Updates on That Which I Promised Not To Mention Any More

So we had that big, mid-term ultrasound yesterday, where they check baby all out, and you can see all of the bones and internal organs, and all of that fun stuff. Have you ever tried keeping three kids entertained while you peek at indiscernabletothem pictures of the baby in Mommy's tummy? Yeah, me neither. Candy works, though. I mean, I'm not all about giving my kids candy, but I've been known to do desperate things sometimes. So we settled them all in with candy, and checked out the baby's spine, brain stem, kidneys, fingers & toes, leg and arm bones, eye (sockets), umbilical cord, and, for daddy, gender.

So baby looks really good, which means I got to sit down with the doctor afterward and tell him, "thanks so much for the help; we'll take it from here." Which, he actually handled well. He told me that he was obligated by hospital policy to inform me that my decision to birth baby at home does not meet current standards of care ("But," he said, "You can obviously do whatevertheheck you want!"), which he documented, and then wished me luck in all of my future endeavors. And told me to get in touch if I needed anything else. So, overall, I have been fairly impressed with my interactions with this doctor. No hard-sell to birth at the hospital, or anything like that. I don't know if he just saw me as a hopeless cause (a woman walks into the office with three kids, two of whom have been born at home, you're not liable to get anywhere trying to convince her to go back to the horrors of hospital birth), or if he's just really a nice, easy-going doctor, but...I was actually mildly impressed. Which, you know, says a lot.

So baby is measuring a few days behind, but still well within normal range, which means that I may actually be pushing out a newborn instead of a full-sized toddler. Comforting news for my nether regions. My placenta is in a good position--toward the back, not near my previous c/s scar, not near the cervix, so that was very good news, too.

They tried to get one of those creepy 3-D ultrasounds of baby's face (am I the only one who totally gets weirded out by those?), but baby wouldn't move her hands away from face at all. Camera shy, apparently. Daddy got a peek at (her?) gender, but he's keeping it a secret because I don't want to know. Obviously, my use of the feminine pronoun will clue you in to my personal gender suspicion. But I could be totally wrong.

Our little addition: nicknamed Macadamia

Nursing in Public, Sunday-Style

My sister and I visited a church this weekend; it wasn't a church that either of us would ever, ever attend. Ever. But we both went to the school associated with this church, years and decades and lifetimes ago, and we still know and love a lot of people there.

So we sat up in the balcony with our two and three kids respectively, while the pastor stood up at the pulpit and made it very clear that noisy/crying/distracting children should be immediately removed from the service, as we would not want to hamper the work of the Holy Spirit. Who is, apparently, a lot less powerful than I always gave Him credit for. So five minutes into the song service, my eighteen-month-old started talking. Loudly. So I took him to the designated "cry room," which had been pointed out to me the moment I stated that my kids would be sitting in the service with me. Yes, even the baby.

The cry room was--weird. There were no less than thirteen people in there, several of them men. The chairs were arranged in rows, facing the front of the room, but no one was at the front of the room. The sermon was being piped in, and everyone was sitting in the rows of chairs, facing the empty front of the room, listening to the sermon. I was one of two people with a child. I sat in the back, next to a lady that I had known when I went to the school, and started to discreetly nurse my baby.

"Do you have a blanket or something to cover up with? That doesn't bother me, but there are men here."

"No, and my baby won't nurse under a blanket."

"Here, I'll get you a blanket from the nursery." She laid her coat over my baby's head and stepped out.

My baby immediately threw her coat on the floor.

We stopped nursing, and tried our luck walking around in the lobby. We ran into her as we were leaving--I told her my baby was done, and she handed me the blanket anyway. "The nursery has little curtained rooms in it if you need to nurse again."

Honestly, I was annoyed. Probably incensed. I was nursing my baby in the only place I knew to nurse him (and really? I'm supposed to shut myself up in a little curtained room every time my baby wants to nurse?). I was covered, but apparently, because that covering was a tank top, my shirt, and my baby, instead of a giant flannel blanket, I was being dirty. Immodest. Disgusting. Probably causing men to have lustful thoughts.

In the five-and-a-half years that I have been nursing, I have never encountered negativity while nursing in public until now. And of course, it had to be in a church, because obviously, God hates breasts. Especially those used for nourishing a baby.

A mom nursing her infant as discreetly as I was nursing.

A Little Too Much Help

So I got a phone call from the doctor's office on Thursday, telling me that they wanted me to start on antibiotics because of the results of my urinalysis (I had an appointment on Monday and had to pee in a cup for them while I was there). I assumed I had a UTI, so I called them back on Friday to find out more about it. Turns out that it's not a UTI. I tested positive for Group B Strep, so they wanted me to start on antibiotics to treat that. So I asked them why they were going to treat that now, when I'm only ten and a half weeks pregnant ("Isn't that something that you usually give abx during labor for?"). They said they wanted to treat it now, and then, of course, they would have me on abx during labor if my 36-week swab came back positive also.

So, first of all, I'm not going to be getting that 36-week swab because I stop seeing the doctor around 24 weeks, after I have the "big" ultrasound. And, if for some horrible reason, I did have to go have my baby at the hospital, I would not consent to abx during labor for gbs. The chances of my baby getting sick from it are small, and there is conflicting evidence as to whether abx actually help the baby, and, in the event that the baby does get sick, receiving abx during labor can make the gbs resistant to abx, thus increasing the risk that the baby will die. So there's that.

Also, gbs tends to colonize transiently. As in, I may test positive today, and negative tomorrow. So why would I subject myself and my nursing toddler to unnecessary antibiotics in my 11th week of pregnancy, with no apparent benefit?

When I thought it was a UTI, I asked the nurse which antibiotic they had prescribed. My husband is allergic to amoxicillin, and on the off chance that the baby has inherited his allergy, I don't feel comfortable taking that antibiotic while nursing. So then, I get a call back from them a little while later, and they told me that they decided to wait until next month (my next visit with the doctor), to treat the gbs. So it's obviously not all-fire important to treat it now, so why were they rushing me to the pharmacy to treat this right now!! if it's not that big of a deal?

Then, while I was on the phone with the nurse, she also pointed out that I'd had glucose in my urine, and asked if I'd been watching my blood sugars, and she said it in a very implicating way. And you know what is annoying about this? It's that when I really needed their help, they were all like, "Screw you, lady!" and now that I just want to go about my pregnancy, they're determined to get all up in my business. Well, I'm telling you now: butt out.

What You *Really* Need for Breastfeeding

So I had another "first" prenatal with another doctor the other day, and they sent me home with another prenatal pack with info for new moms. I was actually semi-impressed with this pack--there was only one publication that contained formula advertising in it, and I couldn't find anything that was actually published by formula companies. It appeared that the hospital self-published much of their materials, and contained some fairly good information. Unfortunately, I'm pretty sure none of their doctors have actually read said materials, because when I birthed there five-and-a-half years ago, they pretty much didn't do any of the good stuff. Which is why I now homebirth. Different topic, though. Anyway.

So they included a copy of the Babytalk pregnancy planner, which I ignored at first because a)most mainstream pregnancy publications suck, and b) this is not my first time around the block. But, yesterday, in a fit of procrastination, I picked it up. And it was every bit as appalling as I'd expected.

First thing a saw when I opened it was a full color double page spread ad for Similac. Now, I know they have to have advertising, and I know that lots of moms formula feed, and I know that since breastfeeding is free, no one can really make any money advertising breastfeeding, but, still. I'll give them a pass on that, though, for the above reason, and because it's a mainstream publication, and all mainstream publications advertise formula, and all kinds of crap that no one actually needs or use for their babies, but it makes you all warm and fuzzy feeling when you flip through it as a hormonal pregnant woman, so whatever.

What caught my eye, and, consequently, my temper, though, was the breastfeeding supply list. It just screamed "I was written by someone at the formula company!" Here is what the spring/summer 2012 edition of the Babytalk pregnancy planner says you need in order to start breastfeeding (this list can be found on page 39):

• breast pump This purchase can make or break your nursing experience. If you're going back to work full time, you'll need to buy or rent a super-efficient (but pricey) double electric pump. But if you're staying home, a much less expensive manual pump may be fine.
• freezer storage containers or bag 
• 4 to 6 bottles
• nursing pads 
• nursing pillow
• nipple cream
• 2 nursing bras for now (your size may change when your milk comes in)
• can of formula in case of emergency
 (it's always good to have one on hand!)

Okay, so here's the deal. Really, the only thing you need to get started breastfeeding, is a baby and a boob. That's it. It's not complicated. It's not expensive.

You don't need a breast pump. Not at first. If you're planning on going back to work at some point, then yes, you'll need a breast pump. But you don't have to go out and drop $250 on a Medela before you've left the hospital in order to succeed at breastfeeding. If you are having supply issues, your hospital can rent you a hospital grade pump to help your milk come in (and often, your insurance will pay for it). You can also hand express (the first time I tried hand expression, I was actually shocked at how effective it was. So effective that I had clean milk off the opposite wall when I was done). You can use a "much less expensive manual pump" if necessary. Really, though, if you're having supply issues, your best bet is not to go out and buy a breast pump, but to contact your local LLL representative and get help. Immediately.

Obviously, if you don't pump, you don't need freezer containers or bottles, since those would be absolutely useless to your breastfeeding baby. So I'm really not sure why these are on a list of things you need to breastfeed. Maybe they mislabeled the list for "Things You Need for Pumping."

Before my oldest was born, I bought a huge box of nursing pads, because all the lists told me that my breasts would turn into geysers after my baby was born, and I would soak through my clothes, and embarrass myself. I never used them. Not one. Granted, I know some women who do leak, so I'm not saying you absolutely, positively will. not. need. them. I'm just saying, wait. Find out what your body does with milk before you buy stuff that you won't ever use. Like I said before, the only things you need to start nursing is a baby and a boob.

Nursing pillows are--well, I hated mine. Hated it. It didn't sit right, and the baby would slip down between me and the pillow, and it never quite propped him up high enough, and it was so bulky that I could never take it anywhere, and at home I had free access to all kinds of pillows (which I could arrange to work much better than my nursing pillow did), so it was totally a waste of however much money the lady who gave it to me spent on it. Again, I know some women who love their nursing pillows. Wouldn't go anywhere without them. Can't imagine breastfeeding without it. That's fine. But wait. To get started breastfeeding, all you need is (let's hear it, ladies) a baby and a boob.

Nipple cream, of course, falls into the same category as nursing pillows and nipple pads. When I was first starting out breastfeeding, my nipples did crack and bleed and hurt like holy heck. I honestly didn't find that nipple cream helped me (it was a latch issue, and often is. Breastfeeding should. not. hurt.). Half the time I forgot I even had it, so, whatever. Some women probably find it really helpful, so I'm not saying it's not something that you may need. I'm just saying that, well, first of all, if your nipples are cracked and bleeding, or constantly sore, contact your local LLL representative and get help. And second, all you really need to breastfeed is--yeah. You get it. Right?

Nursing bras I can actually understand. I mean, I don't wear them anymore because I can't find one that's comfortable that I don't have to mortgage my house to pay for, and I've found it's quite easy to slip my boob over the top of my regular bra, and pop it back in when I'm done. I'm an experienced breastfeeder, though, and I'm not positive I could have done that with my first couple of kids. Also, I may have ill-fitting bras. But, a nursing bra is not something that you need in order to start breastfeeding. I mean, I don't know about anyone else, but the first two, three, four years weeks after my babies are born, I don't even wear a bra. At all. So I certainly don't require the services of a fancy, expensive bra in order to feed my baby with my boob.

A can of formula is something that a beginner breastfeeder (or any breastfeeder) should never, ever, EVER have on hand. Those first couple weeks of breastfeeding your first baby are, well, hard. I won't sugar-coat that. Depending on how much support you have, you may have people telling you that baby is starving every time he screams, and that you need to top him off with formula to make sure he's getting enough. You'll obsess over diapers ("Is this poop the right color? Is he pooping enough?"). You'll cry because you just fed this kid six minutes ago, and he wants to nurse again. It's a mountain, and if you're going to breastfeed, you'll have to scale it, at least once. Probably. And let me tell you, a can of formula will hold you back. It will sit on your shelf and taunt you. It will remind you of how inept you are at feeding your baby with your boob. It will ask you if you know for sure that your baby is eating enough, and laugh when you stammer back that you th-th-think so. It will glow in the dark when you get up for those great many middle of the night feeds, and remind you that statistically, formula-fed babies sleep for longer stretches of time (it will not elaborate on whether this is actually safe, however). It will sabotage you. 

Incidentally, I find it (kind of) funny that the list of breastfeeding necessities is eight items long. Eight things that you're supposed to need in order to start breastfeeding. You know how long the formula-feeding list is? Six items. Six. Because last I checked, you need a lot more than a baby and a boob to formula feed.

Breastfeeding is--amazing. I've been doing it non-stop for five-and-a-half years, and I'm currently tandem nursing (while pregnant. Do I earn points for that?). I know whereof I speak, ladies. It may take some effort to get started, it may take some fortitude, some determination, some bull-headedness, some focus. But really, it just takes a baby and a boob. That's it. Now go for it!

Sackloth and Ashes

In the circles in which I grew up, the name Jack Hyles was big. Really big. Really, really big. If we had been catholic, he would have been the Pope. If we had been Mormons, he would have been Brigham Young. We were not, of course, associated with any of those sinful cults, so he was simply called "The Founder of Fundamentalism." Or something. His church, First Baptist Church of Hammond, was the bastion of fundamentalism. Books and sermon tapes poured out of our Mecca at an alarming rate, telling us how to live, how to raise our children, how to dress, how to be good, upstanding Christian men, and meek, submissive Christian women. I remember a great many hard-bound books on my mom's bookshelves bearing the names of Jack Hyles and his family members as authors. When I was in middle school, my school (it was a Christian school, of course) took a part-day field trip to a local church to hear The Man himself speak. He was well past his prime by then, and I don't really remember much about him or his sermon, other than the fact that for some reason, I thought he looked a lot like my grandma on my mom's side. On the bus ride there and back, I heard stories of stage antics in which he threw microphones, jumped off pews and pulpits, yelled, screeched, hollered, slammed books down, and did all manner of strange and wondrous things. He didn't do any of that this day, and I must admit, I was mildly disappointed, but he was an old man by then, so I understood. Anyway, he was a really, really, really big deal.

I remember, as a teenager, hearing whispers here and there about The Man, and some supposed sexual forays. My mom viciously discounted these rumors and forbad me to speak of them, saying they were stories made up by jealous men who were trying to destroy the Cause of Christ®, and the great name of Jack Hyles. I accepted this, mostly because I was young and dumb, and honestly, I didn't know enough about sex to really understand the significance of this accusation, other than that it was a Bad Thing. Later on, in college, when I was old enough to think for myself, and understand the import of such stories, I read Robert Sumner's expose of Jack Hyles, "The Saddest Story I've Ever Told," in The Biblical Evangelist. I delved further into Jack Hyles' teachings, writings, life, and family, and his church, First Baptist Church of Hammond (FBCH). I admit it was mostly morbid curiosity, since by this time, Jack Hyles had been dead for some years, but it was also somewhat of a Truth-Finding mission, since I was going through a crisis of faith, of sorts, and wanted to know if all that I had been taught as a child was based on actual Bible, or on some sexual deviant that got his kicks out of making up crazy rules that people had to follow in order to be "godly."

The truth, as I discerned it eventually, fell somewhere in between these choices, although closer to the crazy side than to the biblical side. I've had to reconsider a lot of what I believed about God and His demands, but honestly, I'm totally okay with that. God makes a lot more sense, now that I know Him better. Mom never has come around to the Truth about The Man, or about God (as I see it), so we just don't talk about that stuff. Maybe someday.

Anyway, I say all of that to say that I've happily been out of that world for quite some time now, and all of a sudden it all came crashing back into my reality this past week, when The Man's predecessor and son-in-law, the newest Archbishop of Fundamentalism, Jack Schaap, was ousted from FBCH for some kind of sexual mishap with a teenage girl. And this is what I want to talk about. Because obviously, the Schaap-haters are out en masse vilifying him, posting YouTube links to every crazy sermon and sound-bite he ever made, saying, "Dude! You're surprised about this?" (a la "The Polished Shaft"). And I have to admit, as a Schaap-hater myself, I sort of agree with them. I mean, there is definitely something wrong with the guy. Has been for a while. But of course, when the Schaap-haters come out, the Schaap-lovers come out, and defend him. Tirelessly. Sometimes crazily. They flood message boards and Facebook pages and blog posts with messages of support and love and grammatical malfeasance. And you kind of feel badly for them, because you know they're yelling so loudly because their world is crumbling around them and they're trying desperately to grab at something firm and truthful. At least, that's what I hope is their reasoning. Otherwise, they pretty much just need to be committed and medicated. 

I head him speak a time or two, as a teenager. He was a big deal, like his father-in-law. The only sermon of his that I really remember was something about sackcloth and ashes, and I think he came out on stage wearing sackcloth and ashes to illustrate whatever point he was making. I don't really remember what the point was, but I know he played clips of an Amy Grant music video that showed her dancing around and taking a scarf off her shoulders, and he told us that's why we shouldn't listen to the world's music, because it's all about sex. As a fourteen-year-old teenage girl, I didn't really get it, and I kinda liked the song, but it certainly wasn't a new message (my parents told me the same thing all the time), so I figured he was right, and whatever. Sackcloth and ashes, right? 

Later, I started hearing all the crazy, crazy stuff he wrote and preached about, but by then, I was waaaay out of the movement, so I just kind of chuckled at him and took a moment to be grateful that I was in a much happier, saner place now, and--end thinking about it. So when crap hit the fan at the end of July, and rumors started seeping out of Mecca about the Archbishop stepping down indefinitely for "medical reasons," and the Word About Town was that he was indeed sick, but not of the physical variety, I can't say that I was either surprised or sad. Yes, to my shame, I was just a little bit glad that maybe crazy was finally going to have it's microphone shut off. Hate me if you must, Schaap-lovers. 

So as the story came out (for yea, verily, it always shall), his ailment was one of a much darker variety than stress or Crohn's disease or irritable bowel syndrome. Mostly, it was sex. With teenage girls, apparently, among (I suspect) other things. So this is what I'm getting to with all this. There has been some discussion amongst, well, just about everyone, as to whether or not Schaap's fall should be labelled "Adultery" or "Abuse." Cue angry opinions on both sides, and toss around words and phrases like consensual, molestation, legally of age, old enough to choose abortion so she's old enough to choose sex. Really, I'm not interested in any of these words and phrases, because they have absolutely no bearing on Schaap and his actions. 

Here's the truth, folks: Schaap is a 54-year-old man (I'm using the term man loosely, of course) who was supposed to be counseling a 16/17 year-old girl for sexual abuse (a "bus girl," from what I understand, although the details are hazy on this point). Stop right there and think about that for a minute. A teenage girl has been sexually abused by someone, probably someone close to her, since statistically, that's who it is, and she goes to her pastor for counseling, because obviously, she's troubled about it. She's vulnerable and emotionally fragile and she probably doesn't have a really great support structure at home, if I may be allowed to use stereotypes for a moment, because most bus kids don't. (No, really--what good parent in his right mind would send his kids off on a rickety church bus, staffed by teenagers and over-exuberant college kids, and one old guy (the driver), to spend all day at some church somewhere that he has never seen and knows nothing about?) Her pastor, a man she has been taught to look up to, admire, and trust, a man old enough to be her grandfather, starts to shower her with "attention" and "love." He tells her she is special, and means a lot to him, and she's been dying all her life to hear this. I mean from someone--credible. He hugs her. Maybe kisses her. Suddenly, he's having his secretary transport her across state lines so he can "counsel" her when he's out of town. Did she tell him "No!"? Did she gladly lay down in the bed with him? Does it really matter? Really? No. No, it doesn't. Regardless of what she did, or what she said, every shred of responsibility falls smack at Jack Schaap's feet. He is at fault. He took advantage of her, yea, preyed upon her. He failed to have another woman counsel her (or, at the very least, attend the counseling sessions with her). He is the adult. Regardless of the "age of consent" in Indiana, she could not consent, truly, because she was not in a position to do so. Regardless of whether she is old enough to operate a motor vehicle, or have an abortion, or buy alcohol (oh. wait.), she was not in a proper frame of mind and understanding and emotional stability to truly consent to his advances. She was not some brazen hussy who wooed him with her wily, teenage-girl charms. She was not a temptress or a slut. She was a broken, bruised, and wounded young girl who came to him for help, and found--the furthest possible thing from that. He sexually abused her. Which, whether it is recognized as such by the legal system in Indiana, is, of course, called rape. Ugly word, huh? It takes an ugly man to rape a teenage girl. And Jack Schaap is an ugly, ugly man.

So why do I care? Why am I even talking about this? Because it bothers me. It bothers me that anyone can possibly be placing any kind of culpability on this teen girl, thereby lessening--softening--the ugliness of Schaap's evil deeds. She is a victim, twice over (or many, many times over, possibly). She is a victim. He is evil. He has destroyed her. He has destroyed his family. He has grossly misused the trust that was placed upon him as a pastor, an adult man, and a counselor. He has, I have no doubt, injured his marriage beyond reclamation. Whether his wife stands by him or not, he has damaged that relationship irreparably. He has dirtied his name--the name that his children must now ignominiously bear forever. He has shamed and broken his wife. He has raped this young girl, sexually abused her, taken advantage of her trust. He is evil. He is wicked. He bears all the responsibility. Don't you dare say otherwise, because you know you're wrong.

Sackcloth and ashes, dude. Sackcloth and ashes.

The Whole Saga

I was talking to a friend of mine on Facebook the other day--we've been talking about pregnancy and birth, and I've been complaining about all the frustrating experiences I've had this pregnancy. As I was composing my lengthy epistle in response to one of her notes, it struck me, that one of the reasons that I hate doctors (specifically obstetricians) so much is that they do not treat me, as their patient, with respect. And yet they demand respect (and obedience) from me.

For these last three of my four pregnancies thus far, I have planned to birth at home, but because I have some pre-existing conditions, I cannot use the services of a licensed midwife, and I have slightly increased risks for complications during the pregnancy and birth. I have found a lovely unlicensed midwife who assisted with my last birth, and will be assisting me again with this birth, but I like to get concurrent care with a doctor (my preference is a hospital-based CNM or a family-practice doctor, but none of those are ever allowed to provide any kind of care for me because of my pre-existing condition. Sucks.) through the middle of the second trimester. I like to have the "big" ultrasound around 24 weeks, and then, assuming all is well with baby (which is the point of the ultrasound), I switch to just seeing my home birth midwife.

But that first trimester and half, when I'm switching back and forth, is horrible! It is truly culture shock for me, to go from the woman-based care that my midwife provides, in which we spend time together, actually discuss my hopes and plans on an equal level, get to know each other, and build a relationship, to the provider-based care that the doctors provide, in which they expect me to get nekkid on the first visit, and lay on the little table with my nether regions exposed till they breeze into the room, shove their hands up my hoohaw, tell me I'm fat, ask me if I plan on having my tubes tied after this pregnancy, ask me (horrified) if I plan on birthing at home (because they absolutely cannot support such a dangerous practice!), and tell me that they would never have "let me" birth my last two babies vaginally, since they were so large. And then they whisk out of the room, confident that I have been properly subdued.

I have a passive-aggressive strategy that I use to avoid the nekkid thing, that, so far, has worked better than even I could have hoped. I leave my husband at home with the older two kids, and bring the fifteen-month-old by myself to the office. When the nurse tells me strip, I look at her, point to the baby, and say, I may have to put that off till my husband can come with me. At this point, the baby is usually yanking the paper off the little exam table, pulling cotton swabs out of the jars, opening the sterile instrument drawers, and causing no end of mischief, and my point is made quite nicely for me (although, I did have one nurse tell me that I'd have to talk to the doctor, to see if he'd "let" me put it off). I regret that I do not yet have the courage to just come out and say, "no," when they tell me to do something against my wishes.

This pregnancy has truly been a horror so far, regarding my run-ins with the local hospitals. It started last month, when I went to see the CNM who had provided my early prenatal care during my last pregnancy (I was grandfathered into her practice due to some truly providential circumstances). I was having symptoms of low progesterone, and was having trouble regulating it myself. Having a period every twenty days was a real wretch. So I go into her office, and she sits down and says, "Since you have your pre-existing condition, I am no longer permitted to provide any kind of medical care for you at all, per hospital policy. So we'll call this visit a consultation, and I'll send you out to the appointment desk to set something up with one of the obstetricians. Also, so you know, hospital policy also now forbids any care providers in our system to provide any prenatal care to home birthers. So don't bother coming back when you get pregnant." And that, along with a few side-swipes regarding my weight and how well (or not well) she thought I was managing my pre-existing condition, was pretty much the visit. I made the appointment with the obstetrician (although my better judgment was telling me to just forget it), and left. Fuming.

I got a call from this same CNM the next day saying that she'd talked to the obstetrician that I'd scheduled with, and she was just going to tell me to wait it out, lose weight, and try to get my pre-existing condition under control (even though I kept assuring them that I have it very well in hand), and maybe just go to the other hospital in town for help when I'm ready for it, since they have all my medical records pertaining to my pre-existing condition. In other words, "We don't want you. Go away and never come back." So I canceled the appointment with the obstetrician. And then I got an $81 bill from the hospital for the appointment in which I was told that they could provide no medical care for me. I'm fighting them about that right now. No way I'm paying for something that they could have just told me over the phone. /endvent

So I did my best to manage the progesterone issue myself, and somehow I ended up getting pregnant. Not sure how that happened. I mean, I know how it happened, but I don't know how I actually was able to get pregnant, with the progesterone deficiency. But I did. So I called about four different doctors the day I got my positive test to tell them that I had a progesterone deficiency with my last pregnancy, and could they please check my progesterone levels so I could get on a supplement if I needed it. No one called me back. For three days.

The day after my positive test, I started bleeding. I was pretty sure I was going to lose the baby at that point, because it wasn't the kind of bleeding that any pregnant woman wants to see, so I increased the amount of progesterone cream I was taking, started taking some herbs to help quell the flow, and I got myself to the walk-in clinic to try to get my progesterone levels checked. I pretty much cried on the phone with the hospital Ask-A-Nurse (I called to make sure I could visit the walk-in clinic for pregnancy stuff), and told her that I had called a bunch of doctors, and none of them called me back and I was bleeding, and I needed to get on progesterone, and *sob*. So the poor lady told me to stay on the line, and she called a bunch of doctors and found one who could see me, and who would start me on a progesterone supplement that very day. Bless that sweet angel, whoever she is.

So I took myself and my three kids to the walk-in clinic, and we waited for just about four hours to get my hcg levels tested (they don't test progesterone levels at the walk-in clinic, apparently). The doctor called me back and told me that I was either very early in my pregnancy (umm, yeah, like, nine days!) or I was miscarrying, and I needed to come back on Sunday to have my hcg levels drawn again.

So I picked up my progesterone, shoved one in at a gas station before I made the 60-mile trek home, and suffered through the weekend, not knowing if I was losing my little bean or not. When I got home, I looked at my progesterone package, and noticed that the doctor had prescribed 50mg of progesterone a day for me. With my last pregnancy (you know, the one in which they actually tested my levels?) they started me at 100mg, and raised it to 200mg after a second progesterone check. So I went ahead and took 100mg through the weekend, and figured I would call the doctor's office on Monday and explain my last protocol to them and ask them to check my levels and increase my prescription.

So Sunday, I head over to the walk-in clinic during morning church service, and have my hcg levels drawn again, and wait around for the results. My husband and the older kids met up with me and the baby after service was over, just in time for the results. They were rising, but they weren't doubling like they technically were supposed to be doing. The doctor was very optimistic (and very kindly complimented us on our kids!) and said that any rise was good news, but I left not knowing exactly whether to be relieved or to worry further. So, of course, I chose to worry. Because I am woman. Hear me roar.

Monday, I called the doctor and asked him to check my progesterone levels and raise my prescription (I was fairly sure that the bleeding was linked to my low progesterone, since it had been waning somewhat since I'd started on the vaginal suppositories (there, I said vaginal and suppositories on the internet. Again.), but it hadn't diminished completely yet, so I was mildly concerned about an ectopic pregnancy. Anyway, the nurse spoke to me and told me that they do not test progesterone (?!), only the fertility clinic does that, and 50mg is their protocol, so that is all they would give me. I tried to explain to her that they had actually, you know, tested my levels during my last pregnancy, and they were low enough that I was on a much, much higher protocol than 50mg, and I didn't want to miscarry. "Well," she said, "That's because you went through fertility last time [wha....??], but we don't do that at our clinic." So pretty much, it was tough beans for me. "Sucks if you miscarry, but we won't help you."

I was frustrated to the point of tears. I was not about to lessen the amount of progesterone I was taking, but I didn't know what other options I had. There are only two hospitals in our town, and one had thrown me out because I'm a homebirther, and the other one refused to provide the help that I needed to make this pregnancy work. I went to the internet, determined that I would go as far away as I needed to get what I needed. I found a small hospital an hour away in the next state over that was not only able to get me in with a doctor within two weeks, but faxed a prescription for 100mg daily of progesterone at that very moment, and said that the doctor would most likely check my levels if I asked him to. I didn't really give a heck if the doctor was a complete egomaniac--I had my progesterone taken care of for the time being, so I was temporarily appeased.

Meanwhile, the stingy-with-the-progesterone doc wanted me to come back in to have my hcg levels drawn again in two weeks to see if they were rising as they should. Not wanting to put all of my eggs in the same basket, I went ahead and kept all appointments with both doctors till I got a feel for how things were going to go. Somewhere in here, after nine days, the bleeding finally stopped.

My visit with the out-of-state doc went, well, pretty much as I expected. He was an egomaniac who told me that he would never have "let" me birth my last two children vaginally, given how large they were (ha! and you think I would have "let" you check their sizes at the end of my pregnancy? or that I would have "let" you cut me? Sucker!). He also told me that with my obviously uncontrolled pre-existing condition which caused my babies to be large, I should be in a larger hospital. Of course, I took exception to that, since my condition is very well controlled. I just happen to have big babies. Like my grandma. But no one really cares about my grandma. So we had a slight tense moment in which he didn't believe me and I didn't let him get away with that, but that passed, and he told me that he and I just weren't a good fit. "You are obviously a woman with very strong ideas about how things are and should be, and that's not a bad thing, necessarily, but I think you need to find another provider for prenatal care." Is that, like, a doctor's version of a compliment? Personally, I think the fact that I have three kids, had two home births, told him that I was considering a home birth this time around, and was wearing a skirt, made him think I was some kind of a religious nut that births at home on religious principle, instead of being a quasi-feminist who takes exception to doctors just having their way with me for their own convenience. And cutting my uterus open to remove my babies, because it's easier than waiting around for my babies to make their exit through the God-given hatch. So, yeah, we weren't a good fit. But he was very nice in agreeing to do an ultrasound to check on baby so we could rule out an ectopic pregnancy, and a follow-up ultrasound in a week, as well as prescribing the progesterone to me through twelve weeks. So all-in-all, I wasn't completely dismayed by the visit. Although, he did decline to check my progesterone level, since he wasn't going to be providing prenatal care.

My appointment for the hcg lab with the progesterone-stingy doc was the Monday following that appointment. I received a call the next day saying that my levels were over 11,000, which meant that they had been doubling well every two days since my last draw. A good sign, for sure. They wanted to schedule an ultrasound on Thursday of that week, so I went ahead and had that done, and cancelled the follow-up ultrasound with the out-of-state doctor. Baby was there, in my uterus, with a good strong heartbeat, so I was finally was able to breathe.

I am 7 weeks 3 days pregnant today, and as of yet, I still haven't had my progesterone tested. I am hoping that I didn't commit a fatal error by telling the out-of-state doc that I'd found a new care provider (I don't want to lose that progesterone prescription!). The nausea has been fairly frequent (although no throwing up, yet), and the exhaustion has been kicking my butt in a big way, so these are all very good signs. We will see what happens. If anyone ever again asks my why I home birth, though, I will send them to this post, and tell them it's because my midwife is the only care provider who has listened to me and respected me. Who else would I want to have assisting me during birth? Certainly not the asshats (sorry, Mom. It's the nicest word I have for them right now!) who have been giving me grief instead of prenatal care!

After This, I Promise I'll Move On

So I've been talking about Little Bean, mostly, these days, since, you know--that's mostly what I've been thinking about. I promise I'll try to find some other things to talk about, but I did want to mention that I got to see the heartbeat yesterday, pumping along strongly at 120 bpm. I was measuring one day short, but I don't think that's a problem. My dilemma now is whether or not to spend the extra $100 a month to get an additional 50mg of progesterone a day. I say this because one doctor prescribed 100mg daily, and one doctor prescribed 50mg daily, and I've been taking the 100mg, and ignoring the 50mg, but with my last baby, they had me on 200mg by this time, so I don't know if I should up my dose or not, since, you know, No One Will Actually Check My Levels! It's a dilemma. Especially since we're kind of cash-strapped right now as it is, with the new minivan purchase, and my insurance doesn't cover "formulary drugs."

On a slightly different note, I was extremely annoyed when I registered for my ultrasound appointment yesterday, and the registrar lady said, "Can we take a photo for your medical records?" As I was saying, "No, thank you!" (because it's not really any business of theirs what I look like. And I'm paranoid), she had her camera out and was snapping the picture. "It's something new they're requiring," she said, and that was that.

So why the heckity-heck did you ask my permission if I don't have an option to say "no?"

So now, somewhere linked with my medical file at that hospital, is a photo of me, scowling, with dark storm clouds gathering over my head, because some moron was taking a picture of me that I didn't consent to. Serves them right!

In Which I Experience More of the Same

Had an ultrasound in which we saw a sac and a yolk in what was presumed to be my uterus. Doc said that since he couldn't see a heartbeat, he couldn't conclusively say that mine is a pregnant uterus, but he wouldn't bet against it. So i go back a week from Monday to have a repeat ultrasound, in which this whole pregnancy will (I hope) be confirmed as healthy and firmly planted where it's supposed to be.

Incidentally, having a transvaginal ultrasound while holding a squirming 15-month-old on your chest takes amazing mommy skills.

In Which I Obsess Over the Future, and Worry About Things Which Cannot Be Controlled

Tomorrow is my first appointment with (any) doctor since that second pink line appeared on our family-growing test. Tomorrow, we will hopefully learn what has been causing all of these strange pregnancy symptoms, like, you know, the nine days of bleeding. And the weird twinges and tics. And the dizziness. And the slow-rising hcg levels. We will (I hope!) find out tomorrow if this baby is growing in my uterus, or--somewhere else. We'll (I hope) find out if my hcg levels are rising normally now or not. I am, quite honestly, worked up into a tizzy over it. I am trying to prepare myself for the most horrible news (there is no baby in there) or (there is a baby in your fallopian tube), but I am so very much hoping for the best news (here is your baby! Oh, wait! There are two of them! Haha. Just kidding. There's only one in there). I just wish I knew now what I will (I hope!) find out tomorrow.

Meet Clyde

In case baby #4 sticks, we bought a minivan. We figured we'd need one, anyway, so we acted impulsively and signed up for a car payment for the next five years. But, we now have a built-in garage door opener, so BOOYAH!

Carpe Diem!

The bleeding has more or less stopped--I've had two days with only faint pink spotting in the morning when I was putting my progesterone suppository in (do I really need to justify my talking about suppositories on the internet by now?). I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing or a nothing, but  I'm glad to not be seeing it on a daily basis, anyway.

Unfortunately, I'm about 60% convinced that I am carrying an ectopic pregnancy--the bleeding and the slow-rising hcg levels are major symptoms. Of course, I could be wrong (and I really, really hope I am!), but I can't say I'll be surprised if it turns out badly.

I have been trying to focus on enjoying being pregnant right now--even if it's just for another week or two, I want to savor every moment! Pregnancy should not be wasted, even if it's cut short.

My Sewing Career: Over Before It's Begun

I finally finished my fiber book that I've been working on for that last three centuries months. I'm terribly dissatisfied with how it turned out--mostly because I was making up my pattern as I went along, and I have no idea how to sew. The cover thingy for my binder was what stumped me the most--I mean, besides the actual sewing part, of course. I had this idea in my head, you know? So I worked it out on paper, made up my pattern, cut the fabric, and then realized that everything had to be sewn together in a certain order for this to work. And I had no idea what the order was. And every time I thought I had the order sorted out, I realized that I didn't. So by the time I was done, I'd sewn some things on crooked, and stitched across some things that shouldn't have been stitched across, and I'm pretty sure I jabbed the baby with some pins because he kept meddling while I was trying to concentrate, but I got it done. More or less.

This is the outside. The green thing is a crooked pocket that I have no idea what I'll do with, but it's there, nonetheless. I also didn't measure when I sewed my handles down, because one is sewn down higher than the other. 

I made the side panels zip down, so it could open like a book. Since it's, you know, a book. The zippers weren't terribly complicated to do, contrary to what I was expecting, but sewing the little side panels on was every bit as complicated as I'd expected. I know I didn't do it right, but I have no idea how it should have been done, so it is staying as it is. Plus, I hate ripping out, almost as much as I hate mayonnaise.

The top has a little flap with a magnetic snap to theoretically keep all of my loose little expensive needles and stuff contained within the bag. Someone sewed the flap on backward, and it wasn't discovered until much too far into the process to merit ripping out, so I just folded it down and stitched it so it would go the right direction. Which is fortunate, because apparently, my flap thingy would have been too long, had I left it as it was. 

This is what it looks like with the sides zipped down. I think I will have enough space in the top to throw my currently-being-worked-on projects and yarn. When I open it, all my yarn and projects will fall out, and I will be able to access all of my yarning accessories.

Page one, for double-pointed needles. You can read more about the guts of my book here, but I'll post the pictures here, too, because I want to enjoy finally being done.

Page two, for my interchangeable circular needles set and my cable needles, with spaces for my needles, cables, and couplers.

Page three is for my crochet hooks (front) and for all my little finishing accessories (back) like tapestry needles, scissors, t-pins, buttons, and stitch markers.

Page four is my ribbon and thread dispenser. I'm quite proud of this page--it's ingenious. And I'll stop gloating about it now. 

So I've learned a thing or two about myself through this project--mostly that I don't like to sew. Which is good, because I suck at it.

Waiting Around

Baby number 4 is kind of up in the air right now for us. My hcg levels are rising slower than normal (but still rising), and I've been having a lot of bleeding--the kind of bright red bleeding that freaks you out even though it never gets in your underwear (well, I said vagina on the internet, so it only follows that at some point I would talk about underwear, right?). It could be one of several things: a slow miscarriage, an ectopic pregnancy, something related to my low progesterone issue, or just random pregnancy bleeding that is happening for the sole purpose of making me turn prematurely gray. Obviously, we're hoping for option 4, or at worst, option 3, but we shall see. I am finding it difficult to think of myself as pregnant, or get excited about having a baby, when I don't know if it will stick. And waiting around to find out? Yeah. That's a big wretch.

Version 4.0 Coming March, 2013

Well, I can't say that with absolute certainty, since I haven't taken a test yet; but I am fairly sure. For all of you lovely people who chart, you can see my little implantation dip at 7 dpo (days past ovulation, for those of you who don't chart).

I had a teeny little bit of pink this morning when I went to the bathroom (yes, I'm putting that on the internet. At least I didn't say vagina. Oh. Wait.), but nothing came of it (I've been half-expecting my period, because I'm suffering from a progesterone deficiency, so my luteal phase has been between 6 and 7 days long). So the only other thing I can think of is--that we'll be needing a minivan before March of next year. Yay!

(Edit to Add:)
This new version has now been confirmed!

Wandering Thoughts for a Bleak Day

It's 1:39 am, and even though my eyes are crossing and my head is pounding, I can. not. sleep. Today, my dear friend Linda took her sweet little 8-week-old baby girl to the emergency room because she was doing poorly (the baby was born with hypoplastic left-heart syndrome), and she is at home now, with empty arms and full breasts, and mountains and oceans of grief that she will have to climb up and be buried beneath and swim through and drown in, and I cannot bear to think about it, but I cannot stop thinking about it.

It doesn't make sense to me, that God would allow little babies to die. I know He is, well, God. I know He has His own plans and that He exists in a completely different realm from us, so even though His action seem horrifically unkind to me, that to Him they are completely rational, and probably just. But I have to admit, I am just a little bit mad at Him right now. How dare He give them a baby, let them have her for a few weeks, and then take her away again, leaving them saddled with mounds of hospital bills, an empty nursery, and broken hearts? 

The worst part, or one of the worst parts (because how can you choose which part is "worst," when you're talking about a baby dying) is that it was completely unexpected. There was no preparation time, no getting ready for it. She had been doing well. Very well. She was feisty and fighting. They were making plans for the future--not college plans, or career plans, or even starting-kindergarten plans. But plans--she was to have some surgeries later this year to correct several things that were bothering her. She was having casts fitted to correct her club foot. Lowell, Linda's husband, left for work this morning planning to come home and snuggle his infant daughter to sleep. Linda planned to awaken many times in the night to tend to her sweet little girl. And all of a sudden, she was ripped from them, leaving a gaping wound and--why? She was a baby. 

She was a beautiful baby, actually; and I say that in complete honesty, not in the coochy-coo way that we say it to wrinkled and blotchy old newborns. She was beautiful. She had chubby little cheeks, and squinty little eyes, and the pinkest, sweetest skin, and a little smudgy nose that would just break your heart to look at, it was that adorable. She had a little scar on her chest from her first heart surgery, and a giant cast engulfing her little misshapen foot (and yet, it wasn't misshapen at all!), and a tube coming from her nose and taped to her face for feedings, so that she wouldn't exert herself too much at the breast or with her bottle. She was perfect and amazing, and wonderful, and I just knew that she was going to grow up, and...grow up. 

And yet, here they are, picking out caskets, and folding empty little shirts, and jumping up to check on a baby that they no longer have. And I really wish I had some conclusive piece of pithy wisdom to wrap these wandering, venting thoughts up with, but the truth is, I don't. I keep coming up empty. And a little bit angry. And a lot sad. And guilty, because while I ache inside for her, there is a little part of me that is so very thankful that it is her and not me. I kind of hate myself for that. 

Still Feelin' Crafty

My last post? The one that I posted back on April 17th, about my Fiber Book that I'm sewing up? Well, I've done three more pages on it, now, and all that's left is to sew up the cover of the binder that I'm using, and then I'll be done! I have to say, sewing is not my strong suite. At all. As in, if I had to sew to save my life, I'd better have a funeral plot all paid for because...

This is page 1, for my double-pointed knitting needles. If I had it to do over again, I would have made it front/back pages instead of facing pages, because the binder rings make it not lay flat. I also would have added snaps to those flaps so my needles wouldn't fall out every time I flopped the page open (and that's the only way I open the page, apparently). Experience:1, Me: 0. 

This is page 2, for my circular and cable needles. The circular needles are interchangeable, so there's a bunch of pockets that I neglected to get a picture of on the other side of the page for my cables, couplers, stitch holders, etc. I learned that I hate sewing Velcro, and that practice does not always make perfect, because while my technique sucked on page 1, it sucked a whole lot more on page 2. Oh, and I did the whole facing pages thing, again. Experience: 2, Me: 0.

This is page 3, which is finally a front/back page. What? I'm a slow learner, okay? The front holds my crochet hooks, and the back holds all my little finishing accessories: scissors, tapestry needles, T-pins, stitch markers, and buttons. You know how I hate Velcro? Well, sewing ribbon trim and Velcro on the same fabric piece is really rotten. I know that now. Experience: 3, Me: 0.

This is page 4, for dispensing my ribbon and thread that I use for trimming. I am actually a little proud of page 4, considering that I didn't know how to sew when I started page 1. If only I'd cut my little fabric pieces so those darned stripes were straight. Whatever. 

I actually had a totally different idea which I won't detail here, but which involved suspender clips, spools of ribbon, pleats (ha! Because I totally could have done pleats!), and a visit with the Dahli Llama. Or something impossible like that. Anyway, it was a really complicated idea that ended up costing me $44 for suspender clips that I never received and for which I am now disputing to my credit card company because, apparently, customer service is as dead as chivalry and that deer I hit tonight, but that's a totally different story that I will vent about later. Suffice it to say, my idea that I came up with after the Case of the Disappearing Suspender Clips was a totally rockin' idea, and I love it. So, ha! Experience: 3, Me: 1 (because I'm taking this one, whether I deserve it or not).

I'm Feelin' Crafty...

I have recently taken up knitting, on top of my crocheting habit that I've had for several years. It's getting expensive, what with my yarn snobbery requiring me to buy only the nicest, most expensive yarns for these  yarning projects. However, with my knitting stuff crowding into my yarn basket, and my baby always running off with my hooks and needles, I decided to make myself a yarning book. I bought a giant 3" three-ring binder, and I will make four "pages" for it: one page for my double-pointed needles, one page for my interchangeable circular needle set, one page for my crochet hooks and sundry items, and one page for ribbons and buttons. So I spent nine hours today sewing up page one. It was my very first real sewing project, so please excuse my amateur stitching, but here it is, Page One:

A Day of Gratefulness

I came to this morning, drenched in my own cold sweat, my husband leaning over me, coaxing me to drink chocolate milk through a straw. Low blood sugar. Again. I'm pretty sure this has been my wake-up every morning so far this week. I'm trying to keep my sugar under tight control, and--well, sometimes my mornings are a casualty. These incidents take a lot out of me; I'm usually exhausted and weak (not to mention freezing, after drowning in cold sweat in a house that only gets heated to 60º during the night), and so I end up showering and going straight back to bed for a while.

These mornings are hard on Aaron, too. He gets a late start at work, which pushes his clock-out time later; he has to get the kids their breakfast, and deal with a crying baby because mommy isn't aware enough to take care of the baby herself (I can't tell you how many times these crying babies have saved me from hypoglycemic shock, though!). The kids have it pretty easy; they get to strew toys all over the house, dance naked on the dining room table while eating chocolate chip cookies for breakfast, and cause general mayhem in the absence of coherent adult supervision.

And of course, once this chain reaction gets started, it's harder'n'heck to stop. I don't drag myself out of bed until lunch time, or so; the house is completely decimated by then, and the kids are squabbling over who gets to drive the CozyCoupe Police Vehicle, and the baby is eating garbage that has spilled out of the bathroom trash can. By the time lunch is microwaved (because, really, do you think I'm going to cook on a day like this?) and shoved onto passably clean plates, the day is shot, and all I want to do is sit down and wait for my Fairy Godmother to show up and tidy things up for me. Except, of course, it doesn't work that way.

So here it is, midnight. I have stepped on stray Legos about fourteen times since I tucked the kids into bed four hours ago, toy cars and a Melissa & Doug rhythm band set are littering the living room floor, dirty supper dishes are still on the dining room table, non-perishable groceries and empty grocery bags cover my kitchen counter, one of the dining room chairs sits all askew in the kitchen by the counters where my son pulled it up this morning to retrieve cookies from atop the microwave, the beds haven't been made, the animals are staging a revolt, the baby is wearing clothes that were stained about four days ago, and I'm sitting here, drowning in chaos, so very, very thankful for my life.

I have three beautiful, healthy, and moderately obedient children (I'm giving them a pass, here, but I'm being grateful, so that's allowed, right?). I have a husband who cares enough about me to straw-feed me chocolate milk when my sugar turns me into a raving lunatic (have I told you about the conversations we've had when my sugar has been low? No? Good.). We have a great big giant house that we are not renting, which has enough rooms and closets for all, and is not located in a trailer park, nor is it located in town (yes, I'm counting that as a blessing). We have a paid-for car, and Aaron has a job that pays all of our bills. Have I mentioned my three beautiful, healthy, moderately obedient children and my husband, who drive me all kinds of crazy? Because seven years ago, I had none of that. My life was orderly and organized and perfect. And lonely. So tomorrow I will wake up early and whip my house back into shape, and yell at my kids for playing instead of picking up their cars, and nurse the baby a million times, and cook lasagna for supper, and slouch into my chair at the end of the day exhausted and frustrated, glad the kids are finally in bed. But today--today, I will just be grateful. Chaos be damned.