Illy: In the Hospital.

Illiana Lillian Aiossa was born a bit before the end of the last post, or September 6th, 2009 at 3:02AM. She weighed in a 7 pounds 5 ounces, and measured 19.5 inches long.

I was transferred from recovery to the maternity department of the hospital at about 5:30AM. Rob and Illy had gone to the nursery to give me a chance to recover a bit, and since the shaking had subsided I was getting quite excited about this.

As the wonderful nurse parked me in my new room, the "mother's nurse" assigned to me was getting the room in order.

At about the same time as I was arriving, LeRoy showed up with McDonald's for Rob. My new nurse was a bit rude, telling him he couldn't have the food in the room since it was rude to eat in front of me (I couldn't eat or drink anything that day because of the surgery). I told her to back off, it was fine ... and then realized she thought LeRoy was the husband and father ...

As LeRoy went to find Rob and Illy, I waited, getting my vitals checked and closing my eyes every now and then. The effects of the epidural had not yet waned, and I was quite groggy still.

Suddenly, I heard Rob's voice and I was terrified he had left the baby in the nursery alone, but he assured me she was right behind him ... and in she came. Baby Girl Aiossa, my little Illiana. It was time for a proper introduction, and a proper introduction we had.

I stripped her down to her diaper and held her close, tucked nicely next to me, warm as could be. We attempted nursing a bit, and I held and cuddled her. We took pictures and basked in the beauty of our little girl.

Eventually LeRoy headed home to finish sleeping, and Rob's Mom arrived ... I remember trading Illy back and forth with Rob and his Mom, each of us taking turns welcoming her into the world with all the love a baby could ever want.

The first day seemed to take forever. I remember I wanted to send an email with Illy's picture from my phone, and it took me 8 hours! There were so many interruptions, not to mention the struggle against the pain meds. And did it hurt!

Actually, the pain was normal, but it was the frustration of wanting to sit up to hold and nurse Illy, but I couldn't quite get my tush back far enough to feel I was sitting up (because the c-section incision hurt) ... that was the worst!

Eventually it was time to get out of bed and walk, and so I did with a lot of help from the tech on duty. Out of bed and into the bathroom to clean up ... there was a lot of bleeding, and it tickled to have the tech squirt warm water down there! After changing my bottoms and getting into a new gown, I got to shuffle down the hallway with Rob at my side, Mom watching the baby.

Dosing on and off the whole day, at some point I had to ask for some oxygen. The pulse-ox monitor kept alarming when my saturation would dip below 90, and for some reason I had apnea ... every time I would dose off, my oxygen would dip and the alarm would wake me up (as well as the need to breathe!), so I requested some oxygen to help avoid this vicious cycle so I could get some rest. It did the trick!

We had a visit from the lactation consultant, and I remember being frustrated at all the "helping hands" around. I just wanted to be alone with the baby to get the hang of it, but at the same time, I was truly in need of help because of the c-section incision. Lifting and shifting positions was a real struggle at that point, and the exhaustion didn't help either.

At some point the day mushed into night and Mom left to sleep. A nurse had given me some broth, which was the tastiest thing I can ever remember ingesting! I was STARVING.

Rob and I kind of dosed in anticipation of 3:00AM, when they would de-catheterize and IV me, which meant I wouldn't be on a leash!

As Rob passed out from exhaustion, I had baby Illy in my arms, tucked away nicely under a breast ... I was ready to nurse at her prompting.

But for some reason, I barely remember nursing her the first couple of days. I think perhaps its because of the sleepy reflex of a nursing mother on drugs the first few days after a c-section birth. Apparently, one of the ways you can tell your baby is nursing well is if you get extraordinarily sleepy during the first feedings of colostrum.

Perhaps it was my first time out, and it just didn't occur to me to feed her as much as I should have... Or, as I've been taught by my La Leche League Leaders, the baby's stomach is the size of one of those little bouncy balls you can buy from one of those gum-ball machines at the grocery store for $.25. It doesn't take much to fill it. I remember I got her latched on a couple times the first day ... and she ate and ate and ate ... latched for 45-minutes at a time!

But when it was time to nurse on Day 2, for whatever reason nursing just wasn't clicking. Unfortunately, it was Labor Day, and that meant I wouldn't be having a nursing consultant... So poor Illy ... she would try to scream though she could barely do so her throat was so dry ... and I would try to feed her but couldn't get her latched on ... and then she would cry and I would try to comfort her in other ways ...

That night, Illy's nurse suggested that I pump for her ... that way she could take the colustrum from a bottle ... I didn't want to bottle feed her because I didn't want her developing nipple confusion; so I had the nurse give the colustrum to Illy in a cup. The nurse was impressed with how much colustrum I was able to pump, and Illy did just fine taking it in a cup ... and so I continued pumping every three hours for 20-minutes.

The next day I had a great lactation consultant help me ... she got me set up with the greatest invention in the world; the nipple shield, and it did the trick. We were better able to get Illy latched on and eating ... and she was a happier baby for it! (I never knew I had short nipples...) Unfortunately, the lactation consultant couldn't be there for every feeding; and that meant we had to struggle with a lot of frustration and crying (screaming) on Illy's part when she was hungry. So I continued to pump; but I also continued to offer the breast before the pumped colustrum.

The evening and night of Day 3 was very difficult for Rob and me. Struggling to feed our baby at the breast, Illy had an older nurse who felt it her duty to educate us ... and to prepare us that since our baby was jaundiced (slightly jaundiced; nothing to break out the UV lights over), that we shouldn't be surprised if the doctor ordered her to have formula in the middle of the night. Oh, and she was concerned because Rob wasn't supposed to give her colostrum from the cup; only the baby's nurses were supposed to do that, and she didn't want to do that because she felt the bottle was better; perhaps I was too doggedly pro-breastfeeding so she was there to "prepare me" to give up on my dreams of exclusively breastfeeding. What a BITCH!!! According to her, since we had already introduced the nipple shield, an artificial nipple, then we should have no qualms giving her a bottle ... and that she needed formula to help her poop to get rid of the jaundice.

So, I have a lot of respect for most nurses. And I don't hold some notion that doctors have some all-knowing power after putting in their dues at med school. Nurses are there in the moment and can sometimes have a lot more insight into patient care than the doctors themselves; doctors rely on nurses for this reason! But this nurse went WAY TOO FAR, pushing a personal agenda, and presenting it as caring for her patient.

Rob and his Mom were both thankful that this nurse had saw fit to warn us of these possibilities; I on the other hand was FURIOUS. Fortunately I had sense enough to pick my battles wisely. I told her that if it was against the hospital's policy for Rob to give Illy cup feedings, and she didn't want to do it, then she could have a bottle. But the bottle had to be of MY COLOSTRUM or MILK; NOT FORMULA!!!

Despite my rigid breastfeeding stance, the nurse had managed to rattle Rob and me, and we spent that night frightened that our baby was starving to death and at risk for developing a severe case of jaundice. Add to that the exhaustion, and we were at odds with each other ... bickering a bit because of my relentless dedication to giving our baby that liquid gold ... and only that liquid gold ... that can only be found from the mother's breast. I continued to pump, and Rob continued to feed a very happily fed Illy the bottle ...

All that stress and my resulting tears ... fortunately, that old stupid baby nurse went home for the day, and the new baby's nurse reassured me that the baby was fine; but given my state of unrest, she suggested that she take the crying baby for a few hours ... from 2:00AM to 5:00AM so that Rob and I could get some sleep. Having sworn that I didn't want to be separated from my little one in the hospital, actually, the break was well-timed! And hell, if we were giving her the bottle, why not a pacifier too!

After 3-hours of dead sleep, the nurse did as she promised and brought Illy back into the room ... a sleeping bundle of joy, content with a pacifier in her mouth. I needed to get up and walk again, and I managed to get out of bed by myself ... and to my delighted surprise, my boobs were hurting!!! YAY, MILK!!! And they were hot, too ... I had been warned about the heavy, full, tender feelings ... but the warmth surprised me. I massaged my boobs as I walked; passersby be damned!

When I got back to the room, I pumped, and man did I pump ... those babies produced a ton of milk. My milk product was increasing exponentially at that point!

After pumping, I fell back to sleep ... Rob and Illy had a head start and I was lulled by their alternate breaths.

Sometime close to 7:00AM, a midwife from the Birth Center came in and asked me if I was ready to go home ... It was Wednesday Morning, and Illy had been born on Sunday morning ... although it had been the plan to go home that day, when I was given an option, I told the nurse that I wasn't ready ... Was it the pain? No, I just didn't feel ready ... I was scared, and I needed the nurses and the lactation consultants I told her. So she said I could go home the next day instead.

Poor Rob ... The pediatrician came in a little later and said "you're going home today, right?" Rob said yes, and I shook my head no ... Rob was surprised, and the doctor said, "Well, you know the baby could have gone home two days ago ... you're only here because of you." I asked about her jaundice and he said, she's fine! The jaundice was only ever slight and hasn't increased at all. He was surprised the nurse had made a big deal of it. This was a relief; and also infuriated me even more; I had WORRIED and WORRIED for NOTHING!!! Of course, this is par for the course when you're a parent; but still ... that nurse!

Rob, along with his Mom, convinced me that we should go home that day; and so I got the nurse to change the chart and get the obstetrician to release us ... it was time to take our baby girl home.

And so our lives as The Aiossa Family had begun...

Labor Day ... During Labor Day Weekend!

Saturday, September 5th, 2009 ...

Scheduled to go to the Birth Center and have our water broken, we got up ... I did some more induction stuff (treadmill, pumping, and popping those sweet little homeopathic pills) and got our bags and things together. Finally, FINALLY, it was time to go to the birth center.

When we arrived, the nurse hooked me up for some fetal monitoring ... then the midwife arrived, and we got started. At 10:30 she checked me, and then broke the bag of waters (which we have on video ... from my perspective). Of course I had no idea what the water breaking experience was going to be like ... it was quite gross, actually. The smell was awful, and the stuff just kept coming and coming ... DISGUSTING. I kept going through pads and pads and pads ...

The contractions picked up a little ... but I didn't really have my first labor contraction until about 11:15 when I laid myself down to take a nap. As soon as my head hit the pillow my uterus contracted and I was jolted and taken aback by the intensity. I remember it was frightening. I immediately knew that lying down was NOT the way to go ... I had to get up, but I didn't want to move, I was paralyzed by the sensations. So I started my groaning ... and thus began my ritual of burying my face into Rob's belly to make it through each contraction.

Still sporadic, the contractions came and went ... we walked outside in the parking lot, and around the Birth Center ... making it our home. I ate some lunch, and we had some visitors come to be there for us. More walks and face plants into Rob's belly ... things progressed fairly well through the afternoon. I remember being frustrated if too long went between contractions ... I was so ready to GO ... how silly of me!

The contractions started to seem a bit much for the birthing ball and Rob's belly to handle ... okay okay, I started getting tired at about 6:00PM, so I asked to get into the tub. The water helped so much ... awwwww ... at this point, we were still hoping for the contractions to start coming more quickly and regularly, so the midwife and I talked about how I would jump out of the tub at 7:00PM to get checked and allow labor to speed up. I dreaded being checked; not only did it hurt to be examined, but that meant I had to lie down, and contractions while lying in a bed were the WORST.

Hoping for some good news, I got out of the tub and immediately contracted. And then as I was lying down to get checked, Rob heard me start to contract, which meant his belly needed to be there for my face ... but he was on the other side of the bed. He jumped out of the bed and started running around to my side but the birthing ball got in his way and he didn't quite clear it as he jumped and then tripped, nearly planting his face into the tile. Watching this in slow motion, it seemed, my contraction stopped in its tracks as I wondered if my hubby was going to need medical attention himself. It later occurred to me to take a picture of his injuries!

Once I was sure that he was okay, I contracted again when the midwife was checking me ... 5cm ... not the best news, but okay. At that point, my contractions went wild. They were right on top of each other, and I was desperate to get back into the tub. But needing to make more progress, I managed to wait a bit longer ... finally, at 7:45 I got back into the tub, but this time it didn't afford the same relief. Rather, I said to the nurse, "I thought there would be more time between contractions." Instead, I moaned through one right on top of the other ... and with these contractions I was feeling the pressure in my pelvis more and more ... the sense of urgency was worse than the pain. I think this was the first point when I thought to myself "What did I get myself into? I wish I was in an operating room, feeling nothing ..."

At that point I asked for some pain relief, and my midwife administered a narcotic of some sort via injection. Nope, didn't work. At this point, I got back out of the tub as I was getting more and more desperate for a break ...

I asked for more of the pain reliever, and the midwife said she wanted to give me an IV for fluids first, but couldn't find a vein to do so (I'm a tough stick). It must have been about 9:45PM at that point, and I was at the end of my rope. Rob had been by my side through every contraction, and since there was hardly a moment between them he hadn't had a chance to hydrate, nourish, or relieve himself for a few hours. The midwife abandoned the IV and gave me the second shot, but I wasn't finding any ease to the edge of the pain or urgency at all.

The time had come and I asked the midwife, "Is it too late for an epidural?" She told me no, but stuck to the birth plan and tried to convince me that this was all part of a normal labor ... She told me that based on my contractions I must be in transition, and that was the worst part of labor ... "You can do it, you can do it," and "You're doing a great job," were her mantras. As she was walking down the hall to get the nurse so they could attempt an IV again, I looked up at Rob and said "I want to go to the hospital." Rob had no interest in trying to convince me otherwise at that point, and he jumped off the bed and went to find the midwife to tell her we were going to the hospital. The midwife came back and said "Let me ask you one question. If I told you that this is the worst part of labor and it's almost over and you'll have the birth plan you asked for, would you still want to go to the hospital?" I looked her dead in the eye and said "I want to go to the hospital."

Rob started running around to grab the necessities from the room and round up his Mom (who had arrived at about 1:00PM) to drive us to the hospital (right next door). All the while I was contracting and moaning and crying for help ...

As we got to the hospital, I remember dreading how long it was going to take to get relief. Now that I had made up my mind, I couldn't get that epidural fast enough! I remember being frustrated that I had to sign the paperwork before being seated in a wheelchair ... and then frustrated that we didn't know where to go when Rob was pushing me through the hallways ...

We were rescued by some nurses who led us to the room where I was to get that never-wanted-so-much epidural ... I had to lie in a bed and be hooked up to all the monitoring devices as the two and three nurses scurried around to help me ... At this point I was flat out begging for the epidural, and the nurses kept explaining to me what they were doing and that the anesthesiologist was on his way ...

Once I was hooked up to the monitors, the nurses were all impressed that I was contracting every sixty seconds for sixty seconds ... with no break between contractions! At this point the midwife arrived and was also surprised at how quickly and hard I was contracting ... she called the obstetrician to come in and consult with her about a game plan.

Meanwhile, back on the epidural story, the nurse to my left was trying desperately to give me an IV because I couldn't have an epidural until I had an IV with fluids in place. She was searching in vain for a vein, and said that "your blood is as thick as mud." I remember saying "just stick me and find it later." Eventually, as she was sticking me a third time she was apologizing for having to stick me so many times ... I looked at her and said "Really? You think I care about THAT? JUST STICK ME ALREADY!"

After several sticks, finally one took and the IV fluids began their descent in the tube to my veins, and not a moment too soon. The anesthesiologist, the only one working that night, had postponed a c-section to take care of my epidural having learned how desperate I was, and in he walked. He spouted the laundry list of "informed consent" points like one of those speed-talkers at the end of a commercial, all while he and the nurses prepped me for the epidural. And just like that, a little poking here and prodding there, the well-known "bee-sting," and poof ... I was epiduralized, even as I was contracting ...

The countdown was on ... at this point, my friend and massage therapist had arrived to try and help, and her hands on me (even before the epidural took effect) made a huge difference ... Looking back, I would have had her there much sooner, before the contractions got "bad" so to speak. But those few moments of peaceful, soothing, and calming touch were much needed for both the love and encouragement.

I wasn't aware at the time, but that's about when Rob had to take a breather. Having had to be super strong for me nonstop for four hours, he was ready for a much needed break and emotional let down. A few deep breaths in the hall with his Mom and a friend apparently did the trick.

Five minutes and finally I started to come back to life. My body had been consumed by the pain of all those contractions, but I was starting to notice they weren't bothering me as much ... and then, nothing. I never knew feeling nothing could feel so good! My legs became heavy, and unless I had my hand on my belly, I didn't know if I was contracting or not. Of course I was, still, nonstop in fact.

What seemed like the next minute but must have been a little later, following the c-section he had to attend, the anesthesiologist came into the room, pausing at the door to say "Who's your friend?" I told him he would be my favorite person in the world until the baby gator was born... He checked to make sure my epidural was doing the trick, and boy was it ever!

It was at this point, about 11:00PM that they checked me again. Transition? Nope that hadn't occurred yet. I was only between 6 and 7cm ... but my contractions were CRAZY, so the midwife and obstetrician decided to give me some drugs to slow down the contractions, to give both my uterus and the baby a break. At that point they also put monitors on the baby gator's head so they could make sure the baby was handling the stress of a very stressful labor okay.

Oh yeah! There was a baby gator in there! I had forgotten up to that point ... somewhere about 7:00PM I had lost sight of having a baby at the end of the whole experience, but as I started to be able to concentrate on things other than contractions and pain, I could start getting excited (albeit exhaustedly) about the baby gator again.

Fortunately, the baby gator had survived all the commotion without incident ... not even one dip in the heart rate.

With the epidural and contraction-slowing drug on board, it was time to get some rest. I was checked again at about midnight and had made it to 8cm ... The midwife was going to go get some rest, and we were advised to do the same, with the instructions that if I started to feel like I needed to push, we should call her.

We tried sleeping, but the excitement was still winning ... so we alternated between dozing and chatting quietly in the dark room. Our Moms (Rob's Mom and my Tucson Mom, Gini) were waiting in the lobby.

At about 1:30AM I decided that I was feeling the urge to push. It seemed to take forever, but the midwife finally came in at 2:00AM to check me ... and I was at 8cm ... not great news. The midwife explained that I had stalled for two hours, and what was left of my cervical lip was feeling swollen to her ... meaning I probably wouldn't dilate any more than that. She said we could wait it out a bit longer to see if I would dilate, or we could have a c-section ...

As if to help us make the decision with less turmoil, the baby gator had a heart-rate dip ... just one, but one nonetheless. We talked about it for a minute, and decided that the c-section made the most sense given the circumstances. Our midwife called the obstetrician, who asked if I minded if she checked me just to make sure she and midwife concurred, and when it turned out that she felt the same thing the midwife felt, we started prepping for surgery.

The nurses were all doing their thing, getting me ready, and Rob had to disappear to get prepped himself. I remember the anesthesiologist the most. He seemed to replace the midwife as the medical cheerleader ... explaining to me exactly what would take place, giving me codewords so as we got to a particular point in the c-section, he could let me know things were okay ...

I was so groggy at that point. 16-hours of labor is no joke, let me tell you. I pretty much closed my eyes and let it all happen at that point. I remember Rob taking his place by my side as they started the surgery ... and the anesthesiologist telling me that I would feel this and that (pressure here, pressure there) ... and then they asked Rob if he wanted to watch ...

He told me he could see the baby gator's head ... and then as they pulled the baby out, Rob turned to me and said there's the baby, and with tears in his eyes he said "it's your son, honey." I remember saying, "It's Tebow, really? I wasn't expecting that ..." And then he leaned into me and said, "No, honey, you got your girl. It's Illiana."

At that point, I was listening for a cry, which seemed to be immediate ... then they were carting Illy over to the table to clean her up and assess her ... It hurt to try and look over at her ... my eyes couldn't go far enough to the left, but I already knew she was perfect ... I said to Rob, "She's perfect, isn't she?"

At some point they wrapped her up and handed her over to Rob, who held her close so I could take a quick look at her and give her a kiss. I sang her happy birthday song to her, which I had been planning to do (and practicing) the whole pregnancy ... and then I reminded her that the first and most important thing she needed to know was that Mommy and Daddy love her beyond measure.

That was about all I had in me. They took the baby (and Rob followed) back to our room ... and they started stitching me up. And I closed my eyes and tried to zone out. The anesthesiologist and other doctors and nurses sounded so far away as I tried to rest ... and then I realized my resting was really trying to keep from shaking. I wasn't cold (hadn't been for months, actually), but I was shaking uncontrollably, which I knew was a side-effect of the epidural.

Still shaking, they finally finished getting me all sewn up and ready for the ride back to the room, where Rob and Illy and the Grandmas waited. I was so excited to see Illy, and really quite anxious to get to her so I could nurse her ... but when I got there, I was shaking so badly that holding her was trying ... and nursing her was impossible ... After a few attempts, I told Rob that he and Illy had to let me rest, and suggested that he go with her to the nursery so that I could get her back to me sooner rather than later.

With love and kisses, they departed and I was alone in the room, darkened now ... and I could focus on not shaking. The shivering and shaking in and of itself probably wasn't that bad, but following such a stressful labor day, it was quite excruciating. All I wanted to do was to be able to hold my baby and inspect every inch of her ... and then rest ... but it was all I could do to hold still, which was all I could do to prevent very painful spastic shaking.

Finally, after nearly an hour, the shaking started to subside, and it was time to move me to the maternity department rather than labor and delivery. The nurse was very kind, and I remember thanking her for everything, and asking her to please pass on my thanks to all the doctors, particularly the anesthesiologist, for taking such good care of us.

And thus began my new adventure into motherhood ...

The Third Trimester - (The After-Popping Perspective)

aWell, I can't say for sure what I've forgotten because that's the nature of forgetting. But here is what I remember of those last months and days of pregnancy...

Finally! I was feeling better. Not just better, but well! I was feeling ... full, complete, happy. I was sleeping better, and though I was growing by the day, I didn't feel too big or awkward. These feelings translated into a more normal me ... I was giggling and sometimes downright laughing at Rob's jokes again, and we were enjoying each other more (as made apparent by the lack of bickering).

During those first few weeks of the third trimester I often found myself enjoying all the aspects of pregnancy that I had fantasized about prior to being pregnant. The sense of fullness ... everywhere I went I got to carry with me this little creature, and every now and then this being would remind me that I wasn't alone. I remember thinking back to the second trimester, those first few weeks when I would lie in bed, desperately trying to find the baby gator's movement with my fingers even though I could feel it from within just fine. There was no more "trying" involved after a certain point. The kicks became occasionally visible in the middle of the second trimester, but by the time we reached the third trimester, watching my tummy was more interesting than even my favorite television shows.

I must have spent hours finding those little feet and tickling them ... Baby gator would alternate between pushing against my fingers or withdrawing deeper into my womb. By this time, it was known to me that when I would lie on my right side, the baby gator would kick and push against the bed (or massage table). The right side because from 21-week's gestation forward, baby gator was head down, facing to my right.

And so it was time to count down the weeks. My nesting instinct kicked in full force, and it was torturous waiting until 34 weeks for the baby shower. I wanted to get everything ready ... yesterday! Rob did his best to indulge me ... getting rid of furniture, buying new furniture, rearranging the new furniture, buying a new (used) car for the baby. We were in the thick of preparations ...

And then those good feelings of the third trimester turned into some frustrating weeks of nervous anticipation.

First, during week 28 I took my glucose tolerance test and the results came back high, indicating the possibility of gestational diabetes. I knew I was at risk for this due to the PCOS, but was really hoping to avoid being classified as a high risk (as this would "risk" me out of the Birth Center for delivery ... and I really wanted my water birth!). Testing high the first time meant I had to do another, more extensive test ... and frankly, it wasn't fun. The sugar drink made my head swim and my tummy upset, and I felt exhausted and woozy at the same time. Fortunately, the results came back within normal range, and that hurdle was dodged!

Week 32 came with some scares though. At our regular prenatal visit, we were measuring large ... again. This time, it was enough to cause concern, and the midwife prescribed another ultrasound. We were excited to have another ultrasound, but the idea of a large baby wasn't too thrilling given the risks to the baby ... not to mention my plans for a natural, vaginal delivery.

As it happened, the baby measured in the 64th percentile ... large, but definitely within normal limits. I happened to also have a lot of amniotic fluid, which was perhaps skewing the measurements a bit. Nothing to worry about we were told. The baby gator weighed approximately 4.5 pounds at that point.

Nothing to worry about until we started contracting ... again. Between 32 and 36 weeks, Rob and I spent a lot of time at the hospital doing fetal monitoring. At week 34, we went in with contractions (Braxtons) coming only 2-minutes apart, and had a positive fetal fibronectin test. The midwives were convinced I would deliver early... And, although we were concerned for the baby, we couldn't help but be excited that we might get our baby gator sooner rather than later ... After all the anticipation of being told we would probably deliver early, waiting was becoming an ever more burdensome job.

And then it was a torturous job as weeks 37 - 39 came and went ... bigger by the day, and the pregnancy itchies started. My belly and thighs and feet would itch and itch and itch ... so much so I'd have to get up in the middle of the night to scratch away until I could get the itchies to go away. I tried the salves they recommended, the vinegar and the calendula. Finally I got a prescription antihistamine that worked to ease the itchies and allowed me to sleep in peace.

Throughout these weeks Rob and I still ended up going to the hospital a few times for monitoring to make sure baby gator was handling things okay ... these trips were getting tiresome, each one ending with Rob telling me we were NOT going back to the hospital unless it meant the baby was coming ... ha!

Wednesday, week 39, I started contracting ... and contracting ... We thought "this is it!" I contracted steadily for hours and hours ... finally, we went to the Birth Center to get checked ... 3+ cm, they said ... and gave me some morphine to go home and sleep. No baby ... more pregnancy. And popsicles. Since we were SURE we were going into labor, I called into work and they took me off the schedule ... so I was stuck, at home, by myself, waiting for this little one to come. Friday we got to do the contractions all over again ... and again on Monday.

Finally, past my due date, I had to make up excuses to get out of the house, waddling through the grocery store and Babies R Us ... taking myself to see Julie & Julia ... desperate for the contractions to come ... and to bring baby gator with them!

Finally, Friday, week 40, we had an appointment with our midwife, who offered to break our water the next day in an attempt to induce labor, giving us our last shot before risking out of Birth Center for being too overdue ... us, the ones who weren't supposed to make it to week 35 ...

But we were SO EXCITED. Rob went to spend his last few hours at work before taking some paternity leave... I grinned from ear-to-ear as I went about my last chores before baby ... taking a swim, walking on the treadmill, taking all the homeopathic labor induction stuff ... All knowing that Saturday I would be going into labor, and one way or another, within 24-hours, our little one would be born!

It was TERRIBLE trying to sleep ... tossing and turning and itching and excited ...

And then it was morning.

The second trimester ... and all its glory.

Having read the books and listened to a whole bunch of people rave about their second trimesters of pregnancy, I was ready for the relief. I was counting down the days to being able to pick up where I'd left my feelings of wellbeing and get back to some normalcy.

Now, I don't mean it to seem that I had a horrific first trimester. Actually, my morning sickness was much milder than the horror stories I've heard from others. But that doesn't mean it was fun.

Rob was terrified that I wouldn't be able to contribute to our checking and savings accounts, and was getting more and more anxious that this would compromise his ability to take some time off with the baby gator after birth. I tried and tried to convince him that there would eventually be a reprieve from the generally lackadaisical wife of the first trimester, but quickly realized that he needed RESULTS. So, I found a downgrade to a 600 sq. ft. one-bedroom apartment that would make it much easier to afford this little one, and still accommodate the rest of our lifestyle and habits. It wasn't easy convincing him we needed to make the move, but once I found the right location, we were packed and moved and now it's home.

Shortly after moving, there was another kind of moving to talk about ... the baby gator's moving, in fact. At the very early gestational age of 14 weeks, I felt a tickle in my tummy beneath the ever-tightening waistband of my still wearable jeans. I didn't think much of the first tickle, but when I realized that the tickle was there, in the same spot, several times over, I knew it had to be the baby and not some random gas bubble. And, true to our precocious baby gator's nature, I wasn't the only one to feel the baby move early. The very next week, Daddy was able to feel the baby's little movements for the first time...very tangible proof positive that there was indeed a little alien in Mommy's tummy.

About this time, I had a falling out with my obstetrician. I've never carried a pregnancy to term or delivered a baby before, but that doesn't mean I'm not well-read, or television-watched, or opinionated about the matter. Armed with my research and personal preferences, I dared to ask my obstetrician some questions; throwing her off schedule and apparently confronting some basic tenets of western obstetrics as it's currently practiced.

First, I asked about a water birth. Sure, they have tubs in the hospital, but my OB would be damned before she'd kneel at a tub to deliver a baby. "You can labor in the tub, but you'd have to get out for me to catch the baby."

Second, I asked about pushing. Specifically, I do not want to hold my breath while pushing. "How are you going to push if you're not holding your breath?" This she asked with such incredulity that I was immediately thrown off. After all, she had asked me if I had any questions ... I assumed it meant she was at least willing to look away from her laptop and answer the questions I asked. Realizing that I wasn't prepared to discuss this topic in a confrontational way, I decided to shoot for my third question instead. I already KNOW that a woman doesn't have to push a baby out. That's what contractions of the uterus are for. In fact, there was a time, early in western obstetrics, when they would simply send a woman into the ether, allowing her body to push the baby out without conscious effort ... much less while holding her breath!!!

Managing to regain my composure, I asked my third and final question, her answer to which told me everything I needed to know. I wanted to know if she would support delayed cord cutting...which is to simply wait until the cord has stopped pulsating, then clamp and cut the cord. Again, it felt like I was spit at upon the utterance of such nonsense. "Let me just ask you why," she replied, "because in my experience, mothers can never give me a good reason why. If they could, I would support it."

I had to take a deep breath to come up with, "Well, I believe that it allows a baby to get some practice breathing in while still having the benefits of the blood exchange from the placenta, and that until the placenta is separated from the uterine wall, as demonstrated by the cessation of the umbilical pulse, that it has good things to offer to the baby, all of which rightfully belong to the baby."

"Hmmmph. Well do you want to hold your baby after the baby is born?" she asked, to which I responded with a resounding "Of course!" And then the scare tactic.

"My favorite part of delivering a baby is I catch the baby and promptly place the baby on the mother's chest. If I do this without clamping and cutting the cord, then all of the blood will drain out of the baby. It's a matter of gravity." She went on to explain that their is a big vein in the umbilical cord that would suck the blood out of my baby, and that was in contrast to only two little arteries in the umbilical cord. I suppose it never occurred to her that I know the vein in the umbilical cord is called such because it is carrying blood TO the baby, not away. And, so long as the umbilical cord is pulsating, then the blood would be going TOWARDS the baby.

I was infuriated as I left the parking lot of that dreadful OB's office. But in truth, that was the motivation I needed to seek out the kind of care that I really wanted throughout my pregnancy...that of midwives and intervention minimalists. So heading away from a terrible confrontation with western medicine, I was really heading towards my desired water birth...

Rob was a bit weary of the idea at first, but supportive nontheless. Then, he really got into the idea when he realized that he might be the first one to hold the baby ... the midwives would allow him to catch the baby after delivery of the head and shoulders.

At 18-weeks we went in for an ultrasound. They were looking to measure the baby, and get a good look at the baby's heart...and maybe tell Daddy the sex of the baby (I want it to be a surprise). The baby was not quite cooperative that morning, and we ended up with a second ultrasound scheduled for 21-weeks because she couldn't quite see the baby's heart well enough, and needed another look. As it turned out, the position of the baby also meant she couldn't even venture a guess at the baby's gender, leaving Daddy feeling a bit bummed out.

While the morning sickness was definitely tapering off, I still wasn't feeling my best. But I was able to get a little ooomph back, and started working more. And then it happened; allergy season. And apparently it was the worst for many people, made more so for me because I couldn't take my tried-and-true Claritin-D; I had to stick to just plain Claritin, which didn't do much for my suffering. There were sleepless nights followed by dreadfully fogged mornings. I went through boxes and boxes of Puffs Plus, and don't ever think that Kleenex with lotion is the same thing as Puffs Plus ... it's not. Your nose will never forgive you if you make that mistake. Worse still, this was in the thick of the swine flu hysteria, and I had to keep reassuring people that I was pregnant and miserable with allergies, not carrying an epidemic in my snotty tissues.

The day I turned 20 weeks, I had my first scare of the pregnancy. I started cramping in my lower abdomen and back. I called the midwife, and was instructed to take a warm bath and drink lots of water, and if the cramping didn't subside to call her back. We called her again and were sent to the hospital for some fetal monitoring. Of course our baby gator was fine, and they didn't see any uterine activity on the monitor (but then again, 20 weeks is a little early to even look for uterine activity via monitors). We were sent home with a pamphlet describing pre-term labor signs and instructions for calling the midwife.

At 21-weeks we had our third ultrasound of the pregnancy, and this time she got a really good look at all four chambers of the heart, and was able to tell Rob with 85% assurance what the sex of the baby is. He's been quite ecstatic having this secret for nearly 20 weeks now, as I write this still not sure of the baby's gender. At that point we had to come up with a strategy for Rob to keep the secret. We decided that we would alternate days; one day would be a boy day, and the next a girl day...meaning we would use both gender specific pronouns and names. Illiana for the girl days, and Tebow for the boy days.

Also around that time, I visited a cardiologist to finally get my heart murmur diagnosed and dealt with. No problems, just expect some swelling and don't cross your legs, he advised. Great, now Rob would scold me every time he saw my legs crossed ... even if it was only at the ankles! Oh, and he got others to scold me for it too!

Meanwhile, there were some other bright spots to my second trimester. First, I landed a paid position at the massage school as a TA (woo hoo!), which came with a particularly wonderful perquisite ... massages for the pregnant lady! From weeks 24 to 30, I received an average of 3 massages per week, and let me tell you what a difference it made. By that time, the baby gator had trained me not to sleep on my tummy (or I'd wake up to a lot of kicking), and so I'd lie still on one side until the burning discomfort of melting tendons and ligaments in my hips would wake me up. The soreness would last through the day ... until I had a massage, and then I had a little hop in my step.

I soon discovered (on a trip to our nephew's high school graduation), that if I had something to lean back on, that my hips wouldn't hurt nearly so much. So, upon our return from California, Rob muscled the bed against the quarter-wall in our bedroom, so I wouldn't be relegated to the couch for the duration. Add to that my memory foam, and my hips have made a remarkable recovery, relapsing only mildly at the end of each sleep. A handy alarm clock, if you ask me.

During week 27, we had our second scare. I started contracting in a regular pattern, about every 7-minutes. These were clearly Braxton in nature; they didn't hurt, and I didn't think I was going into pre-term labor ... but the instructions were clear; if you are contracting more than 4-times per hour, you call the midwife ... who sends you to the hospital for fetal monitoring. This time we got a great update on the baby, though ... and an extra ultrasound. Our nurse told us that the baby's heartrate was responsive to the baby's movement, and that was ahead of schedule ... in fact, our baby's heart was responding so well to movement it was like looking at the heartrate of a full-term baby. She said it was a good indication of neural development ... and we should be filling out college applications shortly. I said I didn't know they could tell you a baby was smart in utero.

By this time, the end of our second trimester, a bit of rain had rescued me from the dreadful allergies, and I was feeling particularly well. Just in time to welcome our third trimester...

The first trimester ... what I can remember.

Along with all of the excitement came some trepidation. First, Rob and I had experienced a miscarriage just seven months prior, and like most miscarriages, there was no explanation. I was determined that this one was going to stick, but my mother insisted on keeping low-key just in case. This went against the pure excitement I was feeling (along with the heartburn), but there was nothing to be done while I was in Portland, so we celebrated Christmas with vague dreams of August 31st on our minds.

That's right, having known the date of the first day of my last menstrual, I figured out our due date ... and August 31st it was! A Virgo baby. I said from the beginning that I wanted a little September Virgo ... on the 1st of September, so I wouldn't have to go too far overdue. It's now the 3rd, but I keep jumping ahead.

Christmas was delightful. Rob had to return to Tucson for work, but I lingered to spend some quality time with my Dad and sister. I was able to manage the heartburn with Cheerios and Tums ... a handful of Cheerios and a couple of Tums before I sat up in bed, and then some Tums sprinkled like candy throughout the day, and I did okay.

Nervous about the previous miscarriage, I called my obstetrician's office to schedule an official test. The scheduler told me she could get me in on January 9th...and I freaked out. When I started crying on the phone, it dawned on me that I wasn't just nervous about the previous miscarriage, but scared of another miscarriage. I told the poor girl on the other end of the line that I had miscarried by that point in my last pregnancy. I happened to be friends with my obstetrician's assistant, so I called in a favor and got an appointment for the first business day following my return to Tucson...January 2nd.

I nursed a horrid cold while we nervously waited for our test results to come in. We needed to establish a baseline for the pregnancy hormone, and then watch it climb to feel better about this pregnancy. And our little gator did not disappoint! Our first test results came back at nearly 9,000 HCG (we never got to 3,500 HCG our first pregnancy). I went back that afternoon to have another draw, and this time the results came back at nearly 20,000!!! I would have tested again, but morning sickness set in, which was proof enough for me that I was staying pregnant this time.

Oh yeah, morning sickness. If it wasn't bad enough that I was stuck with a cold for two weeks, then I had to go and get morning sickness. Every wave of nausea was a blessing and a curse. Mostly I felt cursed. I was cursed to the endless anticipation of a newborn that was months away from being born. I was cursed to the ongoing feeling of nausea. And I was cursed to have an immune system shocked and shot by the pregnancy, resulting in a second virus lasting another few weeks. I felt trapped in the bedroom, watching Discovery Health like it was going out of style, sucking on popsicles I couldn't even taste, and wondering if I would ever again enjoy food beyond Ramen Noodles. It was fortunate, however, that these symptoms were not in addition to heartburn, rather they were instead of heartburn.

In the middle of our 7th week, we had our first ultrasound ... and saw the cutest little peanut of a baby gator you ever did see! Lifted our spirits, it did ... between bouts of morning sickness, that is.

In week 8, I felt my first Braxton. All the sudden my uterus went tight and I had the oddest sensation of a moment in which you're both confused and enlightened simultaneously. It just happened that once, but it happened! And to me, it was a good sign that my uterus was waking up to the challenge of a growing fetus.

But the progression over the next several weeks was not as pretty. The fatigue was constant, along with the general feeling of not wanting to do anything. I did manage to get over the Ramen Noodle fetish, and replaced it with a health food fanaticism that boggled Rob's mind. I could only eat the foods that I could think of without wanting to throw up. And those foods happened to include a lot of berries, citrus, cucumbers, carrots, avocados, hummus, pita chips, and some cheese. Yummy, but no wonder I lost 10 pounds!

We managed to survive the first trimester, even with the hits to our morale and bank account (a nauseated massage therapist doesn't make much money). But, we were planning a good rally for the coveted second trimester I was entering ... the one that everyone says is the best trimester. Ha!

I'm not popping, so I might as well blog.

I'm sitting here, home alone, 40 weeks and 4 days pregnant, and I'm ready. After days of being sure I was going to deliver in just a little while, I'm beginning to doubt...just about everything.

To pass the time, and to try and reconcile these feelings of frustration, perhaps logging my recollection of the last nine months will help.

And so we begin with conception ...

Rob and I began trying to get pregnant shortly after we were married in February 2008. A few short months later, and bingo ... we were pregnant. And just like that, we weren't anymore. Heartbreaking as it was, the miscarriage was not quite the catastrophe, and didn't discourage me one bit. My mother dealt with four miscarriages before I came along, and somehow I drew some courage and hope from that story I've known for as long as I can remember. I was also quite encouraged that we had gotten pregnant to begin with, and a visible embryo in utero. Having been diagnosed with PCOS several years prior, I knew that getting pregnant wasn't necessarily going to be easy ... and combining that with a history of PID, it seemed like the odds might be stacked against us.

We were told not to try for another couple months ... two cycles ... and by the time it was time to try again, I happened to be out of town during ovulation. So another cycle went by, during which Rob lost his job, and with it our health insurance, so again, we waited. Another cycle without insurance, and then we were ready to go. It was November at this point. Our first time back on the saddle, so to speak, it was a no go ... but the second time around, I had a feeling ... actually, nausea and an Eegee's craving. And sure enough, that tipsy evening in early December had done the trick.

But shhh ... Rob and I had a deal from the very beginning that pregnancy would always be "ours" ... at least as much as pregnancy can belong to a couple rather than a mother-to-be. The deal included the condition that whenever I took a home pregnancy test, my job was to pee, and his was to read the results. In May 2008, having just occurred to me that I was late for my period by two days, I peed on the stick and casually told Rob as I turned the corner into the living room that he had a pregnancy test to read in the bathroom.

He called from the bathroom and asked, "What does it mean when there's only one line?" I replied that meant the test was negative. He came out of our bedroom and said, "I'm sorry, honey." To which I quickly and bravely replied, "It's okay, it will happen when it's supposed to happen." Then I saw his face, and that big boyish grin of his ... "I'm sorry because everything is going to change when this baby arrives!" I couldn't believe it, so I promptly went out and bought three more tests ... for the fun of seeing the lines turn colors each time!

Deciding to mentally note everything I could remember from the previous few weeks that I could attribute to pregnancy, we noted that Eegee's cravings and heartburn were prominent deviations from my normal. So in December, driving home from a housesitting gig, when I felt a bit queezy, and then wanted Eegee's, Rob and I became excited at the possibility. With Christmas coming up, and my period due on the 23rd, we decided to hold off on testing until Christmas Eve, when we would both be in Portland, Oregon with my family for the holidays.

I arrived in Portland first, on the 22nd...to a great deal of snow on the ground at that. On the 23rd, my period was conspicuously missing ... and I was telling my parents and sister that I thought I might be preggers. Of course I still had to wait for Rob to show up on the 24th to test...

Then it happened, I woke up on the 24th with the WORST heartburn, and I knew. I texted Rob "No need to bring the test. I KNOW I'm preggers. Remember the heartburn? It's back with a vengeance."

Rob brought the test with him anyway, and as soon as we got back to Dad's from the airport that night I went off to pee on the stick. A few minutes later, Rob came back from the bathroom and I shot him a huge smile saying "I already know." Of course I was right... Everyone else had already crashed for the night, so we waited until morning to break the big news.

And here we are, nine months later ... or am I getting ahead of myself?