So, I'm still pregnant. Like, there is still an infant in here. On the other hand, I've reached 38 weeks and four days, which means I am totally term -- I could have this kid tonight and they'd let me take her home when I left the hospital.

I'll probably write up the actual story of the birth when it comes (not with, you know, details), and of course after there is infant in the house I'll want to talk about her and post endless photos -- or, more probably, sleep a great deal. And then post those endless photos. So now's probably as good a time as any to discuss the last nine months. I'd meant to write it up as I went along, but some bits were miserable, and some bits were boring, and most bits I didn't really figure out what was going on until later, so I eventually decided that I'd wait until it was almost all over before writing about it. And here we are.

Finding Out
We were the dumbest lesbians in the world -- we were trying to get pregnant, and the day came to take the pregnancy test, and we just decided, out of the blue, that it hadn't worked. "I don't think I'm pregnant," I said; "I don't think you're pregnant, either," said Beth; and then I didn't take the test. I proceeded to think, for the week following, that:

1. My period was coming, because my breasts were aching.

2. I had food poisoning, because I felt nauseated all the time.

3. I had a cold, because I was tired and felt ill.

4. It was totally fine that all I wanted to eat -- and, in fact, all I did eat -- was cookies.

Eventually I noticed that my period hadn't actually shown up yet, and I called up Beth. "I think maybe I should take the test, just in case. I mean, I know I'm not, but it'd assuage the crazy, anyway." Skip many hours, and an adventure in getting Chinese takeout. I take the test. The test immediately starts flashing the words HOLY FUCK YOU ARE PREGNANT in bright mauve. I show Beth -- somehow, the best response either of us can come up with is to swear. A lot.

We do manage to stop swearing before we call her mother.

(As an aside: Even though we were planning it, even though we were hoping for it, there was still a moment when I looked at the positive test and thought Oh no. Because that is apparently the immediate reaction any young woman of our era has to seeing a positive pregnancy test: the sudden knowledge of terrible error. Or something. The feeling was replaced very swiftly by more positive disbelief, but still. Weird moment.)


The First Trimester
--was filled with nausea. My mornings and afternoons were fairly okay, except for a lingering desire to eat nothing but cookies; my evenings were a hellish landscape of roiling tummies and blackout-worthy migraines. I went to sleep early a lot.

Come to think of it, I slept a lot in general. I once fell asleep on my desk with my head on a manuscript, my left hand clutching a red pen, and my right hand draped over my computer's mouse. I woke at some point after the 15-minute mark; my computer had locked itself from inactivity.

What else... oh, I didn't look pregnant in the least, I was freezing all the time, and I was disallowed both pregnancy books and internet research (I had the uncanny ability to find the worst possible things, like about birth defects and your partner thinking you're lazy and don't even get me started on the insanity and misinformation of Yahoo! Answers).

I lost weight rather than gaining it (see: cookies vs. nausea), and what times I did eat, it was weird. For instance, I didn't have strange cravings. What I had was perhaps one or two foods, in the vast spectrum of foods in the world, that at that moment didn't make me want to throw up. So, for instance, I would say, "I could have scrambled eggs. Or I could have a Fudgsicle. These are the options." The only foods I consistently wanted to eat (when I wanted to eat at all), were meat and dairy. This led to such famous work incidents as The Time Cass Ate an Entire Baked Ham Straight From the Wrapping; The Time Cass Interrupted a Group Meeting to Discuss the Desirability of Meat Poptarts; and The Time Cass Ate One of Those Gross Christmas-Basket Sausages and Was Actually Caught At It by Her Officemate.

Several of those incidents were referenced in illustrated form on the baby shower card I later received from work.

The big thing I remember about the first trimester, though, and particularly for the first 8 weeks, was all the time I spent being terrified of all the things that could go wrong (and which I was helpless to prevent). The big fears:

1. Was there actually a baby in there?
(For this, the doctors needed to do a blood test to determine the pregnancy hormones.)

2. Would the numbers be high enough?
(The answer: Yes, they certainly were.)

3. Would the numbers double like they were supposed to?
(After a few days, they take your blood again, to see whether the hormones have upped in number, suggesting that there is a rapidly growing kidlet happening. The answer here: Oh, was there ever doubling.)

4. Is there still a baby in there?
(Imagine many weeks of constant checking-in between Beth and myself. "No blood?" "No blood." Miscarriage = an extremely big fear prior to the 8-week mark.)

5. No really, is there still a baby?
(After 8 weeks, you can see/hear a heartbeat on a sonogram -- heartbeat = significantly lowered risk of miscarriage. We wanted to get confirmation of that damn heartbeat. The midwife said, "Hullo, I do wonder if your uterus is a bit small for the level of growth that should be happening, why don't you get an ultrasound TO MAKE SURE THERE'S A BABY IN THERE BECAUSE THERE MIGHT NOT BE AT ALL. Please be sure to have to wait overnight before being able to get an appointment." Fortunately, the next morning's ultrasound revealed that there was a baby, that it was doing very well for its age, and that 8-week old fetuses look like sea horses. We exited the room with high-fives and cries of "Not dead!", which took the nurses by surprise until they got into the swing of things.)

The Second Trimester
I'd been told -- even promised, by several authorities -- that the second trimester would herald the end of my nausea. This was a lie. I spent at least another four weeks (WHICH IS FOREVER) in that state, and wondered idly if, perhaps, I would stay that way until the end of time. Which is, fortunately, when it stopped.

The second trimester didn't have the same sorts of constant fears going on; not in the same way, at any rate. At around 15 weeks I could feel the baby move -- it was weird, like a sudden swishing sensation where none ought to be. Later that week, I was sitting down and looked at my belly; I poked it idly; and it rose, like a leviathan, and I was creeped out. But by the next day, I was ready for it -- and that's how we started playing games with the wee baby, because if one of us tapped one side of my belly while I was lying down, it'd move to that side; and if we tapped the other side, it'd move over there. It was extremely cool, and oddly comforting that we had this sort of odd communication with it.

At 18 weeks, though, came the next ultrasound. The one that checks to make sure the baby's growing right, and is big enough, and what the sex is. The night before I had an enormous anxiety dream, coupled with the unusual reality of pregnancy dreams, wherein we went to do the ultrasound and it was revealed in short order that the baby had no head. I don't really remember the rest of the dream, but my god, why should I?

(As a note, most of the time my pregnancy dreams were pretty awesome. Like this one I had, where Beth and I were part of a big dinner with Obama and his team, and I was sitting next to Obama, and he got really bored by someone talking, so he started poking me with his pen and pretending he hadn't. I traded looks with Michelle, and she rolled her eyes and started talking to Beth, presumably about their mutual spouses. Somewhere in there, Rahm looked peeved that he wasn't close enough to throw something unobtrusively.)

The next day's ultrasound revealed that the baby did, in fact, have a head, probably didn't have Down's, had a good number of veins and such in the umbilical cord, had four chambers in its heart, had a lovely brain and spine, was ahead in growth by at least a week, and preferred doing a complicated tango to having its sex checked. We ended up scheduling another ultrasound, this time with one of those 3D places, just to get the sex checked, and that's how we discovered that the baby was a girl, and that she enjoyed playing with her toes. For something that looked like a sea horse a measly 10 weeks prior, this was pretty damn cool.

We'd already bought some clothes at this point, but now was the ever important time of going through it for the stuff that was a bit too neutral and trading them in for adorable dresses. Note: We do not do the pink thing. I mean, we have pink stuff, but that's really more an accident of availability than anything else. And we certainly have boys clothes, stuff that was just too awesome to not get (for instance, see this? The whale outfit to the right? Hell yes. And you better believe there's a matching sweater. We'll stick bows in her hair if we have to.)

The buying of clothing led to my second-favorite pregnancy game (after the poking game described above), which is essentially dress-up. With my belly. By draping the clothing on me, we could see if she was big enough or too small still for any number of outfits -- it was a great day when we draped one of the sleepers on me and realized, hey, she'd need to build up some baby-fat, but otherwise, she was indeed big enough to wear it...

What else? My eating returned to normal, though with occasional forays into MEAT, and I started to gain weight properly. I still didn't look particularly pregnant, unless I went out of my way to dress the part. Walking/standing for long periods of time was pretty tiring (see, for instance, Boskone). The baby showed preferences for certain songs and types of music, and I started talking and singing to her on the way home from work because I could actually feel her responding to it.

At some point in there, we also started birthing classes. The length was 7 weeks, one night a week, and I thought that was ridiculously long -- but by the end, it seemed much too short. The most important thing I got from it was not necessarily the information (I mean, that was okay, but I had most of that from Beth anyway), but rather meeting other pregnant couples, learning about all of our fears and mutual annoyances, and, now, watching with envy as one after another of them give birth. It's weird to suddenly talk about bodily fluids with a group of complete strangers, but after you do... well, you keep up with one another.

Finally, Beth mentioned one day: Have you tried expressing any colostrum yet? Colostrum, for those not in the know, is the sort of pre-milk you get right after the baby is born, the stuff with all the immunities and so forth. Turns out, you can sometimes get it beforehand as well. So, I tried. And, um. DUDE. I CAN TOTALLY CREATE FOOD FROM NOTHING. There's apparently a line from Murphy Brown that describes it as "like getting bacon from my elbow." This is ENTIRELY ACCURATE.


The Third Trimester
Which brings us to now. The birthing classes ended a couple of weeks in, which was sad. But the big thing that came with the beginning of the third trimester was the lovely discovery of Braxton Hicks contractions. What are these? These are "practice" contractions that your uterus decides to do for fun (or practice. whatever). They're not that painful, more like a strong squeeze, but it's not something you want to turn more serious when you're still a bit too early for such things.

I finally started to look pregnant -- really, really pregnant -- during this bit, though I still had a bit of the "stealth preggo" vibe. See me from behind? See me directly from the front? I look a bit odd, but it could be anything. See me from the side -- instant pregnancy! Very exciting.

At 33 weeks we had an ultrasound, because the midwives were concerned the baby hadn't turned head-downwards yet (a lie. She totally had. She flipped moments before the midwife checked her, and flipped back almost immediately after, because she is a weasel. That being said, we wanted an ultrasound, so, you know, props to baby). This ultrasound showed she was, in fact, not breech, and two other important facts:

1. We could, ever so briefly, see her face. She already has round cheeks and, unfortunately, my chin. Beth is convinced she looks like me, which I am not at all certain of. This has affected naming decisions somewhat, since I'm still rooting for things like Amelia, and Beth is now heading towards names that would have suited me had I not been one of nature's Cassandras. (Note: I am not one of nature's Cassandras. I am rather one of nature's [insert my name here]. Beth, on the other hand, is both her real name and a Beth, which is delightful.)

2. At 33 weeks, her body was measuring the size of a 34 1/2 week-old. Her head measured at 35 weeks. Babies gestate for 40 weeks -- HOW MUCH BIGGER COULD HER HEAD GET? The answer: Will be determined shortly, god help me.

Aside from all that, though, this is, for me, the most boring part of the pregnancy. (Beth would disagree; she thinks large swathes of the late second trimester were snooze-inducing.) Boring, because AT ANY TIME THERE COULD BE BABY... so why isn't there baby now? Or... now? HOW ABOUT NOW. Ugh. Waiting takes forever.

But wait! says my body. Why wait... when you could have PRODROMAL LABOR?

As if the Braxton Hicks weren't bad enough, starting on Memorial Day weekend I started having prodromal labor, wherein a body essentially goes into labor and then stays there forever. From 15 minutes apart to 2 minutes apart, I get medium-to-ouchy contractions -- constantly -- every day -- all day. When I'm walking; when I'm sitting; when I'm sleeping. For the last two-odd weeks, I've had nightmares about getting contractions... and I wake up to discover it's because I'm actually having them. I get them at work; I'm even having one right now. RIGHT NOW AS I TYPE THIS. They're constant. And really, really annoying.

I was always under the impression that one day, I would suddenly start having contractions, and that would be baby day! I no longer have this certainty in my life. Any day could be baby day. This prodromal labor is very (very) slowly dilating my cervix and getting the baby lower, but honestly, I won't have a clue what's going on unless my water decides to break. I am more than a little concerned that I'll just accidentally give birth in the bathtub, because what do I know? It's all the same.

(Note: At this point, I WOULD GLADLY GIVE BIRTH IN THE BATHTUB JUST TO GET THIS OVER WITH.)

Baby herself is doing her best to get things moving -- as of last week I am, thanks to her, 80% effaced (which means that by this point my cervix is... well, it's really ready to have a baby through it, okay?), and the baby's at "zero station" (which is another term that means that I, essentially, am walking around with a honeydew melon nestled just south of my hips). She also spends a great deal of time kicking against my ribs in order to bash her head repeatedly into my cervix, as if, if she hit it just right, maybe this time someone would LET HER OUT. And bless her heart, if it actually works I'll give her cookie. You know, when she's able to handle solids.

Also happening at this point is a return to the fear of yester-trimester, wherein I spend all my time worried that the baby is too low, is losing oxygen, is not moving enough, is running out of room, has the cord around her neck, is going to suddenly die while I sleep, is going to be born too soon, is not going to be born soon enough, and, as always, MAYBE SHE WON'T HAVE A HEAD. (Note: We've seen multiple ultrasounds. She has a head. But nevertheless.) I'm also having lovely depressive episodes that involve all these fears and the all-encompassing belief that I will, in fact, be pregnant forever. It's a smorgasbord of happy over here.

There's not much going on, except for the waiting/terror game, and the constant "nesting" (wherein I decide that really, I should spend the next three hours washing the walls. NO REALLY, give me back my sponge!). So, to end this section, here's a brief overview of Kinds of Contractions I Have Had:

1. Tension -- Much like having tense shoulders or a tense jaw, I realize I'm all tense in my lower belly (below the navel), and I consciously relax it. I usually only notice these after the contraction is over, so I can relax it; if I notice this before the contraction is over, no amount of "conscious" will make it calm the hell down. If they go on for a while, it can be likened to taking a thick pinch of your arm -- it doesn't hurt, really, but after a while you're kind of like, "Hey, that is starting to ache, and also, is super-annoying. Please stop it."

2. Twisty -- Okay, so, can you make your tongue into a W, or a clam, or whatever the kids call it these days? Do that. Kind of uncomfortable, because you don't usually do that with your tongue (though perhaps I am making an assumption here), but generally okay. Now imagine that, only flipped vertically, in your belly.

3.Tension w/Twisty -- Mix those two crazy kids together. This can sometimes lead to odd hip pain as well, or back pain -- while it may seem as if the contraction itself is not actually worse/more painful, having other muscles come into play usually means that the contraction is stronger.

4. Wave -- It starts with the tension really low down... and then ever so slowly all the muscles of your entire abdomen get caught up in the tension, rising up from below until it hits your breastbone. Then, after a moment, it recedes again. This one's almost calming, honestly.

5. Ow -- I get this after walking for too long (Note: "too long" defined here as "going to the grocery store"). It starts as just the tension contraction, and then gradually builds to blinding bursts of pain that encompass not just the belly, but also the lower back and even the upper thighs. For fun, maybe the baby is bashing her head in time. The best thing for this is to stand very still while being supported by Beth ("'Beth' not included in your home edition"), with a little gentle counterpressure from her hip, until the pain lessens just enough to keep walking. For approximately five feet. Then repeat.

Finally, Seven Extra Pieces of Info (Or, So TMI You Wouldn't Believe It, I'm Not Even Joking, Don't Click Unless You Really Want to Know)

1. Mucus. Since the start of this pregnancy, my life has become about mucus. Blowing my nose constantly, being stuffed up every night... these are only the things I can talk about in polite society. Cervical mucus is a constant and never-ending companion, and one that you generally don't get to bring up at parties (I may, again, be making an assumption here). For many months it had the consistency, and general properties, of wood glue. These days, as my cervix ever-so-microscopically dilates, I get bits of mucus plug. For a full discussion of the mucus plug, please read this essay, which really does a far better job than I could (no, really, go read it. It's funny. And gross). For a description, imagine someone blowing their nose in your underwear. There. That is what I am living with. Daily.

2. One of the charming side effects of constant labor is that it affects my digestive system as well. I thought I had food poisoning in the first trimester? I DID NOT YET UNDERSTAND THE MEANING.

3. On a similar subject: Urine. It is constant, it is in ridiculously small amounts, and there are times when I know I have a fuller bladder than what has been evidenced and yet there's just no way anything else is escaping.

4. It is incredibly disturbing to not be able to see my own pubic hair. FYI.

5. Peeing in cups for various medical purposes: Equally difficult.

6. Night sweats. Every night, I'm having the height of menopause drop on me and render me, my jammies, my pillows, the sheets, and the bed soaking wet. To which I can only think: poor, poor Beth.

7. And lastly: Colostrum is still really cool. But I can tell the day is coming that I'm going to taste it to see what it's like. What if it's gross? WHAT IF IT'S DELICIOUS. This is my greatest conundrum.

So... any questions?