Happy! Happy! Joy! Joy!

Apologies and groveling followed last night’s debacle. His canine acuteness was in full effect as soon as he awoke sober in an empty bed. If I had gone into labor and my husband was abosolutely tanked, hence driving myself to the hospital, he would’ve had a screaming demon on his nut sack and I would’ve committed possible manslaughter. I had a bullet proof reason for my disappointment.

Followed by a spout of apologies, I pardoned his juggling brainless act. What’s the use? I led him into the lion’s den by sending him over to Joel’s house. What did I expect? An evening of saintly prayers and psalm? Psssshh…not. Shrug. He snuck me out to Mavericks for brunch. Food it makes my heart flutter with fondness. I love brunch and I love food. Besides, it was a super sunny day, and I have been in a rest pod for what seems to be ten thousand life times.

Paradise wasn’t crumbling. It was just the walls of my patience. If we didn’t disagree, than we really wouldn’t be normal now would we? How is our relationship to seek heights of improvement, if we were stagnant. Perhaps, Shane has had it good for too long. He needed to be shaken (a little) and not stirred.

This is Shellie from the arms of her husband back to you Bob at the studio.

Paradise Crumbles

Today my acupuncturist proceeded to aggressively induce as the doctors will be inducing next week. Believe me, inducing through herbs and acupuncture is more pleasant than western medicine. Basically, my water could break any time now. I am in hatch mode! Shane rolled in half past midnight after I placed a phone call to wrangle his ass home from Joel’s house. They were enjoying a celebratory night from the Golden State Warriors win over the Dallas Mavericks. As I am due any day now, I thought it would be nice that he watch the game at a friend’s house a few blocks away. Under the condition that he be home before midnight, call in and check up on me, and go easy on the booze as he may have to drive me to the hospital.

Instead, he strolls in with not a care in the world as I am profusively infuriariated, fuming from every pore of my body. Have I been too lenient? I am fully pumped with hormones and I have yet to take a bite out of the mood swing cake. My husband is completely clueless when it comes to pregnancy. I have to remind him that my case it’s abnormal. My emotions have not been sporadic. I have not gouged his eyes out for eating a carrot stick to loud. I have not burst into bouts of crying over a bottle of olive oil. I have not suffered heart burn, acid reflux, or constipation. I have been happy as a humming bird considering my diabetes. He is clueless as to the authentic symptoms of a pregnant woman.

I proceed to lash him with the third degree, yet his slurred response is, “What’s your problem? Why are you pissed?” I could’ve have tossed him off the top floor deck into the backyard. Yes sir. I blacked out in anger. I excused myself from the bedroom, to put it nicely. There’s no use in conversing with a drunken babbling monkey. I couldn’t tolerate his presence. I have given this man complete party privileges during the past nine months and the one time I want him be responsible, it backfires. Typical. Just my luck, you can't train a dog to stop sniffing ass. Is it my fault? Is it my fault for being so easy going? Is it my fault for being self-reliant?

Maybe I should have played victim and allowed him to pamper me during the pregnancy. Now that I have swollen into buoyant proportions and unable to navigate easily, he still wants me to cook him dinner. That is my life. I have spoiled my husband and this is the hell I have created. I feel trampled. Used. Because he has been insensitive, during the entire pregnancy. He has not showered me kindness, nor sympathized with me in the past nine months. Sob. Note to self: being easygoing has it’s downside. I hate to say it, but paradise is in trouble.

This is Shellie coming to you from the living room couch, I bid you good evening or in this case good morning.

Rest

Sadly, my entries have dwindled, since my recent scare. I would love to indulge in the daily of my pregnancy dallies, but my bed keep dictates my thoughts. I am held hostage to the television. Have you had the luxury to enjoy morning television? It's chockful of nonsense. Thank god for cable and DVD(s). Perhaps, I could retire to a good novel, but my attention span is the size of a germ. Writing has always been my safe outlet and without writing means well failure. Fray.

Here I lay in the comfort of my bed looking out of my bedroom deck into an exquisite day as Chloe begs to spend the day with me. She proceeds towards the bedroom deck where she lays on her stomach and spreads out on all four sets of paws like a fuzzy white rug. There she is my sweet Bichon. Will she love Kitchstar when it arrives? Will they be best friends? Will she care for the baby? I am filled with uncertainty as Chloe requires an ample amount of attention from Shane and me. She’s good with children, but will she be just as sweet with our own?

I should take Chloe to Fort Funston for a nice walk, but my condition refutes my desire. I went from yoga, pilates, and an hour at the gym to resigning to bed rest. I always found the need to exert all this restless energy, but I’m sure I could exert it elsewhere in my life. Maybe that’s the problem with us Americans, we are stuck in the gridlock of the hurly burly of life. Maybe it’s not Americans, maybe it’s just me. It’s all for the best as one could never get too much rest. Right?

This is Shellie from the billowing eight hundred thread count sheets bidding you to enjoy the beautiful sunny day.

Name is Forever

What’s in a name? Authenticity? Sophistication? Blame? Our name list originated six months into the pregnancy, but we put a delay on the task, because we could not come into agreement. Unfortunately, a few weeks from the due date and the heat strikes hot. I suspect we should have a substantial grasp on a few names. Giggle. I thought that Shane, my dear husband, was the most persuasive person provided proper cogent coaxing, cough…not this time…cough.

The pressure is on to selecting the name that shall snug Kitchstar suitably. Shane and I have crossed swords on names. It has been pure warfare. Digging our daggers in one’s favor for a name. Shane’s reasonable response, “I went to school with a kid with that name and he constantly ate his boogers. I'm not naming our kid after a kid that ate his boogers.” Curious how our childhood become vivid and raw during this process. Furthermore, the unknown gender to Kitchstar’s has made the process a smidge complicated. Therefore, our long jumbled list of girls, boys, and neutral names has been revised a too many times over. We have agreed that family, religion, and traditional names are restricted from the list. Worse, boys’ names are toilsome like searching the world for the Holy Grail! Perusing the name books have proven to be useless. These books with names that are sorted by categories such as wealthy, nerdy, political, and popular, to say the least, we found repugnant.

Shellie's Proverb: A book with blank pages can not be read.

Meanwhile friends voraciously probe us on names as we embarrassingly admit that we…gulp…haven’t agreed on one. Our name list was a simple gesture of attempt. Occasionally, I would like to rule out Shane’s opinions by utilizing the “I’m carrying your child for 9 months, therefore…” excuse, but I don’t have the guts. I’m sure it’s been done, but I’d rather come to a decision that we can acknowledge.

Coincidentally, we were subjects of old time media. Shane, named after the John Wayne movie and Shellie, after the notable actress Shelley Winters. What are we really searching for in a name? I would prefer Kitchstar avoid any name taunting on the playground. Is that possible? In the end, kids will be kids and will find any reason to tease no matter how what the name.

The fact that we are responsible for labeling Kitchstar’s name frightens the shivers out of me. Moreover, finding a name that Shane and I can come to adore is like two rams battling the weaker off a jagged cliff. In the end, we did decide that upon Kitchstar’s arrival, so shall the name like watching a glowing apricot colored sun rise and knowing that it will be an exquisite sunny day.

Lesson: A wise grasshopper must not judge his enemy by his sword, but by his name.

False Alarm

“You’ll be having the baby by tonight, if not tomorrow.” The midwife’s voice bounced off my exhausted brain. I was 36 weeks as tears began to stream down my face. Kitchstar just failed the diagnostic test 10 being the best, scoring an all time low 3. My birth expectations were miles away from a cesarean. It was trendy to go cesarean. I mean who wants to squeeze an elephant through a birth canal? If my mom naturally gave birth to a 12 pound baby, anyone can do it. Besides, our body was built to shift. Unless, suffering from vital complications like breach or a high risk pregnancy, cesarean was really for vanity or wuss reasons. It’s all a sham. Some women opted to bypass the pushing and tearing. A mere cop out, but that’s America we have a right to choose. In this case, I was robbed of mine.

I attended my stress test which took place twice a week. The stress test gauged the amniotic fluid and the activity of the baby. It was a normal day up to this point, they couldn’t pin point the heart rate of the baby. The machine’s data was long and windy. It’s been two hours and I’ve missed both my doctors’ appointment. They urgently sent me down for an ultrasound and said to return upon completion.

I returned from the ultrasound as the midwife called Shane and me into a room that read Delivery Room #6. By the look of the midwife and the call into the private room I sensed a prelude to seriousness. The term “exhausted” placenta followed by the underdevelopment of the baby’s lungs at 36 weeks and lack of movement hijacked with the word cesarean were all part of her explanation of why there were keeping me. If it wasn’t for my diabetes and the relation to underdeveloped lungs, an emergency cesarean would have been performed. All of this information bounced off the walls of my brain. Kitchstar was in jeopardy.

It was almost six o’clock and I have not had any food, since noon. Famished was an understatement! I kindly pleaded with the midwife if I could take a quick ride home and pick up a change of clothes and maybe get a quick bite to eat, but the wheels were set in motion. The cesarean dictated my food intake which was null to none. As I lay in bed a militia of nurses, doctors and midwives kindly introduced themselves. A split i.v. was inserted furnished with saline and oxytocin as well as continuing the stress test. Kitchstar’s heart was faint and the sheet of paper spit out mixed messages to boggle the minds of the medical world.

Meanwhile, Shane couldn’t get a hold of my sisters. My family members were missing in action. On the other hand, the Kitchens were in full blast checking in three four times an hour. You can imagine what crap I felt, because my family was down for the count in typical Cadelinia fashion. Sigh.

We procrastinated on packing the bag for the hospital. It was plopped on the floor in front of the desk. Ironically, we were in the process of putting the bag together the night before, but we thought we had a few more weeks ahead of us. Jinx.

Jill, sister in law and savior, stopped by the house to gather the essentials. To add more intensity to the situation, our new housekeeper may have placed the bag somewhere other than originally thought. We set Jill on a hunt for the bag, we mastered the art of clueless. Insignificantly, Shane instructed Jill on his hospital attire, “grab the pair of buffalo jeans or should I wear sweats, the blue sweats with the yellow stripe running down.” He turned to me, “Should she pick up jeans or sweats? What do you think?” With eyes of piercing fire I responded, “I could give two flying donkey fucks about what you are wearing Shane, I’m sure the baby could give two shits as well. Just have her pack the god damn bag Shane!” Shane quickly got back on his cell, “Jill, just pack the sweats and get over here.” I couldn’t believe the audacity of my husband! As I laid there in my finest backless hospital couture, he was more concerned about his fashion sense than the situation at hand. I could kill him right now! The whole day was shattered into pieces.

Kitchstar needed to prove to the doctor that it could jam three movements in ten minutes during a contraction. The nurses were bedazzled by my lack of emotion during the contractions, “do you feel that?” You’re having a major contraction right now. Unfortunately, I couldn’t feel myself blink. I never suffered a menstrual cramp, since my bleeding existence. I’m sure I wasn’t missing anything as I remember my girlfriends cursing the heavens of what hell they suffer. I couldn’t feel anything. They started the drip from 3 units and it was up to 27 units and I couldn’t feel jack. Shane sat on my bed comforting me in his arms and stroking my head, “Everything’s going to be fine honey, you’ll see, don’t worry.” He exerted my worries with his magical smile. I must say that the St. Luke’s Labor and Delivery unit rocked impressively. They were on me like ham on rye. I couldn’t believe it. I wasn’t worried. I was more perturbed that I couldn’t get a hold of both my sisters.

Shellie's Proverb: A deck of card is null without it's queen.

There was an explosion of excitement wanting to finally come face to face with this moment. “Always expect the unexpected.” One of the nurses reminded us. She was right. I didn’t expect this and we were thrown off course. Shane, on the other hand, was completely jazzed. He placed calls to Minniti and Kurt conveying that the baby was arriving tonight or tomorrow. I was enlightened to see that my husband was ecstatic. Simultaneously, if I wasn’t strapped to the i.v and the stress machine, I could’ve bitch slapped him for not being more sensitive to my condition. Shane one of his good sides was that he always looked on the bright side of things. Erck.

It was almost eleven o’clock as Doctor Norrell performed a third ultrasound. She confirmed that Kitchstar would be fine. The baby was moving again. Kitchstar was fine. The excitement came to a screeching halt. The circus act had come to it's finale. Her advice was to take it easy and no work from hereon in. To bed rest. All this hoopla, I felt let down as I had prepared myself to meet Kitchstar by tomorrow morning. Perhaps, the scare was a sign to get our shit together. I was busy trying to stay fit and heed this diabetes when in fact I should be nesting.

Phew! Prankster I mean Kitchstar placed a big scare on us. After being told that the arrival of the baby was at hand and for it to shift, I was a smidge sullen. This incident had made things so clear. It shifted different priorities into action like establishing our birth plan and having a plan a, b, and c when it comes to contacting family members. The next time we’ll be slightly prepared, until than Kitchstar is resting well in my belly. Countdown four more weeks.

Lesson: A wise grasshopper must master the way of folding the origami to achieve the ways of adaptation.

Hope

As I dosed off to the beat of Kitchstar's heartrate, an abrupt loud clang and screaming shook me from relaxation. If they were trying to escalate my stress level well they did a good job. What the hell was that? The screaming became more apparent and stronger suddenly followed with the wailing of a baby. I turned to the nurse, "Was that just a baby crying?" "Yes, a baby was just born." She smiled and went back to her paper work. The crying of the newborn continued down the hall of the labor and delivery room. My heart throbbed warm and large. There was something in that moment that took me closer to my fate. I felt lucky somehow. I was fortunate to have the opportunity to share this experience with the faceless woman down the hall. How special that these nurses experience this on the daily. I wonder if they take it for granted. Or did they find each birth unique, different and just as moving. My comrade had joined forces of the new mothers and here I am on the outskirts of their fellowship.

Shellie's Proverb: A man that doesn't make water is usually shriveled and dry.

As I basked in the sound of the newborn's crying, it softly hit me that I would be there soon. That would soon be Shane and me! Shane and I would be in one of these rooms fiercely laboring to get the baby out. It put all my anxieties and fears to rest knowing that there was light at the end of the tunnel. All the doctor's appointments, prenatal massages, acupuncture, exercising and monitoring of the baby circumferenced the arrival of Kitchstar.

As the days and nights mesh into one big glob, I count the days to that shining moment.

Lesson: A wise grasshopper must never take oxygen for granted.