The Smell of Spring

Ah, Spring.  Bare, pale body parts making starling appearances against beautiful new blooms of color.  Itchy, red bug bites in inappropriate places that were displayed with misplaced confidence.  That lime green hue of pollen on newly washed cars, speckled with those bugs that bit the inappropriate places of paleness.  Cats sitting in flower pots like the Easter bunny.  (Please see picture below.)  We are so twitterpated, none of it matters.

(WARNING: I recommend you stop reading if you are eating or have a weak stomach.)

I do love spring.  I am down to my last weeks/days of pregnancy and this could not be a better time to have a baby.  Well, that’s my thought on the subject.  I was pretty active this weekend, all with the hope of encouraging some contractions.  That is, after I finished an unbelievable week of diarrhea.

I had some issues early in the week and thought it was all gone until Friday night when it all hit the fan.  My husband, dogs and cat were all concerned about the sounds, smells and things they did not want to see.  At one point (according to my husband), I made a noise from the bathroom that scarred the cat and caused her to fall off the couch.  I have never made or heard noises of that caliber and I spent a good deal of my college career in a boys’ dorm…with football players.  Not even from 5 younger Gilman siblings have any such noises been conceived.

By Saturday afternoon, I was much improved.  Today, my appetite has returned.  I do not know if I can say the same for my husband.  But again, how can anything bother you in the Spring.  All is forgotten with some tulips, newly mown lawn and the NCAA tournament.  Now we just need a baby to bloom.  Although, there is no forcing a Gilman.

Hippie Hooters

Don’t laugh, but I think I might be a hippie.  My definition of “hippie” is a person who opposes and rejects many of the conventional standards and customs of society.  For example, the products and food in my house contain the words “organic” and “natural”.  I am having a baby at a maternity center, not a hospital, and I don’t intend to use any drugs.  And, oh my gosh, I am using a cloth diaper service!  Just wrap me up and call me crunchy.  I just might be a hippie!

Some of those things might be counter conventional, but I was not prepared for hippie hooters.  I just assumed that every mom breastfed their baby for as long as they could.  In reality, it just ain’t so.  I have found that moms want to breastfeed but are only keeping it up for a few months.

Just a quick online search shows that, according to the CDC, among infants born in 2006: 73.9% were ever breastfeed; 43.4% were still breastfeeding at 6 months of age; 22.7% were breastfeeding at 1 year of age.  According to the CDC’s 2010 statistics, 3 out of every 4 new mothers in the United States breastfed from birth.  Rates of breastfeeding at 6 and 12 months, however, as well as rates of exclusive breastfeeding at 3 and 6 months have remained stagnant and low.

So, where did all the happy hooters go?  My mom did not breastfeed her first two children.  By the time I was born in 1979, she decided to try breastfeeding.  Although breastfeeding is gaining momentum, we still need lactation consultants and La Leche Leagues.  I understand it can be awkward and difficult, especially when at work or anywhere outside the house.  Honestly, I can’t think of a time where I saw a woman breastfeeding in public.

Well, these hippie hooters plan to breastfeed.  Who’s with me?

What’s in your nest?

This month, the month of March, is the estimated month for the arrival of our baby.  I refuse to provide a specific due date and it’s driving people crazy, which is way more fun than I would have thought.  Spring has arrived early.  I hope that is not an indication of the baby’s arrival.  That’s probably unusual for most third trimester mothers-to-be, but I’m perfectly happy waiting a few more weeks.  I’m not too uncomfortable.  I mean, I waddle.  I need a shove to get up off the couch.  Otherwise, I’m doing okay.

I did have a calf cramp the other night that got me squirming around the bed like a worm on hot concrete.  I could only get out unintelligible grunts and groans before my husband woke up.  He asked if it was the baby.  No, it’s my GD calf!  By that time I was crying and really ticked off, which only made him laugh, which only made me laugh.  So not fair.  He asked that I try to handle my future labor pains a bit better than the calf cramp.  Can you sense the sarcasm in our relationship?  Besides that incident, I’m pretty much a bloated version of my old self.  Well, there is that nesting thing going on.

Okay, I may have experienced a panic attack this weekend when I felt like our “nest” was not full enough.  I don’t even know what that means.  What’s in a nest?  And why am I being associated with a bird?  I’ll tell you right now, this bird ain’t flying anytime soon.  I can maybe see that I resemble to a panda bear…hippopotamus…or maybe a kangaroo.  T-rex?  All non-flying creatures.  No nests.  I mean I need to take a wide angle to get around corners of walls.  I scratched my car for the first time ever when I pulled into a parking spot at the grocery store last week.  Now, the car can’t be getting wider, so I’m not sure what’s the deal.  There is simply nothing graceful going on here.

My panic attack was followed by a trip to Lowe’s, Kohl’s, Target and the local greenhouse.  For some reason, I needed to buy a few herb plants.  Yes, as in oregano, sage, lavender and rosemary.  You know, the essentials.  This made absolute, perfect sense at the time. I also needed more lighting in the baby’s room and various other random things.  I pretty much massacred my budget for the month.  My husband took it all in stride.  He only questioned the second vacuum cleaner.  The argument that we needed one on every floor didn’t fly.  He also went with me to the cloth diaper class.  Seriously.  I don’t know if he felt I shouldn’t be left alone or he just wanted to make sure I didn’t spend more money.  He did, however, ask the presenter when the nesting phase would end.  Her response – it only gets worse.  He deserved that.

So, what’s my deal?  My mom only mentioned an urge to vacuum the house, not this “I can take on Martha Stewart and any other crazy multi-tasking bitch out there.”  I also wonder about my grandmother’s nesting fetishes.  Did she milk some cows?  Preserve some fruit?  I mean, she was living on a farm.  Actually, I recall that she never felt great throughout her pregnancies.  All five of them.  She did name all five children starting with the letter “R”.  I could never figure that one out.  I think I have an awesome name picked out, but it’s a secret until the birth.  Maybe my grandchildren will question my sanity years from now.  Oh, well.  Maybe I don’t need more time to nest and an early arrival would be okay.  For now, I’m going on an ice cream run.  Peace out mommies and happy nesting.