. Whereas I figure you can only plan for so much and then just deal with it. If you want something done, ask me. If you want something done well, ask my husband.

Let’s skip to our crib shopping experience, shall we? After reading something in a baby book about how you need to get your crib ordered by week 20 of pregnancy, I now had black and white proof that we needed to stop pretending we’re ostriches with our heads in the sand. By week 21 we began to browse baby stores. It was over-whelming to say the least. Do you get a convertible lifetime crib that turns into a full sized bed for little Jimmy to go off to college with or do you do the standard crib? Will the lifetime crib stand up to Jimmy’s gumming and teething? Well, that depends upon the wood. If it’s pine, then forget it. Do you need dove tail joints on your kid’s dresser? Really?

Our first visit ended badly as J was on a verbal rant about how much crap do you really need for a baby? Really? Specific baby nail clippers? And don’t get him started on baby monitors! “We don’t need no stinkin’ monitor! We grew up just fine in the 1970’s without them!” he exclaimed. (Yes, however we also had higher rates of SIDS and my own mother’s sanity would have been preserved knowing my colicky self was just fine wailing away in my crib while she went outside to take a 5 minute mental health break.) I told him that he didn’t need to get a monitor, but I would be getting one thank you very much. (His tune has changed once he realized he could set up internet nanny cams on our wireless home network. Tech nerd porn at it’s finest!)

On the second visit to the baby store, we literally closed them out after 3 hours of browsing, taking brochures on the crib manufacturers, and asking about the manufacturers recall rates in the past 5 years. We were not your typical pregnant couple. Other couples looked at the cribs and remarked, “Gee, that one is pretty. Should we order it?” And then there was us. While I’m reading the consumer reviews about quality, customer service, and which brand had the largest recall in 2007 for lead paint from China, J’s shaking the crib all over the place to see how sturdy it is. We had three different sales reps come up and ask, “Can I help you?” Nah, we’ve got it. I think they were more worried about us abusing the floor models than customer service. Like I said, we closed them out. Music was turned off and they had to unlock the doors to let us out.

On the third visit, weeks later with my panic increasing about timeframes, we were determined to narrow our selections down. Again, it took us two or more hours to settle on 3 different possibilities and finally place an order for a rocker/glider. In my mind, this was a must-have. After all, it will be my tired butt that is playing dairy farm in the middle of the night. It better be damn comfortable, durable, and stylish in addition to all that quality stuff J prioritizes. Again, music was off and lights were also in the process of being turned off when we finalized the sale. At least we provided someone a nice commission check.

Our fourth visit occurred last weekend. We went directly after work on Friday. The same sales girl was there who sold us our rocker and she remembered us.

“Have you made a decision?”

“Well, we’ve narrowed it down to these three.”

“Are there any questions I can help answer?”

“Nope, we’re just debating.”

Fast forward through the next 2.5 hours where J is continually knocking on the two floor models to check on the wood density, crawling underneath to check on the mattress support, and opening drawers repeatedly on the dressers. I pretty much just sat in the floor model rocker watching him asking how I could be helpful. Our perky sales girl stopped by 3 more times before we decided we were ready. By the time I brought her over, J was interested in potentially ordering a crib from one company and the dresser from another as long as the wood finishes matched. This of course, prompted more debating about styles of furniture and philosophical references to how style trends come and go as she walked away. And then the music turned off…again. We made a quick decision – which would have been my original choice by the way, 2.5 hours ago. And then we had to decide upon the mattress. Really? Natural organically certified bamboo or the fancy spring/foam flip mattress? I chose the easy to clean in the middle of the night plastic covered one. J lovingly caressed the bamboo green mattress and conceded.

Thursday, May 6, 2010

Prodgeny Returns

One of my dearest friends has a floor to ceiling framed reproduction of Rembrandt’s Return of the Prodigal Son in his office. Seriously it takes up a full wall. It’s ironic that he selected this painting considering all of the strife that later ensued in his relationship with his son.

When I stopped writing last year it was because I needed a moment of pause…or months of pause to be precise. The blog has been an outlet for me to process my experiences, thoughts, and beliefs. Most of these have been primarily shaped by my upbringing which is why my family makes many guest appearances along the way. The story I tell is mine. It’s my perception and what I chose to accept into my own mythological life story. It’s biased, one sided, and in that sense very self-centered.

It’s almost been a year since I traveled home to extend an olive branch to my father; my own version of the return of the prodigal son. But instead of following the parable in the Bible, my father did not slaughter the calf and celebrate my return. Instead he said I had a “poisoned pen,” told me he didn’t like me, I wasn’t a friend, and wished me the best of luck with my life. I was then compared to my brother and how he treats my father, thus adding to the distance and triangulation. Agreeing to his terms of playing the part of daughter where he would interact with me at Sunday dinners on a superficial level, we operated like this the rest of the painful 5 day visit. I had been emotionally disowned and abandoned by my father. In many ways I had created what I most feared. For the next 7 months we did not speak. Not on my birthday, not on Thanksgiving, and not on Christmas.

It was just too much for me to handle. I had hit what Seth Grogan calls The Dip. “Quit the wrong stuff, Stick with the right stuff, Have the guts to do one or the other.” I needed time to figure this stuff out.

And then things shifted big time for me. Not like I had enough on my plate by starting a new job and getting settled in a new town, we also decided to try for a baby. We succeeded.

10 weeks into the pregnancy we decided to return home, although with great trepidation. It was at that time we planned to announce the happy addition to our families. I tried to remain open and play out the moment of revelation with my parents. Would I get a cool congratulations? Another “best of luck?” I tried my best to keep my expectations low out of self-protection. I couldn’t have predicted what happened. My father jumped off of the couch with tears in his eyes to congratulate us, warm hugs, and, “Thank you. This seriously is the best gift you’ve ever given us.” They then commented that over breakfast that very morning they discussed how old my eggs were. If I'm lucky, I may even get a visit from my father when the baby comes in August. This would be a first ever since I married and moved out of state.

Since then things have improved. We send photos of my growing belly and ultrasound shots of the baby via email and Dad will actually talk with me on the phone when I call. It’s a nice change. I suppose we’re both testing the waters. In many ways its akin to dipping your toes in the ocean waves after living through a tsunami.