Tuesday, September 6, 2011

Geriatric what?

So, I’m only 10 weeks along in what is one of the biggest surprise of our lives. We did not exactly plan to involve a baby bear just now because I still haven’t regenerated the loss of brain cells from the other two cubs but God seems to know better, or so people tell me. I know they mean this to be supportive but really, all it tells me is the Big Man is saying, “Sorry, chick. You can kiss those brain cells good-bye. This is as good as it’s going to get.”

The morning of my first appointment, we had an earthquake and were told to possibly expect after-shocks. Around the time my personality-challenged midwife began scrubbing up for my internal, I was in full prayer mode. If there was ever a time NOT to use those freaking duck bills, it would be when there was a threat of the Earth doing the salsa. I don’t need my midwife missing or putting it in holes those suckers should never be in. They shouldn’t even be in the hole they’re intended for!
Well, ten minutes later, I'm duck-bill free, trying to regain my pride when she drops two words onto my lap. Geriatric pregnancy. She tells me this like I should’ve filled out paperwork for the nursing home years ago. I am so thankful my shock holds back the words that would like to bounce out of my mouth and slam straight into her perky breasts. Geriatric. I’m 35 years old! Okay, 35 and 11.5 months but still! That’s young. That’s Sex in the City, Season 1. That’s the entire Friends cast by the last season. Geriatric?

These little words repeat back to me a few times in the next few hours until I decide that the midwife must have had one or two mimosa’s before coming in to see me. Her eyesight must’ve been blurred and she’d seen a “1” before the “35.” 135 IS old to get pregnant so I decided to let her have her mid-day buzz.

Fast forward 8 hours and I’m sleeping on the floor of Ava-bear’s floor. Don’t ask me why (because you know I’ll just bitch about it). Bad night= waking up the whole house = me sleeping close to reassure her= having something real to bitch about. The floor sleeping lasted one scream fest until my sciatic nerve started acting up. I decide to head upstairs and attempted to peel myself off of the concrete carpeting. It’s here that I hear the first crack. It was my ankles. I pause, in slow motion almost, seeing the disaster about to commence but unable to stop it when my entire body explodes in a set of bubble-wrap-inspired pops that echoed in every corner of the silent room. Ankles, knees, hips, pinky finger, elbows, neck. You name it, it cracked. But I couldn’t exactly stand upright without leverage so I (without thinking) grabbed onto the top of the crib for support and the whole side-rail rattled the crib like a freaking after-shock. Guess who woke up?

Finally got her back to sleep but now I have to remove my hand from her back and walk gingerly from the room without moving a single cartilege. Uh-huh, guess how many attempts that took? After about a dozen false starts with a number of breathless 4-letter words, I emerge victorious and creep up the stairs. I try to ignore my knees popping or the way I’m creaking as loudly as each step I’m stepping on. I crawl into bed with an over-exaggerated grunt (if I’m getting out of bed in the middle of the night, I’m totally using that as a reason Papa Bear should get up with the cubs in the morning.)  Rest into my C-shaped pillow and….waaaaaahhhhh.

The next morning, Ava-bear is bouncing off the walls because she is happy as a stuffed pig covered in mud on a cool day and Katie-bear is doing something electronic in another room but it’s still pretty quiet. Not something that happens often. All of a sudden, I hear someone grunting. Now, all you parents out there know that grunting from a toddler usually means one thing so I look over at Ava with my best, “I JUST cleaned your diaper” face and notice that she’s leaning over and picking something up. She doesn’t dilly dally down there so I might be able to soak a few more hours out of that diaper. I go back to Facebook and not five minutes later, I hear it again. She’s picking something else up. Huh. This continues for a good 30 minutes until FINALLY my last remaining brain cell kicks in and makes a connection. This grunting thing is a learned behavior. I go in and throw something on the ground in K-bears room and ask her to pick it up….no groaning. I do another test on Papa bear that night. He bitches but no groaning. Which leaves one last person.
The geriatric patient but in my "try to find the good in all of life's crap," I decided to try to look at htis another way. At least maybe I’ll get a good night sleep in the nursing home or at least some awesome nighttime drugs.

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