I keep wandering into the room where I store all my dog-eared books about pregnancy and childbirth, and pulling one off the shelf. It’s nostalgia, I think: I am thinking back to being newly pregnant previous times, when I read voraciously about all the things that were going to happen to my body, tips for having a good homebirth, nutritional advice, that sort of thing. I deal with uncertainty and new situations by seeking information — grasping a subject makes me feel like I have power over it, somehow — and I suppose, now that I think about it, it’s partly true. I remember how in my first couple of pregnancies the mixed feelings of excitement and fear blended into a mostly-positive anticipation with every new book I read and every new piece of information I could assimilate.
But you know what? THERE ARE NO NEW PIECES OF INFORMATION IN THESE $@$#%ing BOOKS.
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What with the march of scientific progress and advances in the mommy wars, there could be some new pieces of information out there by now. Possibly there is some gadget invented in the last few years that I might want to buy, or a new consensus on some type of food that pregnant women are now supposed to avoid for a non-stupid reason. (Maybe someone somewhere has written a picture book meant especially to help a toddler AND HIS THREE OLDER SIBLINGS welcome the new baby.)
But it is kind of a pain to sift through books that tell me that I will enjoy the novelty of my newly burgeoning womanhood, and that I should be understanding when my partner expresses doubt and fearfulness about his impending new role.
I think what I need is a publication that cuts through all the crap and simply lists Updates To The Standard Pregnancy Advice From The Last Four Years. Since 1999, when I became pregnant for the first time, I’ve definitely seen a few changes. I remember the big shift in the GBS protocol (from an attention to cleanliness after the water breaks, to “forget-that-we-just-put-1/3-of-all-laboring-women-on-IV-antibiotics”). I remember when a turkey sandwich, once a great source of convenient protein, suddenly changed to stillbirth-on-rye.
At minimum, I could probably use a rundown on what’s going on in hospitals these days, since (even though I’ve had four homebirths now) it always pays to be prepared in case circumstances change and we choose differently.
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It’s obvious that I am pregnant, even at 8 weeks, even though I can still fit into my regular clothes. But you know — it’s risky to assume. When i saw the eyes dart to the belly before the receptionist at the YMCA looked me in the eye and asked me, “How was your swim, Erin? All alone today?” last night, I took pity on her and answered “Only kinda sorta!” Might as well get the staff at the Y past the “Is she or isn’t she?” stage, or it will be an awkward 3-4 months.
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So much feels like routine. I find myself saying “When I am pregnant, I [blah blah blah],” in much the same way that I might say, “When it rains…” or “When I’m bored…”
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Being longtime NFP users gives Mark and me enough perspective to assimilate and accept that at the age of 40 and 38, we are still quite young enough to have more children after this one… whether we decide to try again or not.
Nevertheless, this time around I am finding myself thinking and speaking and writing as if I were confident that this pregnancy will be my last pregnancy, and feeling comfortable with that.
This is a new train of thought for me, and I am almost surprised to be having it. Thoughts like “This could be the last time I ever have to go through the can’t-stand-to-drink-coffee phase, if I want it to be,” are not wistful thoughts, but relieved thoughts. I have found myself thinking, “In 7 months it is going to feel %#*%ing GREAT when I expel this placenta. Somebody better be standing there with a pitcher of margaritas.”
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However, having gone through this four times before, I also know that I could well feel wistful again three years from now. Good thing it can’t go on forever.
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Grand multipara, here I come. I kind of wish I could stick it after my name, like the Ph.D. Or maybe before. “That’s Grand Multipara Bearing to you. I didn’t give birth five times so I could be called Doctor.”
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This episode of pregnancy cravings brought to you by: tomatoes. Especially in form of sandwich. Also V-8.
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