betterbutter

this fell out of me before i could stop it

I am in denial about Henry, the gestating boy. Every time people show surprise at how soon I'm due, I feel equally, maybe doubly, surprised. What? I'm pregnant? SILENCE. The fact of him doesn't seem to happen for me. It was the same with Eli. Perhaps all the somersaulting, colliding emotions just cause me to shut down, stare blankly and proceed mechanically.

I am comforted some by having done this once before a mere sixteen months ago. That comfort comes in the form of knowing a handful of things for sure.

1. Breastfeeding can be a traumatic and wildly painful act of love.
2. Sleep is not a human right anymore.
3. Somehow, despite all doubts, you just figure it out and do, do, do.

There is so much I don't know also. I was induced with Eli at 41 weeks. I wanted a c-section so that I could plan to have family around since Joe was not. I ignored all the warnings by the medical professionals about the cons of MAJOR ABDOMINAL SURGERY. I was dead set on having Eli removed surgically. And so it was. I don't regret doing it that way but I don't hope for that again because there is so much I missed. I don't remember seeing Eli for the first time or even when I first breastfed or when I first held him. I was far too medicated to remember those details. That is unfortunate.

My first clear memory of Eli was waking up alone in the hospital bed and seeing him sleeping in the isolette next to me. I stared at him and wished more than anything that he looked familiar. When he eventually woke up crying, I went to reach for him but I had needles and bags of liquid attached to each arm so that I couldn't, without help, remove him from his isolette. Amidst some panicky movement on my part I also dropped the call button for the nurse. The only thing I could reach was a packet of binkies which I had sworn I wouldn't use. I wrestled the package open and reached as far towards him as I could which was good enough to give him his first binky.

Instead of watching Eli take like a champ to the binky I ached to hold him, sniff him and learn him. I might have cried but I don't totally remember that either. For Henry, I hope to be awake and feeling and present. But I've never done that and I'm scared which I don't like to be so instead I feel a bit shut down and, like I said, surprised that the due date is approaching. I console myself with mantras about how it's been done a billion times over and women survive but the unknown is a dark place no matter how many women have come through it safely and smiling.

Bubbling not so far below the surface is a giddiness too. The secret of the boy that is Henry will start to blossom on his birthday. Eli has taught me that birth is just the beginning of the unfolding of a boy, a life, a path, a story. My job, as far as I can tell,  is to stand by and marvel and do my best to get the more dangerous objects out of their paths.

how the genes are crumbling

Eli is a bit tongue-tied as was I. Other than that there wasn't much evidence that Eli and I shared any genes. Until now, sixteen months post-partum, I think I can prove to you that some of my DNA got mixed into his mix. Take a seat.

This is me and my number one mother. This is me looking like a son I'd have 28 or so years later.

Are we related or what?

Of course, Eli's also still related to Joe.

Although we haven't introduced beer and smokes to Eli just yet that's mostly because I'm pregnant and can't share in the joy with him.

Plus he's more than happy to be naked so until that bliss wears off there's no need for alternative substances.

What do you think now? Is he more Joe or more me? This is a competition, afterall.

a trip on a gemini spacecraft

Although I haven't packed a bag for the hospital yet or gotten all the necessary arrangements together for who will take Eli in this case and that case, I have spent over an hour on the internets thinking about little unborn Henry's birth sign. It's likely that the boy will be a Gemini. That pleases me. Just as Eli's Aquarius-ness did about this time in my pregnancy with him.

It's less about the astrology of it all and more about the people who I know that have that sign. I just assume that Henry will have some of the great characteristics of the people I know that fall under the sign. Everything that I love about them suddenly becomes the essence of Gemini to me. I simply add up all that tasty goodness and create our Henry. This kind of reflection is a productive use of time. I recommend it.

According to my formula, Henry will be a composite character of the following six people. And if he's to be born on the exact birth date of any of these folks he'll obviously take on more of the characteristics of that person than the others. Hey. This is my game. I make up the rules.

May 25th: First there's Matt. In 1999, Yo and I met this Scot on a beach of all beaches  in Thailand. He played his guitar in the sand with  no shirt and nothing but a tropical island to accentuate his hunkiness. We paid good attention to Guitar Boy or some other equally creative code name. He and Yo romanced the month away and although he promised we'd never see him again, we did. These days he and Yo are married and rocking out in San Antonio where he plays in a band. Dog Men Poets. The boy can sing and write and knock your socks off with straight up genuine Matt. Even if I can only understand every third word out of his mouth, I would want for Henry to have the cold water refreshment of his voice and his words that put it to good use.

May 30th: Abbie is so deceptively sane. Never, never have I met someone who wanted to pursue so many avenues in one lifetime. Rock Star. Masseuse. Psychologist. Tour Guide. Teacher. And she's done and pursued each one.  Never have I met someone who moved more slowly and in the present tense yet got more done in a day than I can handle in a week. Never have I met someone unafraid of knocking on the door of the massage parlor that closed five minutes beforehand to ask for a massage because it had just barely closed which in her mind meant it was OPEN. And the kindness can't help but make you hope for better in yourself. And her house, aside from being decorated in precious cloth from every corner of this round earth, is immaculate. And her cat's name is Mr. Tibbs. For Henry, I'd like the unstoppable love for nouns. The girl can't sink her softest, gentlest teeth into enough people, places or things.

June 8th: Dear old Nana. There is no margin of doubt about what she deserves and what is right and wrong and how she should be treated and how a bed is made and what a good meal is. I imagine there is comfort in knowing so clearly how things should be or how things were. So for Henry I hope for that clarity about what he wants to give to the world. He doesn't need it in as many areas as she's got it. No one needs that much clarity but some of that conviction is useful.

June 17th: My old flame Steve was born and died on his birthday. The boom of his laugh and the span of his arms welcomed everyone. He saw nothing but possibilities in the world, in its people and in himself. May Henry have even an ounce of that smile and yes spirit.

June 20th: Heather is as devoted to her friends and family as she was to her mean-spirited cancer-ridden rabbit, Althea.If you're lucky enough to be on her list of people to love then you will be loved from hither and yon for as long as you both shall live. Incidentally, she is about to take those forever kind of vows and I won't be there because of the very baby inside me. It's the least he could do to be born on her birthday with her steel-toed loyalty. He is welcome to skip the parts where he would be tempted, like Heather, to run in a bikini on the devious beaches of San Salvador. The raspy voice though, he'll need that.

It's like we already know Henry now, isn't it?

watch me try and string sentences and thoughts together

Still here. Still pregnant. Still growing boobs and belly at speeds as high as 10mph.

I had another appointment with Dr. Bytheway. I PREPARED for this appointment with some intimate and awkward moments involving a shower and a new razor blade.It's just that  I see this man's wife every Friday and I cannot risk the possibility that there be some behind-the-scenes discussion about my lack of personal upkeep. All was for naught. I disrobed nothing. And that Group Strep B Test that you get at 36 weeks, well, he handed the testing apparatus to me while saying I could administer the test or he could if I wanted him to. Obviously he didn't want to. And the chances of me handing over the tube and asking him to do what I assume is a doctor's job was also not going to happen without tears or some unpredictable but surely embarrassing outburst. So there I sat with the longest ever q-tip trapped inside a test-tube just like those ships in a bottle souvenirs. As I stared at the equipment he explained how I would test myself. There was mention of the vagina and the rectum involving the same q-tip. In what I suspect he thought was a reassuring tone he told me that I needn't stick the entire q-tip inside either entrance. Good gracious.

So then that happened.

Other fascinating bits of nothing are happening as well. Behold.

1. Eli grunts in exasperation which was precious until I realized he was mimicking me. Now I'm mad at him for exposing my stellar parenting skills. I prefer to believe that other people believe that I am a radiant and endless beam of patience and adoration. Little punk called my bluff.

2. He's also developing a fine palate that favors the likes of cucumber lotion directly from the bottle and frozen peas. And yet he hates a Popsicle. HATES.

3. On Tuesday I will be 37 weeks pregnant which is full-term which is also the time at which Joe and I are meant to do our homework. According the the nurse, our homework assignment from Tuesday until delivery is sex all day every day. Some hormone in the semen has ripening properties that frighten me. Or I'm just frightened at the prospect of all the jostling involved in our homework assignment. I prefer to be still with my mammoth-ness.

The emotional side of life is topsy-turvy of late. I have a sense of not being able to turn back more than I am filled with excitement. The familiar shower of questions and doubts have returned and I find it impossible to even just make a list for Joe about what to do with Eli should labor kick in within the next minute. I am ashamed to admit this.

And oddly, I'm even more preoccupied with all the friends I have lost touch with and how I can get back in touch and when will I ever have the time to really do that and I need to just pick the ones I love the most and pay them good attention but still I miss those other friends and don't want to cast them aside but haven't I already done that? On my list of things to do this weekend is to make a list of all my lost friends so I can write them a short e-mail saying that I miss them and can we be friends again starting now and forever.

My mind, it is a muddled puddle.

are you my butcher?

There is a brand new shop on our block. It appears to be called Nakakawa Meat. Nakakawa is a family name I'm assuming. Some further assuming leads me to believe that this Nakakawa guy is selling a variety of meats. Or perhaps he's just selling goat meat. Or he's only selling the meat of goats raised on imported toilet paper.

I do not know the answers thus I anxiously await the grand opening. Maltsby feels differently.

Two days ago a lone pair of rain boots sat outside the store. At the precise moment that Maltsby went in for a blissful sniff some unrelated squeal sounded and echoed down the empty morning street. The boy has a fragile constitution and has not recovered from the Case of the Screaming Boots.

The downside to Maltsby's new phobia of all things boots and squeals and Nakakawa Meat and paper-eating goats is that he forbids me to pass by the store at a pace conducive to good spying. Instead he drags me like greased lightening past the store, across the street and AWAY from the scene of the crime. I'm just wondering if I'll lay my eyes on a goat is all.

he'd like you to send peanut butter

The dog groomer assured me that she had blades that could cut close but not so close that the dog might appear to be suffering from something chronic and possibly contagious. The blades certainly got close but I am not sure that he escaped the appearance of a fatal disease.

For your own comparison pleasure, please enjoy a photo of Maltsby on the day we adopted him two years ago.

And now here is Maltsby of the tropics where he plans to spend his precious last days lusting after street kitties and ignoring all the awkward glances and whispers tossed his way.

black and white and red all over

Friday is story time at the library. Mostly it's a dozen mothers, their kids and a circle on the floor. Sometimes Dads come too. Yesterday was the start of a new session and moments before the start of the show my vagina doctor, his wife and daughter waltzed through the door. Panic set in. I made some attempt to nod or bow or recognize his presence in some fashion before I set about avoiding eye contact for the rest of the story. With a forced sense of enthusiasm I engaged Eli and the mothers on my left and right in small talk. As Dr. Bytheway was directly across from me there was some muscular restraint involved in keeping my eyes off of him. I was successful until he and his family approached me afterwards. I motor-mouthed my way through unconnected topics ranging from dragon boat races, diapers, and what a bang up job Joe did waxing the kitchen floor. One time, ONCE, I took a breath before making a compelling comment about the recent humidity. Dr. Bytheway swooped in and laid down some business. Had I made the T.O.E. appointment yet? And when was my next scheduled appoinment with him? I may have answered him. Hard to say. I was too busy sweating from pits to toes and running out the door

Thou shalt not allude to OB relationships outside of OB offices. What if I poop on the table during delivery or do a crappy shave job before the big day? Is that then conversation for the mingling minutes after story time?

That was not the most humiliating part of story time though.

During my active avoidance of eye contact with the doctor, I babbled to the woman on my left about how Maltsby had a date with the same groomer she uses. I went on about how his long thick hair is no match for Okinawa's tropical temperatures. Magically, quiet fell over the room and my bubbly voice rose above the rest.

I asserted to the silence, "If he were white I wouldn't worry about it so much but he's black so..."

You can see why I'm having such a rough time making friends.

beach blanket bingo

Now that all the dirty sick  has left our house, we were free to go to the beach today. Joe and Eli yucked it up in the water while I took stock of the goings ons around me. The most noteworthy were the two women buried in the sand and the two men videotaping them while also smoking and talking on their cell phones. After thirty silent minutes of video capturing  how they laid in the sand up to their necks just so these young ladies emerged from the sand and frolicked in the water for the cameras.

   
Something was definitely amiss. Too boring to be erotic yet too creepy to make my goosebumps go away.

here a toe, there a T.O.E.

I might have been in love with my OBGYN back in Pennsylvania. Something like love anyway. Joe was away and Dr. Hans Solo was the man in my life. I carefully prepared for each of my visits with a list of questions and fears for him to assuage and a freshly shaved version of me. I had very little in the way of a social life then so I pretended these appointments were just lunch with a friend and pair of  stirrups. Despite my deep feelings for the doctor, I was all business during our "lunches". As was he. These were professional lunches with professional love. Never was I so lucky in medicine.

Fast forward to now during my second pregnancy here in Okinawa. My doctor, Dr. Bytheway, is not Dr. Solo. He is a family practice doctor with questionable social skills. Or is it me with those poor social skills? I always leave his office wondering exactly where things took that turn for the weird. Was it him? Was it me? For the sake of my sanity, I blame him.

There was the time that I asked him if he'd be there in case of a c-section. I meant in the operating room. I didn't suspect he'd be performing the c-section with his family practice degree. I just wanted to know if he would be the attending doctor. I was mostly hoping he wouldn't. Then I might have chosen to have another c-section. Anyway, he told me in all seriousness that he'd need more training to perform a section. Yeah. I. hope. so.

So yesterday there I was getting my blood pressure taken and getting weighed by an excruciatingly awkward male orderly. This boy strips me of empathy. Each time we do this dance he asks if I'd prefer to have a woman listen for the heartbeat and measure the height of my fundus. That is to say that he'd prefer not to do it. I have never let him off the hook. It's his job, sweaty palms and all. He's looking at the stretch of me below the boobs and above the pubes. It's no big whoop. He did and he survived the terror of actual skin to skin contact for seconds on end. He left me in a chair, without empathy, waiting for Dr. Bytheway.

I didn't go to Dr. Bytheway for my 30 week check-up. He was not available and I took the opportunity to see another doctor. During that illicit appointment with another doctor, I shared a pressing toe issue. It goes numb. This was totally unrelated to pregnancy but I'm under the impression that these doctors know a little about everything so while I'm listening to Henry's hearbeat I can also divulge my minor aches and pains and get feedback. He got up close to my toe, wiggled it, bent it and told me he'd put in a referral to the podiatrist. All was good.

It's clear that Dr. Bytheway doesn't read my file before walking into the room. He didn't even realize I had been to the hospital last week although I could see the sonogram pictures and hospital report on his lap. He went on to say that the OTHER doctor had put in a referral for some Trial of Emergency. I cocked my head, furrowed my brow, showered him in question marks. He went on about what a great idea it was to have a T.O.E. because then I can weigh the pros and cons of a VBAC versus another c-section and on and ON. I let him talk and agreed that the T.O.E. did sound spectacular. And I also mentioned that really the referral had been for my toe like one of the ten digits attached to my feet.

Snafu aside, his talk about the T.O.E. charmed me. Upon returning home I promptly called to make my very own T.O.E. appointment. I asked for the appointment by name, a name no one had heard of it turns out. No one except for Dr. Bytheway.

Six weeks until this man delivers Henry. Oh, Henry.