It’s been a long time.

The baby is here.

The rest of my pregnancy passed uneventfully, for which I am very grateful. Peter asked if I would miss being pregnant, not having my daughter with me every second of the day.

I smiled a wistful smile and thought that I would miss it. But I was wrong. I don’t miss it. Not even a little bit. Sometimes I do a little dance and sing, “Ain’t no baby sitting on my blad-DER, la la la la!” And the truth is she is with me most of the time. Usually attached to my body. Or at least pulling my hair. It’s hard to miss someone who is screeching and ripping out handfuls of hair. Though, I do try.

Labor and delivery weren’t nearly the horror show everyone most people said it was going to be. I felt weird one Friday night; the day I was supposed to go to a bar-b-que and to see The Dark Night. Of course if I had had no plans, the kid would not have decided to come. But, as it was, she was done baking. She came the day before she was due, which is appropriate, as that is when we finish everything in the TheologyHousehold.

The contractions started in the middle of the night, but they woke me up and kept me up starting at about 4am. I decided to let Peter sleep and timed the contractions with a handy-dandy widgit on the web. At internet, what would I do without you? I played alchemy between contractions, pausing to time them on the timer website every 5 minutes. I didn’t really think I was in labor, though. Around 7am I decided I should shower and do my hair, in case it was the real thing, because I wanted to look cute at the hospital.

At 8am I woke up Peter and called the nice people at my OB office. The woman on the phone said, “Oh my God? Labor? Oh my God–I’m the only one here. I’ll have someone call you back!” I was greatly reassured by her confidence. A nurse called back and told me to go in. I kept trying to talk her out of it, I figured this could take a while, but they insisted. We walked to the hospital because how bad ass is that? I wanted to be able to say that I walked there to give birth. Uphill.

We went in, walked around, ate lunch, walked some more, were admitted. Then I walked and walked and walked and showered and sat on a ball and then finally had to have a sensor put into the baby’s head to keep track of her heartbeat. All the while, I kept to my Hypnobirthing experiment. Truthfully, sometime while walking, I decided I wanted an epidural and, later, a C-section, but I couldn’t speak at this point. I couldn’t spare the effort. Peter kept telling me what a good job I was doing, and all I could do was hush him. It was distracting. So no one knew of my second thoughts.

At some point the epidural guy came in to have me sign a consent form. At this point, I had been pushing for about an hour. Everyone looked at him like he was crazy. The poor man just wasn’t used to someone choosing not to have drugs and was confused when he heard about me. He ran to rectify the situation, me, the poor woman with no epidural. He left still confused, I think.

Sixteen hours later, TheologyBaby made her way into the world. And I’ll say, I’m the first one to mock hollistic, natural approaches. Refine it and deep fry it, I say, pretty much of everything. But it’s true–in most cases, birth is not awful. Indeed it hurt. And indeed I admit that I think the whole process disproves intelligent design (honestly–it could be endlessly more EFFICIENT, God–and frankly, I don’t buy that “pain during childbirth as punishment for the fall” thing Genesis says was your idea. But I digress). Hypnobirthing, or as I call it, “women spirit rising” can work. It does work. Will it always work? No. Do I think poorly of those who get epidurals? No. In fact, sisters, I understand completely. Are there circumstances that require medical intervention? Of course.

But I think if people, in America especially, changed their view of birthing, then we’d all benefit. And it’s a good thing women are the ones charged with the process. Our doula “simulated” contractions by having us hold ice, and then later having just me plunge my hands in ice water for minutes. I thought nothing of it, having sat in ice liquid fire after the marathon. Peter, on the other hand, could barely keep it together holding ice for a minute.

I rolled my eyes. “It’s a good thing I’m doing this,” I said.

“Don’t I know it.” He agreed.

So, the moral of the story–I am, at heart, a wimp. A wimp he convinces herself to do ridiculous things. If I can do it, anyone can. And I recommend that you try.

My clothes don’t fit.

This is inconvenient, because I don’t even really look that pregnant. If I stand up straight and suck in my stomach as I have been taught to do my whole life, then I just look a little pudgy. So the fact that I no longer have jeans is pretty traumatic. This is exacerbated by the fact that though I have bought three pairs of the exact same maternity jeans, only one pair is comfortable. And I now have to wear “business casual” (a fashion state that has alluded me my whole life) every day to work.

I set off to the mall with my friend, knowing I had to buy clothes. I hate buying clothes, unless they can be described as “cutesy” and/or “shmutsey” and will hopefully one day fit an infant girl who shares my DNA.

I was successful for the most part. I found pants! But I could not find jeans. And my search was stopped by the fact that two sales people (yeah, I’m looking at you Motherhood Maternity) would not leave me alone. I merely wanted to purchase a underwear that promised to fit (note to the world–never underestimate the psychic power of underwear that don’t cut off circulation to your lower extremities). But the sales women, I don’t know. Maybe they work on commission? Our conversation went like this,

“Okay, what can I do to get you into a pair of jeans today?!” (Some people do speak in multiple kinds of punctuation.)

“Um, well, none of these fit. And the ones that do have weird belly strap things and horizontal stripes. I look like a freak in . . .”

“WHAT? There is no NEED to FEEL this way.” She emoted not unlike one Josh Groban. “You NEED a PETIT extra LARGE.” Her voice undulated as she gesticulated wildly, grabbing the commission out of my hands.

“HERE,” she bellowed. “TRY THESE!!!!” I decided that it was useless to argue that extra large would be too big and that I was not petit. Just sort of short. These are not the same things. I tried on those jeans, wretched, wretched garments surely constructed for a being not of this world. They managed to be both too small and too big at the same time. They were art that M.C. Escher would have found confusing. I had to jump up and down to get one pair on. This would be most inconvenient in my third trimester. In late summer. I gave up.

I furtively ran to the cash register, my loquacious friend blessedly distracting the militant sales lady. I found my underwear again and tried to pay.

“Okay,” said the other sales woman. “Do you want to register in our system?”

“No thanks, just want to buy these.” In cash, I thought silently, thinking that otherwise they’d track me down and shove me into petit pedal pushers.

“Are you sure? We will send you discounts!”

“Yup, I’m sure.”

“Well, how about signing up for 400 hundred dollars worth of rebates for diapers, formula . . .”

“No. Thank. You.” I said through gritted teeth.

“Do you want to register for our website? Do you have life insurance for your baby? Does your little one need a dentist recommendation? Do you need a credit card that will save points for your baby’s college education?”

I was beyond speaking at that point. A far-away dolphin, who could hear my high-frequency rage squeaked back that I probably should have eaten before this trip.

“No? Well, do you want two free issues of Parent Magazine? It’s a great resource for . . .”

“PLEASE JUST LET ME HAVE THE COMFORTABLE UNDERGARMETS FOR THE LOVE OF SWEET HEAVEN,” I errupted. Honestly. If I wanted any of those things, would I tie their purchase to maternity clothes? My child’s education? Sister, please. College will be 100,000 dollars a year before little TheologyInfant makes her way to school, and by then I’m hoping we’re living in a post-education age and she can just download neccessary information into her brain from VocationFeed.com (TM) or something.

The woman gave me a dirty look and rang up my purchase. My friend was going to try to chat some more but I gave her a look that said “Do not engage these people.” I left the store vowing that I would wear a bed sheet and twine before crossing that threshold again.

At least for now I have clothes that fit. Which is good, because I think I might be thrown in jail for disorderly conduct if someone tried to offer me as little as a sample of Mandarin chicken in a mall food court.

Recently Peter informed me that his “expectant father” book told him that a woman’s brain shrinks during pregnancy. Or, that is, the brain cells shrink. I thought he said they shrink by 35 percent. The following conversation ensued:

“You’re making that up.”

“I am not! I will get the book and show you. The book said not to tell you because it would freak you out. I thought you could handle it.”

“Handle it? My brain is shrinking. AHHHHH, I can feel it now. I’m getting dumber. I thought it was America’s Next Top Model but it’s biological.” I curl into a ball, clutching my head. I should mention that I did, in that moment, believe I felt my brain shrinking.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“It’s not your brain that is shrinking 35 percent. Don’t . . . what’s the word . . . oh no it’s happening . . . judge! Yeah, don’t judge me!” I massage my diminished temples.

“Thirty-five percent? Adrienne, shut up. I said 3 to 5 percent. And besides, the cells re-expand after you give birth.” Peter clucks his tongue. Smug, self-assured man without shrinking brain cells. “I don’t think you could live in your brain shrunk 35 percent.”

“Oh. Well, whatever. Your book told you not to tell me. Why, Peter, why?”

“I thought it was cool.”

I wish I had known this whole brain-shrinkage thing before I picked now to submit and defend my dissertation prospectus.

In other baby news, I have still done pretty much nothing in the “baby’s room.” There is a shelf in there that I cleaned up, and its presence there means our nursery theme will mostly likely be “tower of death.” It has bins of nails, pain solvents, paint, tools and random computer scraps with which Peter can’t bear to part. I tried to put the least poisonous objects down low and relocated the objects with cutting teeth to another room (i.e. the room of glass, sharp corners, and fire, now rendered the room of glass, sharp corners, fire, saws, and drill bits). But still this shelf has nowhere else to go. I decided we could just baby-gate off this particular nook and start a strict educational curriculum of “children who climb things grow two more heads” in the labor and delivery room. That should work at least until we move someplace with a derelict pool and the horrors outside are far more enticing than the ones within the home.

Also, in addition to the lone little blue dress, I am now the proud owner of a changing table pad and crib bedding. I have no crib or changing table per se, and looking back, these are objects I might have wanted to procure first. But humans only use, what, 10 percent of their brain? And I’m down 5 percent, so that’s my excuse.

All right, I’m off to expect the flaking lead paint sections of our happy home. Because I might have to baby-gate off every wall in the house too, and I need to start taking measurements for the gate builders.

I went for my midwife appointment the other day filled to the brim with questions. Questions spurred mostly by strangers on the internet. I belong to a message board for mothers expecting a baby in July, and they are women busily preparing for their new addition. Me? Not so much. I have painted nothing. I have one little blue dress hanging in a sort-of-cleaned-out closet. And the other day I was standing in the room that was to house the child and I thought, “Eh, why move our collection of glass, poison and knives? I mean, it’s not like she will get into them for a while yet. Fa la la!” Then I skipped off to otherwise amuse myself.

However, after reading message boards, I always get the fired inspiration to Nest. Or at least, to Prepare. So I read about birth plans and natural child birth and all manner of birth things. I went in armed with a list of essential things to discuss with the medical establishment. As my midwife walked in, I opened my mouth. And it just sort of hung open like that.

My midwife, a woman of many years experience and education, was wearing knee high boots, fishnet stockings, a mini skirt and tight sweater with plunging neckline. I just sort of stared at her while she checked the baby’s heartbeat and said something about blood pressure. At the end she cheerily asked, “Any questions?” But I couldn’t stop staring at her legs. “She must work out,” I thought. She, taking my silence as assurance, said, “Okay, Well, we’ll see you in four weeks!” I nodded, still staring at those fishnets.

And, I must admit, I’m not really taken aback by clothing. Or the fact that the woman who will is responsible for the health of my first born wears them. After I thought about it, back in my house of poison and sharp objects, I believe this woman is strangely fitting for me. After all, we are decorating with sea creatures. So who am I to judge the nautical proclivities of another?

Dear God,

When my beloved baby girl
who is now only 6 inches long and weighs but 10 ounces
one day goes off to college . . .

I won’t fret if she get 14 tattoos,
or pierces most every inch of the flesh I have tried to carefully tend,
or moves from Zen Buddhism to Agnosticism to Atheism

because I know you will watch out for her.

But God, if you could do me a favor
and help me raise my baby girl
to be able to communicate with her college roommate
and to never be mean to a hall director,

I will consider myself
to have done thy will
in child-rearing.

Actually, if you could start working on that
roommate communication skill
en utero
I would really appreciate it.

Thanks God.

Amen.

Is it a boy? Is it a girl? No, it’s Skeletor!

At least, that is what I believe. The photographic evidence given at yesterday’s ultrasound belies only the fact that the creature within me has a skull. The doctor kept excitedly pointing out, “Oh, there’s the bladder! It looks great! And her stomach! And yup, she’s definitely a girl!” All I saw were grainy, unreliable images that proved only that she was a battering ram who cared not for the instrument taking her picture. She wasn’t so cooperative in the scan. She’d just lie there, starting at the Doppler. I figure it’s good practice for when she’s 13 and ceases speaking to me because I won’t let her tattoo a picture of Goethe on her leg.

So, anyway, baby Skeletor is a girl. This caused me to immediately go in to the baby registry and slap pink all over the place. Girly items will be a lovely compliment to the Baby Cthulhu picture Peter had commissioned for his first born daughter.

Also, if anyone would like to take part in baby naming fun, we have set up a poll to solicit opinions:

Maybe I should add “Panthor.”

“So when will your current project be finished?”

“In the middle of July.”

“Oh, wow, so the prospectus passed?”

“No. I was talking about the baby.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, the dissertation. That’s eternally gestating.”

“So you’ll finsih it in the fullness of time then?”

“Exactly!”

Neal Shusterman’s book Unwind is one of the better Science Fiction-y young adult books I’ve read in a long time. Its set in the future after the “Heartland War.” This war pitted Pro-Life believers against Pro-Choicers. Ultimately, the war ended because of the “Bill of Life.” This Constitutional addendum said that all babies had to be born, however, between the ages of 13 and 18 parents could elect to retroactively “abort” their children by having them “unwound.” That is, every part of the teen’s body (or 99.44 percent, actually) must remain alive in the form of a transplant to another person. Unwanted babies can be “storked.” If a parent places an unwanted infant on a doorstep of another family and gets away undetected, the receiving family must raise the baby by law. (Important to note: Because of the world’s increasing population, unwinding exists as a form of necessary population control as well.)

I came to know about this book because of a YA literature group I belong to. The woman who pointed it out liked Unwind a lot, saying that you couldn’t tell where Shusterman sat on the pro-life/pro-choice debate, but the book brought up fascinating questions for each side. I disagree. Frankly, using this premise to frame the debate is too flawed to make a contribution to an argument on either side. (However, I should note, the strength of Shusterman’s storytelling makes this book a gorgeous read, especially the ending chapters.)

First of all, in what world does the “Bill of Life” satiate anyone? Pro-life people argue the sanctity of life and the soul from the time “life” isn’t even a blastocyst. You mean to tell me any sane person would think the soul would be preserved in disassembling the body of a teenager? Any pro-life definition of “alive” I’ve ever seen wouldn’t stand for unwinding, which is essentially murder. Shusterman does say that the Bill of Life started as something of a legislative joke, but then someone took it seriously and it snowballed out of control. Maybe this is a critique of all legislation about human bodies. But what that critique is, I’m not sure. That such legislation is always doomed? That it always hurts more than it helps?

I also fail to see how the Bill of Life would help the Pro-Choice cause. Children at the age of 13 have free will and can certainly determine that they want to be alive. Isn’t the premise that women have the right to decide what to do with their bodies? Why is this different for a teenager?

Finally, this book assumes that if all babies are allowed to be born, there aren’t enough families out there who would love them and care for them willingly. That only by “storking” can a mother be unburdened by the child she was mandated to birth according to law. I doubt this. If rising infertility rates are any indication, and the slowness of the adoption process now, I think that this future could have allowed babies to be placed into loving arms. (This book only talks about the USA, I don’t know how the rest of the world is doing on this.)

Ultimately, I don’t think this book does anything for the Pro-Life/Pro-Choice debate. It’s a fast read, and maybe a good one to get teens thinking (though, the holes in this premise probably would have annoyed me when I was a teenager). But it pitches dangerously close to making the Pro-Life community the culprits for society’s ills. It makes it look like if all babies are born, society must resort to heinous measures to maintain itself. Is this true? If all babies had to be born in the USA right now by law, would the country fall apart?

We are wrapping up week 18 here at Camp TheologyMama-to-be. I decided that I will keep my thoughts on this whole motherhood thing at a new blog, lest my 10 devoted readers at TheologyGirl would rather not read about it.

I can’t say that I have much insight into all things mother and baby related. Everyone keeps asking “How’s the baby?” to which I reply, “Uh, it has a heartbeat? As of last week? And about a month ago it had a spine? So, it’s alive! And not an aquatic invertebrate! We’re psyched about that.”

To which Peter chimes in, “Actually, I think aquatic invertebrates are pretty cool.”

Okay, well. Clearly you can’t please all of the people all of the time.

So, after I can say nothing of interest about the kid, people ask, “Are you totally excited? Isn’t it amazing being pregnant?” To which I sort of make up some reply like, “Oh, yeah, ha ha ha ha, it’s super, ha ha actually, it’s kind of exactly like not being pregnant was.”

This isn’t entirely true. When I wasn’t pregnant and I woke up with a hacking cough and 102 degree fever, I could take me some Nyquil and suffer in dignity. Oh, sweet, sweet nectar that is Nyquil. But now I go to the doctor to be told, nope, sorry, you take that Nyquil you really better mean that thing about wanting a squid baby because that is what will happen. Oh, and let’s give you an IV of fluids for fun.”

Pregnancy is indignity, people.

This is not to say that I’m not thrilled. I am. I know enough people who have had trouble getting pregnant or staying pregnant to know that I am very, very blessed. But still. This does not change the fact that I have no idea what is going on and feel the same as before. Only slightly less excited about eating.

“You’re so lucky” the people who already have children say. “Just wait! Enjoy sleep now because you certainly won’t be doing it later.” I suppose they believe that my rib-wrenching cough affords such a luxury. But no matter. I get what they’re saying.

So begins my ramblings at TheologyMama. I also intend to spread Natural Family Planning propaganda here. Because Parents magazine insists on saying the Catholic church believes only in “The Rhythm Method” which is utter bunk. The rhythm method. Geh. Interestingly, this could mean there might be actual “theology” on this site. Which would be interesting and a fascinating departure from girl, wherein I do everything in my power to avoid it.