The Final Countdown

**The first few paragraphs of this months old entry contain what they call foreshadowing. Sorry I have been remiss in my blogging duties, but I promise to have a GREAT excuse. To be continued... (sooner hopefully rather than months later).**

1-19-10

“You’re like a ticking time bomb,” my yoga pal says as we tug on yoga pants, mine barely fitting over the increased thigh-ass-belly area that is my own personal Bermuda Triangle.

“I know. I could pop at any moment.” I say. A fact that has started to worm its way into my brain. As Purvis will be my first trip to the birthing unit, I had assumed that she would be late. I was 7 days overdue. Or as Mr. Crud says, the due date was 7 days early. He is correct. Due dates are at best guesstimates.

Sunday night I lay in bed contemplating the tightness in my belly. Another Braxton Hicks (a.k.a. practice contraction) or is this the contraction that gets the party started? Oh shit. I am so not ready. My mind races to work and all the piles of unfiled papers, the documents on my computer that I’ve yet to transfer to a disc for my replacement, the snack drawer that needs cleaning, and on and on. I make mental to-do lists. I vow to at least get my affairs in order enough so that if Purvis makes his grand debut earlier than guesstimated, my office will not go totally off the rails. Fretting over work is so much easier than all the other great unknowns. Will Purvis be healthy? Did any of the genetic diseases we tested for sneak by the blood work and ultrasounds? Am I really the tough guy I think I am? Can I handle birth? Dang, we should have taken an infant CPR class before now. I don’t know how to use the car seat yet. How is this 8-pound thing in my belly going to fit through my innocent (well, relatively speaking) vagina? Ack! We don’t have crib sheets or diaper covers or breast pads or burp cloths! How can we take care of a tiny baby without a brother or sister-in-law to hand him to when diaper changing time comes around?

I toss. I turn. I kick Mr. Crud when he snores. How can he sleep at a time like this? I feel my belly tighten again before Purvis lodges himself under my right rib and wiggles. I contemplate what Purvis knows, what her consciousness is like right now as she curls into her favorite spot: head in pelvis, legs and feet tucked into my right ribs and hips. When I poke at him, he sometimes pokes back or at least wiggles around as if to say “Off my ding, lady.”

The first part of our weekend was more baby lessons. Mr. Crud and I arrive early and take seats in the back. One seat is covered with a thin pillow; the other with a blue-eyed plastic doll swaddled in a blanket. I move the baby to the floor. The blond woman in front of us looks familiar. She says over her shoulder, “I don’t feel right putting this under the chair.”

“Yeah, I guess you can’t do that with the real thing,” I say.

Where do I know her from? Then it hits me. Sara, our genetic counselor from the days of Primo and Dewey. She had the misfortune of counseling us for our two miscarriages, but somehow wasn’t in the office for our one success. Wow. This really is a walk down memory lane.

I lean forward. “Do you work as a genetic counselor?”

She turns to face me. “Yes.”

Recognition. “You were our genetic counselor. Last year. I’m Kt Crud.”

“Hi! Wow! It’s great to see you here.”

“We made it,” I say. Tears start to come to my eyes as I remember the last time we saw her, the box of environmentally friendly tissues she gave us to accompany us to our next stop to have blood drawn in preparation for my second D & C.

Mr. Crud returns and conversation shifts to our upcoming babies, the familiar laments about all the gear there is available and how we’re really not ready. The other couples filter in, most of them are from last week’s childbirth classes. Today’s mood is lighter, more optimistic. We’ve symbolically moved through the pain of childbirth and are on to the world of purple-faced wailing infants beyond. The fellows pick up the dolls and hold them in the crook of their arms while pregnant partners take the pillow seats.

The jinxing thought has the audacity to cross my mind: no Hamim and Azana. today. Right on cue, they shuffle into the room, taking the last seats as our teacher continues her introductory spiel about the benefits of breastfeeding. Mr. Crud and I exchange a look. Oh well. Here we go.

We watch videos of breastfeeding mothers and silently cheer when the babies successfully latch on. I am 100% pro-breastfeeding but my prudish side gets squirmy when I think of how my boobs will go public in the coming months. How will it feel to whip out a tit with my mom in the same room? Not to mention my father-in-law. My friends and sister-in-law breastfed with such aplomb and style that I feel I will be imitating them in the early days, faking it until I make it as the personal motivators say. How big will they get anyway? I’m still reeling from my first official bra fitting when the perky clerk hauled out the 38DDs. Moi?

The teacher warns us of growth when the milk comes in. “One guy said he went to bed with his wife and woke up with a porn star.”

A leaky porn star who had no interest in sex, but I get the idea.

We break for lunch. Cautiously I peer into the break room adjoining the conference room. No Hamim and Azana. Not that they aren’t nice people and all that, but it would be tempting to kindly request that they read a few pregnancy books and maybe not rely on the hearsay of their friends so much. Most of Azana’s questions begin with “My friend tells me…” and end with some claim about babies crying for 12 hours straight. “This is normal?”

Rachel and James, the couple Mr. Crud and I identified as people we’d most likely know otherwise in the class, invite us to join them. Rachel is high-risk. She knows her due date because she has a scheduled c-section. I am curious but I let it be. Are they fellow travelers in Miscarriage World? I’ll let that bummer ride for now. Now is the time to talk about crazy family invasions and incomplete nurseries and more wide-eyed holy shit moments. I jump the gun and imagine us as new parent friends. Rachel and I would meet for tea while our babies snoozed on our chests. Mr. Crud and James would exchange dude tips about supporting their ladies during the hellish first 2 weeks when a baby must feed every 2-3 hours. (“You mean we have to wake them up to feed them even if they’re sleeping?” a classmate asks. The teacher nods with curled lip. “Yep.”) At the end of the day I will trail Rachel and James to the elevator, wondering if I should ask them for their phone number and try to extend our birthing class comradery. We reach the elevator. Rachel veers off to the bathroom. James takes a seat and looks out the window at the foggy afternoon.

“Good luck,” Mr. Crud says.

James nods. “You too.”

If Purvis is a week late we may see them again. Guess we’ll be letting the chips fall where they may.