My Uterus is Wearing a Catcher’s Mitt and Now We Can’t Go to the Beach, Part 2

(Follow-up to My Uterus Is Wearing a Catcher’s Mitt and Now We Can’t Go to the Beach)

Now that the day has arrived where my entire family heads down to the annual vacation in the Outer Banks without us, I think it’s important to revisit this conversation, first posted here but recounted for your convenience below:

Me (right after taking pregnancy test): “So…we’re pregnant! The only issue here is that the due date is August 26, literally smack in the middle of the Outer Banks vacation…”
Mom: “Well, we don’t KNOW that’s the due date.”
Me: “Ok. We do, though.”
Mom: “Let’s see what the doctor says.”
Me: “The doctor is going to say that’s the due date, because I used the exact same calculation method a doctor uses.”
Mom: “Em, let’s just see what he says, ok?”
(after going to doctor)
Me: “The doctor says the due date is August 26.”
Mom: “Ok, well let’s just see what happens.”

That conversation took place on December 18th, arguably with plenty of time to make some new vacation arrangements in terms of dates, but Mom preferred the “let’s just see what happens” approach, which I assume was wishful thinking that the baby would come a month early (not exactly a healthy thing to wish for) or a month late (not a thing, period), we’d still be able to go, and no one would have to put forth any kind of effort to rearrange plans.

Well, the vacation starts today, August 19th, and goes through September 2nd. I am exactly 39 weeks pregnant. My due date is still August 26th, despite my family hoping that the baby would decide, in utero, “You know what? I’m just going to go ahead and be a month older now.” Due to my gestational diabetes, the doctors will not let me go past 40.5 weeks, so if I don’t go naturally this week, I will be induced before the 29th.

All of this meaning that this baby has an indisputable, 100% chance of being born during this vacation. I, of course, can file this under “Things I Knew 8 Months Ago” but I guess sometimes it’s fun to take the “let’s see what happens” approach in the face of knowing pretty much EXACTLY WHAT WILL FUCKING HAPPEN.

Now, in my family’s defense, there was a major caveat involved in moving the vacation dates. We have been in the same rental house for about 8 years now, and the house is freakin awesome. We all love it. And the problem is that if we were to give up our two end-of-August weeks THIS year, we would then lose the house during this August block for future years. Since end of August is (typically) the best time for all of us to take off work and be there, we want to secure the house on those dates for the future, and giving it up this year would jeopardize that. So I kind of get it.

But the other way to look at it is that my family had a choice– us, or the house.

The house won.

(I originally wrote that as an extremely dramatic Sophie’s Choice metaphor, in which my family clung to the house for dear life and sent me and Eric to the gas chamber, but I decided to dial it back a bit. But still mention it here. In whispered parentheses. Where it doesn’t count as actually having wrote it, so no one can be offended.)

I also can’t help but be slightly resentful that despite over 25 years of our harassment on the topic, my parents have not just sucked it up and bought an awesome house down there already, instead of renting each year. Because now, thanks to my dad’s stubborn unwillingness to shell out hundreds of thousands of dollars (over a million? I don’t know what things cost) on a home he’ll realistically use 1% of the year, I CAN’T GO THIS ONE TIME.

That’s some fucking selfish, twisted logic, DAD.

But ok, again in fairness, I suppose Eric and I should take some responsibility here. As my brother-in-law Andrew pointed out right before hitting the road:

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Fair.

But honestly, in the Seychellois-rum-infused moment, we legitimately did not realize the due date would be smack in the middle of family vacay, because, guys, pregnancy math is actually pretty complicated. Math in general is pretty complicated!

I’m a math tutor.

Whatever, the damage is done, and there are lots of things to blame: Dad’s blatant frugality and selfishness; Mom’s nonsensical wait-and-see strategy; math; Seychellois rum; Eric’s sniper-like, one-shot accuracy; my desperate, aging, catcher’s-mitt-wearing uterus; God; Lerman’s Law (like Murphy’s Law, but only applying to Lermans); and, last but not least, the baby.

No, I’m kidding. We would never blame the baby.

She just better be a good one.

(Disclaimer: if you think any of this post is serious, I really can’t help you. I like to assume my base is more Hillary-esque than Trumpian– aka, smart enough to know this. But there’s always that one, and for some reason (anxiety) I’m still afraid of you. On that note, One, stop reading my blog. Try this one instead. )

I’ll Show You What’s Not Safe

Waiting to cross the street, minding my own business, a lady sidles up next to me….

Lady: “You really shouldn’t be wearing flip flops in your condition.”

Me: “Thanks for the advice. But I just got a pedicure, so I need the flip flops. I’m walking a total of 2 blocks. I’ll be fine.”

Lady: “Well you should let your nails dry at the salon and then put on better shoes. Walking on the street in flip flops is not safe– for you OR for your baby.”

So anyway that’s why there’s a dead lady on the corner of 90th and 1st.

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Maybe I CAN Wait

Yesterday I got into the elevator and there was a young woman in there with her newborn baby girl.

Me: “Awww how old is she?”

Woman: “Almost a month.”

Me: “She’s adorable.”

Woman: “Thank you. How far along are you?”

Me: “A few weeks to go! I can’t WAIT to not be pregnant!”

And then the woman’s tired, weary eyes grew wide and essentially this is the scene that unfolded:

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Well This Derailed Quickly

Eric decided to add a little friendly fun to this pregnancy experience (as his role has mainly consisted of fetching me things and being the human crane that lifts me from couch/bed/uber/toilet) by starting a family Baby Pool. The instructions were as follows:

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Here’s what has happened so far:

1. Dad became instantly confused by the Venmo situation. He doesn’t know how to use it and asked that somebody show him. My uncle, trying to be helpful, suggested “download it. It’s pretty self explanatory from there.” I am certain he lost Dad at “download.”

2. Mom remained silent on the Venmo topic but I already know she’s confused, because the last time I was home the following conversation took place:

Mom: “I need you to show me how to buy Venmo.”

Me: “You mean download Venmo?”

Mom: “No, I know how to download things, thank you very much. But I need you to show me how to buy it.”

Me: “But you don’t buy it, you download it.”

Mom: “I know that.”

Me: “Ok…”

Mom: “Ok.”

And then nothing happened.

3. My mother-in-law texted separately with her own Venmo questions, but I’m still not quite sure where we stand on me being allowed to make fun of her on my blog, so I’m just going to let that one marinate.

4. Zack sent in his due date guess for August 28th, despite Eric and I sending these follow-up emails beforehand:

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So either Zack doesn’t read our emails, or he is banking on me being induced the 26th and laboring for 48+ hours. Either way– fuck you, man.

5. Jeremy hasn’t given even the slightest indication that he has read the emails or plans to participate (or is alive). This might be because Eric called him poor (in highlighted font), or it’s simply Jeremy being Jeremy. I’m banking on the latter. He’s pretty fucking aware that he’s poor.

6. In a shocking turn of events, nothing from Steph. We know she read the email and text conversations because Andrew has been actively responding while in her presence, but we imagine that she is this exact level of interested img_2021-6.

7. My 3-year-old nephew The Boog, however, was the first to submit his entry. He thinks the baby will be born on August 10, at 10pm, weighing 10 pounds and measuring 10 inches. He also insisted on paying $10. We tried to explain to him that the entry fee is $5 (and that numbers other than 10 exist), but he told us to keep the 10 and cover Uncle Jeremy’s entry, who he heard is poor.

8. As for our niece, we have been informed that she has some follow-up questions for me and Eric, as she would like to collect a bit more information before entering her submission. She is 3.

So bottom line we only have 2 submissions so far, as this whole fun baby pool idea has derailed into a bit of a shitshow and likely won’t actually come to fruition. To be clear, this post, which I will link to Facebook and tag every single family member in, is not at all a passive-aggressive attempt to spur everyone into action. Because I’m above that.

Really.

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Bonehead Decisions

Yesterday Eric and I went to the hospital for our 36-week growth scan (a thorough, more in-depth ultrasound to track baby’s growth/health, generally performed every 4-6 weeks in pregnancy). After the hell parade that was Sunday, we* were pretty anxious about what this scan might reveal.

*we = I . Eric doesn’t scare easily. See “marrying me” as evidence.

The first thing the technician said before performing the scan was “So, now that you’re 36 weeks and 3 days along, baby should definitely be in the head-down position, preparing for delivery.”

“Funny you should say that,” I countered. “Because we ended up in the hospital on Sunday due to contractions, nausea, and shortness of breath, only to learn through a quick ultrasound that baby flipped to breech, even though she’s been head down since week 30.”

“Ugh,” said the technician. “What a little stinker.”

I immediately liked her, and wondered if she’d be interested in nannying my child as a side-gig.

“Yes,” I agreed. “We’ve been using the term ‘bozo,’ but stinker works too.”

“Alright, well let’s see what Stinker’s up to today.”

She placed the ultrasound wand on my belly and immediately determined that baby had, somewhere in the past 36 hours, flipped back to head-down (the correct position).

“Oh, thank god,” I sighed, followed quickly by, “Fucking…seriously, though?”

My initial interpretation of this behavior was that this baby is exactly like Eric– an energetic bunny hellbent on filling her day with activities, despite the person sharing space with her being in NO MOOD.

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A true Lerman baby, by contrast, would have found a cozy spot at week 6 and not moved a muscle until she was tugged out with forceps, suction, and a blowhorn at week 43. But this kid has been kicking, jabbing, and playing my ribs like a xylophone for months now. Activities!!!!!!!!!! 52a0e87bb80b3b54af4cff0f2a2266bb imgres-252a0e87bb80b3b54af4cff0f2a2266bb imgres-252a0e87bb80b3b54af4cff0f2a2266bbimgres-2

Textbook Eric.

But upon further contemplation I realized this late-in-the-game-flip-trick was maybe less a display of restless hyperactivity and more indicative of chronic indecisiveness. A sudden, crippling fear that she was doing everything horribly wrong, and attempting to change course when it made absolutely no rational sense to do so. Or perhaps it was just straight-up bitchery performed for her own amusement. All clearly traits of her mother. img_1179-1

Terrifying realization that my daughter might be exactly like me aside, I was relieved that our little gremlin found her way back home because no breech = no automatic c-section, which, sure, might still happen anyway, but at least now it’s not a set inevitable. (Side note: after listening to several women in the throes of excruciating labor on Sunday, a c-section did actually start to sound appealing. But in general I have a rule about avoiding knives to my body if/when possible. Nose job at age 15 aside, of course. That was obviously necessary, according to my mother.)

Then, suddenly, something dawned on me, and I quickly formed a medical hypothesis about Sunday’s trauma that no doctor had offered up, because apparently in this pregnancy it is up to me, with my BA in Sociology, to accurately diagnose all health conditions with no help from the people who attended 7+ years of medical school (see: Hypothyroidism section of this post for further evidence of how I am smarter than all doctors everywhere my own best advocate.)

So I presented my hypothesis to the technician: “Wait, so– on Sunday they chalked my nausea, contractions and difficulty breathing up to dehydration or something I ate. But is it possible I got sick because of her breech position? Because honestly everything felt different and so uncomfortable for that one day, even the way I was able to move and lay, and I think maybe it was because she flipped to breech so quickly?”

“Oh, that’s absolutely possible,” replied the technician/my future nanny/new best friend. “At this stage in pregnancy all of your organs have shifted up, and there’s not much space left in there. So when baby flipped and pressed her head against all those organs, it definitely could have made you sick.”

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What exactly did I know? That this was ALL HER FAULT– NOT MINE! The doctors kept trying to tell me I’m not drinking enough water (literally impossible– I’m blogging this from the porcelain whiz palace, because I live here now) or that I “shouldn’t have eaten that chicken salad” when in reality I drink 20 vats of water a day (as something had to replace the wine) and Gracie Mews Diner would NEVER hurt me.

No, Sunday’s disaster was the result of baby’s choice, not mine, and to be honest I am slightly resentful that I had to take the heat for HER poor decision.

Although I suppose, in the end, this is exactly what parenthood is– begrudgingly accepting responsiblity for your kid’s bonehead choices.

And fine. I accept that. I guess I was just kind of hoping the boneheadedness would hold off until toddlerhood. Or, at the very least, birth.

Anyway, she heard all this so here she is trying to give me the finger.

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I’m sure she’ll have that down by the time I meet her.

 

 

Sunday Scaries

Yesterday I woke up having contractions, shortness of breath, and nausea.

So, thinking there was a slight possibility I might be in labor, as I am thisclose to full term, we called the doctor and described my symptoms. She advised us to check into the hospital’s labor and delivery building.

Eric: “Ok, and where is that?”

Probably a pretty fucking good sign that we are not quite ready to have this baby.

So the doctor gave us the address and politely decided to not acknowledge the fact that we were basically the pregnancy version of Dumb and Dumber.

We got to the hospital and eventually someone came to give me an exam. The monitors showed that I was in fact having contractions, so they wanted to check if my cervix was at all open (a possible sign of impending labor). I thought maybe this was the kind of thing that could be easily detected on, say, a sonogram. But no. Turns out this “exam” involves the doctor sticking her entire arm up my hooha and apologizing profusely, while Eric hides in a corner.

After a minute of intensely uncomfortable digging she declared “Nope! You’re completely closed off!”, confirming that my cervix does indeed match my personality.

She then performed a sonogram to check on the baby. “She looks perfectly happy in there!” she declared in a sunshine tone. “But you know she’s breech, right?”

Ummmm NO, Dr. Hooha Hands, we did NOT know that.

“But she’s been head down since 30 weeks, including when I went to the doctor 5 days ago!”

“Oh. Yikes. Well, now she’s breech. Her head is up here (points just below my left boob). It’s unlikely she’ll flip again at this point, but you can discuss options with your regualr OB, such as a planned c-section….but anyway, that’s not why we’re here.”

No, it’s not. BUT NOW THAT’S ALL I CAN FOCUS ON SO THANKS FOR NOTHING.

“So let’s get back to the contractions and nausea,” she continued.

“Ok. Yeah. Why is this happening?”

She might as well have answered with this emoji shrug_1f937

“Possibly dehydration? Or maybe something you ate?”

giphy <— that’s me being impressed with the expertise and insight one gains after 7+ years of med school.

“Either way, we’re going to give you this anti-nausea pill so at least you can get some relief on that end, and then we’ll see.”

I swallowed the pill.

Ten minutes later, I vomited profusely, filling two bins so quickly that two nurses and Eric (poor, poor Eric) were not enough helping hands to prevent it from spilling everywhere.

After they changed my entire bedding, wiped down my plastic mattress and re-dressed me in yet another gown that did nothing to cover my pale, pregnant tush-sag, they hooked me up to an IV to rehydrate me and dripped some meds through it, which eventually put me to sleep for about an hour. This was nice because it allowed me to tune out the woman next door in the throes of what seemed to be extremely painful labor. Eric still got to listen, though, because everything about his life right now is roses.

When I woke, I felt much better.

The doctor came back and looked at the monitor. “You were contracting a lot while sleeping so I’d like to check your cervix again.”

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So, one more painful round of arm-up-the-vajayjay and Dr. Hooha Hands officially confirmed that I am definitely closed, not in labor, and can go on my merry way. The nurses then came to check on me one last time, and Eric took this opportunity to clarify, “So, when we DO give birth, we come HERE?” imgres.jpg They smiled, because nurses are angels, and cofirmed that yes, Lloyd and Harry, this is where you two will come to have your baby.

They then discharged me, advising me to drink lots of water (duh) and not eat chicken salad from diners (oh.)

There is no real wrap up or moral or point to this story other than in case you haven’t been listening for the past 8 months, (this) pregnancy sucks.

Happy Monday.