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?