Helene's birth story, Part II

[To read Part I of Helene's birth story, click here.]

There were a couple of bumps in the road, however. Unusually, there was another woman in labor at the same time. This rarely happens. It's not a problem because there are two birthing rooms, but the "family room" where relatives and friends can wait was kind of crowded. There was also a hot water issue. As in, it wasn't hot. It was barely lukewarm. Oh my hell, I had to get in that damn tub. Suzanne and the midwives marshaled the staff, and got them to start filling buckets from another sink where the water was hotter. Suzanne asked if I minded if one of the staff members came in and out with buckets of water. I didn't care who came in and out, especially if they had HOT WATER. They'd all seen birth before. Inhibitions at this point? None. While the tub filled, I got on the sofa on my knees, and bent over the sofa arm. Seth stayed right by me, and did an awesome job helping me to keep breathing deeply through each increasingly strong contraction. Seth made sure that I set up the camera for him, and wanted to be sure the flash was on if it was dark out when the baby arrived. Suzanne said, ”Oh no. You’ll probably see your baby long before it’s dark.” So hard to believe! It was hard to look beyond the immediacy of all this physical effort and remember that there would be a baby, a little tiny wiggling breathing baby. Finally, the tub was full. I could not peel off my clothes fast enough. I dropped them on the floor, and staggered to the tub.

I couldn't get comfortable at first. It didn't feel great to be on my back, so I tried flipping over to hands and knees. I didn't think I could sustain that, so I went back to lying down, and trying to move my hips back and forth.

I also had to have IV antibiotics, as I had tested Group B Strep positive a few weeks before. One of the midwives, Ebony, came in to do my heplock and IV. For whatever reason, she had a hard time finding a vein. After stabbing me a couple of times with no success, Ebony fired herself and got Lisa Uncles, another midwife to try. Seth said later that he would have been pretty upset at all the needle sticks I got to get that heplock in, but in the throes of labor? It really didn't matter. The IV was finally in, and the antibiotics started.

The water was pretty warm, but not that hot. More staff members had been recruited by now, and they were rounding up whatever receptacles they could find to ferry hot water to the tub. Pots, pans, buckets, recycling bins - they were all in use. There was a regular parade in and out of the bathroom as women came in to refresh the hot water. Someone thought of the brilliant idea of heating water on the stove in the family room, so staff members were soon carrying steaming pots of water in with potholders and pouring it in the tub, like I was a giant pot of soup, simmering away. Contractions were more intense, closer together, and despite the hot water, I would shiver and shake from time to time. I suppose this was "transition," but I was never conscious of it being different; it was just more intense. I felt sort of burpy at times, but thankfully I never felt nauseous. Seth or Suzanne would hold my water bottle to my lips periodically to get me to drink. Midwife Lisa Ross stayed vigilant, sitting on the closed toilet lid.

We’d been hearing occasional noises from the woman laboring in the other birthing room. At some point in here there were three midwives in the bathroom with me, as well as Seth and Suzanne. Suddenly, we heard what sounded like a blood-curdling, long drawn out scream. Seth said, “Was that screaming?” Midwives Ebony and Lisa Uncles glared hard at him and said, “Oh no. That had to be the wind. It’s very windy outside. Definitely the wind.” Seth started to say something like “I don’t think so” but was silenced by the looks from the midwives. [Ebony and Lisa, thanks. I knew that it was the woman in labor in the next room screaming, but I appreciated your efforts.] I wasn’t going to scream – I’m just not a screamer. It also seemed like a dramatic waste of energy.

I started feeling intense pressure with each contraction that felt like it was in my rectal region. The contractions were so intense now; it was all I could do to keep breathing and gasping and rocking my hips through each one. I kept gasping “The pressure!” and sometimes “It hurts!” Seth was right there, holding my hand, and telling me I was doing great, and offering me sips of water. Lisa asked if I was into a water birth. I said it sounded good to me. It was hard to imagine getting out of the tub at this point. Suzanne and Lisa asked if I felt like I wanted to push. “I’m not sure. I just feel so much pressure.” They advised me to try with the next set of contractions. I think they could see me hesitating or holding back, so they broached the whole poop subject. Yes, I did want to know what they did when, um, other things came out during pushing. Well, they have a little fine mesh net on a long wire handle; the kind you would use to scoop goldfish out of an aquarium. And the offending matter, like dead goldfish get scooped out and then flushed. Brilliant. That question was answered; I was at ease. I could try to push.

With each contraction that came now, I tried to push. I was blowing too much breath out, breath that could be focused downward to push the baby out, so Suzanne helped me to breathe and focus the energy of my pushing with each contraction. My water finally broke with a pop and a gush after a couple of pushes. It was relief, but not as much as I had hoped. I don’t know how long I pushed. I know that after several contractions, I started wondering when I would feel the head moving down, feel the burning of my flesh stretching, feel the baby turning to emerge. I felt like I was pushing well, but felt impatient that not enough was happening. “Tell me I can do this,” I said to Seth and Suzanne. Sometime in here, Seth said I looked like I did at Mile 20+ of the New York Marathon – he knew I was strong and I was going to finish. Midwife Lisa said that she wanted to do an internal exam to be sure I was fully dilated and that there was no lip of cervix in the way that would interfere with pushing. I’d been hesitant to have unnecessary internal exams, but decided this was probably the time to be sure. Lisa came to the tub to check me. First, she listened for the baby’s heart rate with a Doppler. She found the heartbeat higher in my belly than she’d expected; the baby should be further down. But the heartbeat was regular and strong. After some long, uncomfortable seconds, Lisa announced that I seemed to be the full ten centimeters dilated, and that there was no cervical lip. But… but… “I’m not feeling the back of the baby’s head. I’m not sure what I’m feeling and I want a second opinion.” I thought that maybe the baby was flipped over “sunny side up” or that she was brow or face first, and thought, that’s OK, I’m sure I can still push her out. I can get out of the tub, I can squat to open my hips, I can do it.

Midwife Lisa Uncles came in, and asked me to get out of the tub and onto the bed so it would be easier for her to do the internal exam. Everyone helped me up out of the tub and got me over to the bed. It was excruciating to lie down on the bed, after being able to float a little in the warm water. Lisa U. asked me not to push while she did the exam; I had to puff and blow out my breath. Not pushing was incredibly difficult; I was fighting against the powerful ripple of the contractions, against everything that my body wanted to do. It was agony while Lisa U. poked and probed. Seth was next to me on the bed. The other midwives were gathered in the room. Lisa U.’s brow furrowed. After what seemed like long minutes, she announced, “That’s a butt. This baby is breech.” There was a shocked silence in the room; I saw the shock and disbelief on the face of all the midwives and Suzanne. “What?” I gasped. “How is that possible? She was head down for weeks.” I waited for someone to tell me differently, to tell me it was OK, to tell me it wasn’t really true. Seth’s head collapsed onto my shoulder. In a soft voice, Lisa U. said “We can’t deliver breech babies here.” I started to sob, because I knew that already. I knew what a breech baby meant. There was one option, and only one: a transfer to the hospital for a Cesarean section. It was one of my worst fears, my worst labor nightmares. It was everything that I had chosen midwives and a birth center to avoid. The midwives hustled into action, and hurried out of the room. “We need a plan,” said Lisa Ross.

I wanted to collapse and give up. I wanted it to be over. I wanted the contractions to stop. Someone told me not to push. It was horrible, fighting against the downward tide of those strong contractions. Since I knew what was inevitable, I wanted the epidural or the anaesthesia, now, now, now, so I wouldn’t feel anything, so they could just get the baby out.

Suddenly the midwives were back. Lisa U. was giving me a shot “to stop the contractions.” “Terbutaline?” I whispered. She nodded. I felt it work almost immediately, the contractions slowing, slackening. It was a relief. Ebony was at my side, talking to me calmly. “We’ve called an ambulance to take you to the hospital. It should be here in fifteen minutes.” Midwife Lisa Ross would ride in the ambulance with me – only one person was allowed, and she wanted to be there in case the baby did come out during the ambulance ride. Seth and Suzanne would drive separately. Someone gave me my shirt; I didn’t know how I would possibly put on pants. Suddenly, the ambulance was there. There was a whirl of people around me, paramedics with a stretcher, Ebony wrapping my naked lower half in a sheet and a blanket, snapping at the paramedics that it was freezing outside. Lisa Ross was in coat and winter hat, at my side, my file tucked under her arm. They rolled me down the hall, through the big double doors that I remembered hearing about during my introductory session at the birth center. “If we need to transfer you, the ambulance backs up to those double doors, and we can get you in and to the hospital quickly.” I remember thinking I was glad they were there, but I was sure it was only a very remote possibility that I would use that particular feature of the birth center. Then I was in the shining, bright stainless steel interior of the ambulance, Lisa at my side, calm, her hand gently touching my leg. I don’t remember if they put the siren on. I just remember wanting to cry, having to fight the contractions, wanting to be numb, flashes of cold blue November sky and DC rowhouses at the ambulance window, the heat in the ambulance on too high, stifling. I went through all that for nothing, I thought as I quietly sobbed and huffed through another agonizing contraction.

Finally, finally, we were at Washington Hospital Center, and they rolled me through a maze of halls and doors and desks. We paused at one desk, and there were papers and a conversation, and a doctor appeared. “Good, it’s Dr. X. We like her,” whispered Lisa. For a second, I thought maybe, maybe they’d still let me try to push the baby out. But I knew better; no one delivers breech babies. And they rolled me into the bright cold white and steel of a large operating room. There seemed to be at least five people working on me. They got me onto a hard, narrow table. I had to sit, which was agonizing. Lisa got into scrubs, and stood right next to me, her hand on my leg or arm, calm and comforting, telling me quietly what would happen. They put IVs into both arms, I chugged a shot of strong antacid to counteract side effects of the anesthesia. I kept telling them when a contraction was coming, because I thought they needed to know, because they couldn’t expect me to keep still, couldn’t expect to stick needles in me while it was going on. I just wanted the epidural, whatever, as soon as possible, to stop the labor pain, to get this over with, to get the baby out, because she was ready to be born. Someone asked when I last had food or drink. There was some ridiculous discussion about how they didn’t have labels, so they couldn’t give me anesthesia yet. I writhed on the table, feeling amniotic fluid running everywhere, wondering if it would spoil the sterile environment. They wanted to draw blood for type and cross, and Lisa said impatiently that she had my blood type in the file. After more idiotic, ceaseless discussion of labels, someone could finally numb me up. A pinch in my back, and I felt the anesthesia working. I thought it was an epidural, but found out later it was a spinal block. Lisa told me that they would put up a drape, and that Seth was outside getting suited up in scrubs. They would only let him in right when the procedure began, because too many husbands had passed out just from seeing the prep. Lisa looked at me and commented that, hey, I didn’t get any stretch marks on my belly, just a few on my sides. She smiled. “At least that’s one good thing.”

They laid me on my back, and I could feel myself getting tingly and numb from the chest down. They gave me all kinds of consent forms to sign. It’s quite hard to write when you’re flat on your back and doped up with anesthesia. I’d like to see them prove in court that those signatures were legible or mine. Then I had to hold my arms out straight to my sides, palms up. The drape was put over me, right at my breastbone. A voice asked me whether I could feel various pokes and tickles. I could not. I was told I would feel pressure and tugging. Suddenly, Seth was there, by my head. I was impressed that he had remembered to bring the camera. They had already started. I didn’t even know. Pressure, tugging, athletic wrestling, it seemed so rough. Suddenly, I guess she was out, and Seth raised the camera, clicked the shutter. “The flash,” I whispered, because there had to be photos, because I could not see. Lisa heard me. “She wants you to turn on the flash.” Seth did. “Can I take a picture?” he asked the doctors. “Sure.” He took a couple of shots. I saw them days later – our little baby, bloody and wet, twine of umbilical cord still attached. I can’t even see my own body in the photos. I’m glad we have them, so I know what she looked like, because I missed it. Someone said, “5:26 pm.” Then, I could hear the insistent cries of a baby, somewhere across the room. They went on and on, so loud. I knew it was our baby, but it was so disembodied and far away. I didn’t feel anything. My body was numb. Everything was numb. Seth said, “Where’s my baby?” and left my head to go over to see her. She kept crying and crying. I wanted to see her so badly, wanted to touch her, wanted to hold her and stop her cries. But I was immobile on an operating table, hands pinned by IVs and the drape, still peeled wide open, doctors and nurses still working on me, examining my uterus, looking at the fibroids in there.

I was glad Seth was with the baby. He said that he gave her his finger and she grabbed it tight, and seemed to relax when he talked to her. I think someone announced her length and weight. I could hear the shutter click as Seth took photos. I saw later how her legs were folded straight up to her ears from being stuck in the frank breech position, a little yogini. Seth told me the nurses had a hard time swaddling her, because her legs kept popping back up to her ears. Then, Seth brought her to me, wrapped in a blanket. She seemed impossibly clean and tiny. I could only look at her, upside down. Lisa Ross took a couple of photos. In them, I am smiling. I know I didn’t get to see her long enough, right then.

The doctors were still working on me. Remembering something from our Bradley class, Seth asked whether they were using a double-layer stitch to sew me up. “What, are you a doctor?” someone scoffed. Seth told me later that he was thinking, no, asshole, this is just my wife’s body. Some minutes later, one of the doctors looked at me and said ”You can have a VBAC.” I knew that was good, but it was hard to process. I think they took the baby away at this point, and Seth went with her. Seth told me later that he counted her fingers and toes. They finished me up and moved me to a tiny recovery room somewhere. Lisa and Suzanne were there, and somehow, so were all of our bags and belongings from the birth center.

Then, finally, finally, they brought her to me. Helene. I could hold her, nurse her for the first time. She latched on with total determination, right from the beginning. She had fringes of hair, soft and golden, or was it a little red, like her namesake, Seth’s grandmother Helen? She was only six pounds, six ounces, petite and perfect. How could her fingernails be so tiny? Her head was round, skin smooth, unmarred, because there was no trip through the birth canal. They let me hold her and nurse her for an hour, Seth told me, before they took her to the nursery again for more tests. It felt like a mere few minutes, not long enough.

***

It’s hard to know where to end this, because there was no satisfying conclusion to Helene’s birth. I didn’t get to triumphantly push her out. Seth didn’t get to catch her. She wasn’t placed immediately on my chest, for me to hold her while she was still connected to me by the umbilical cord. I don’t know whether she had any vernix on her skin. We didn’t get to see or feel the umbilical cord pulse. Seth didn’t get to cut it. I only know what she looked like right after birth from the few photos that Seth thankfully took. Seth said later that he felt like he went from an active, important participant in his baby’s birth to a guest star, costumed and hustled onto the stage at the last minute just for the big reveal.

I am comforted by the fact that she was ready to be born. It was time for her to come into the world. She decided that. I am proud that I went all the way through labor – I did everything but push her out. I could have pushed her out, had she just been turned the right way. We would have had our baby in our arms earlier that afternoon, would have gone home with her that night. She didn’t have any drugs throughout labor, her heart rate was strong and steady the entire time, there are benefits to the baby going through labor, she didn’t have any of the possible negative effects of a Cesarean. I know all of that, but I am still haunted. Because I don’t know exactly when she turned from her head-down position (sometime between our 38-week exam and 39 weeks, 5 days), or why she turned. Shouldn’t I have felt it? Shouldn’t someone have known? Could I have done something? I know that the rational answer to all of those questions is “no,” and that this was an unusual, practically freak occurrence. I am now a statistic. But none of that stops my irrational, emotional heart from wanting a different outcome, a do-over of Helene’s birth.

The days in the hospital are a blur of pain, discomfort, tears, anxiety, fitful sleep, streams of doctors, nurses, interruptions. The debilitating pain that I felt the day after the birth was so far beyond anything I experienced in labor. I couldn’t even sit up in bed unassisted to nurse my new baby. I can’t understand anyone choosing this invasive procedure without a clear medical reason. The best, shining thing in those awful days was Helene. Our reason for existing in those days was to keep her alive, warm, changed, fed, comforted, loved. She hardly spent time in the hospital bassinet, because I couldn’t stand for her to be away from me. I would fall into a deeper sleep feeling her tiny breaths against me. She comforted me with her compact warmth and the very fact of her existence as she slept in on my body, just inches of flesh and blood away from where her life had begun.

39 weeks - and waiting....

I had some really clever title for this post last night before I fell asleep, but it's gone. Poof. Into the amniotic ether. But yes, here I am. Still pregnant. Kind of tired of the incredulous looks and exclamations when I tell people my due date is 10, 9, 8, 7, 6 days away. I guess I should be happy that no one has said, Oh my god you're so BIG. I don't really feel that big (except when trying to get in/get out/roll over in bed - for some reason those things are AMAZINGLY DIFFICULT. And require a lot of grunting.). I was in the office for a couple of hours the other day (I'm working mostly from home now, primarily so I don't have to actually get dressed and can wear stretchy maternity yoga pants allllll the time) and I felt like such a spectacle, as everyone and their assistant asked when the due date was, when my last day of work was, if I was feeling OK. My goodness. A co-worker who sits in an adjoining officle (cubicle + door = officle) overheard me tell someone it was 9 days until my due date. She came literally running over after he left, and seemed quite alarmed about me being in the office when I could clearly have a baby at any second! Right here in this office, on the ugly carpet! She is in at least her late 40's, unmarried, no children. And she has watched waaaay too many movie/TV representations of labor. "Do you have a suitcase here at work?" No, because I'm not really working here at the office, and I live five minutes away. "Do you have a backup emergency plan if you go into labor here?" Uh, no, because again, I live five minutes away, my birth place is 10 minutes away, my husband works in the building, most women go into labor at night in the safety of darkness, and labor is generally long. Loooooong. (Unless of course you are my friend Janine whose babies slide out in 2 hours or less and walks around 8 cm dilated with no discernible contractions. But she's extra-speshul, and her genes are going to kick all of our genes' asses.) "Well, I'm right over here if you need anything." Yes, and I will definitely turn to you instead of say, my husband, or my doula, or a trained childbirth professional. Thanks. I know she means well, but come on.
The belly is definitely full up. Sometimes the baby stretches, and it's almost painful as my skin pulls taut, I think, there is just no more room in there. And ow, as a little heel or elbow thrusts out with surprising power. I haven't really felt like OMG get out this very second get out but I will be glad to reclaim whatever is left of my body. I just want to eat, y'all. Like a full dinner, with spicy food, and a whole entire beer and dessert, and no goddamn heartburn and burping. I have definitely had it with those very special touches of pregnancy.

Sometimes, as I lie in bed, I can feel my "old" body underneath, my hipbones, my abs. I know it's in there, and it will be ready again someday soon to take me on a run, carry the baby to Eastern Market, lift her up in the air to let her look around. It just has a little more work to do first.

We think we're ready. Seth keeps talking to the baby and telling her she can come out now. I reached sort of a peaceful, still place about it a couple of weeks ago, realizing I was ready to give myself over to labor whenever it happened. The baby clothes are all washed, our bags are packed for the birth center, the baby is head down, face down, in optimal position for labor (high five, baby!), we actually installed the car seat correctly (apparently we are baby seat installation geniuses). Massage, relaxation, Bradley method, yoga, Happiest Baby, breastfeeding - we've taken classes, read, practiced, breathed.

And of course, when we got this baby sling as a gift, we immediately put the dog into it to try it out, because who doesn't do that? After the trial run, we're glad the baby will be smaller. And less hairy.

Ur chaos - let us show u it

I had a conversation the other day with one of my bosses in which he asked about how the baby's room was coming along. I said that we could not do much because our house was "under construction." With a skeptical look on his face he asked me what I meant by "under construction." His eyebrows went up further with every minute that I talked, describing the various phases/stages/incarnations of construction all going on simultaneously in our house. I think he got it after that. So, for your viewing pleasure - the total house chaos.

Dining room.

Living room, looking towards the front door.
Living room, looking towards the dining room/kitchen.
Kitchen, looking towards the back yard.
Second floor bathroom.
Guest room/baby's room. Note superabundance of pink baby clothing and baby accessories in foreground.
Master bedroom. We thought they were going to have to knock a hole in the wall, but they think they aren't, so that's a plus.
Hallway and study.
On the brighter side, the back of our house is no longer gone. We love it. It looks great. Really, at this point, anything that is done and looks like a house is great. Our standards are very, very low. I didn't even have the energy to cover the basement. It looks much the same as last time, and is full of drywall and carpentry equipment for the upstairs. One of our contractor's employees does keep asking about my due date, which is nice, but then he asked whether the baby could hold off for a couple of months. I'm taking that as a joke.

The belly gets dressed up

Me, Seth and the 36-week belly got all gussied up and went to our friends' Mike & Lisa's wedding. (Yes, for those of you counting, I am now at 37+ weeks. Yes, these photos were taken over a week ago. But I've been a little busy over here, you know, gestating, trying to pawn off work projects on other people, picking out cabinet knobs for the kitchen, and napping. Mmm, napping. V. important. Wins out over updating the blog pretty much every time. Sorry.)

My friend Anna is also pregnant - 17 weeks along in our joint belly photo. I think I win.

Seth has had a glass of wine or two and rubbed my belly throughout the night at every chance (was it something about the alluring drape of the red polyester Motherhood Maternity cocktail dress??). And also offered up my belly for rubbing to other wedding guests. His entree to our friend Cat: "So, you wanna feel the baby's butt?" She declined.

Attack of the belly cast

So, I've switched from my Upper NW Washington rich-white-yuppie-woman OB practice to a midwife practice at the DC Developing Families Center which has a decidedly more diverse clientele. The mission of the Center includes performing outreach to low-income and minority women, lowering DC's appalling infant mortality rate, and providing first-class, woman-centered midwife care to any woman of any income level who needs or wants it. I described the setting of the Center as "super-urban" to someone recently. It's housed in a converted Safeway, near a big strip mall, off of some busy streets with no trees in a part of Northeast DC that most people don't really have any reason to go to. I was a little apprehensive the first time I went there, even though it's a 5-minute drive from my Capitol Hill street. There's a security buzzer to get into the building. The waiting room is full of young women and men, small children and babies, pregnant women. Most are black. A few are not. I wondered if this place was for me.

After an appointment with a midwife, and speaking at an orientation session with a couple more midwives, and with some of the peer counselors who work at the Center, I realized what an amazing place it is. Midwives, on the whole, are passionate about and utterly devoted to their profession. They really feel called to it. I haven't met a midwife yet who was "eh" about her job, despite the odd hours, middling pay, and sometimes fanatical opposition and non-cooperation from OBs. And these midwives have their door open to anyone. No money, lots of money, insurance, no insurance, they treat anyone.

Which is how I found myself a few weeks later in a classroom with a couple of other thirty-something white and Asian pregnant women, a couple of black pregnant teenagers and their moms, a few tired-looking 20- or 30-something pregnant women with other children in tow, and a few visibly uncomfortable husbands and boyfriends. The Center does a lot of its prenatal checkups in group sessions: if you're due in November, you come in every other Wednesday from 2-4 pm. You sign in, and then head to a conference room with the other women, where there's an educational session of some kind. It could be peer counselors giving breastfeeding tips, or one of the midwives talking about all of the possible post-baby birth control options. I was skeptical about the group sessions, over-informed, over-Googled Type A that I am, but truly, I learned something at each one. It was also crazy to realize that I was a full eighteen years older than the gorgeous pregnant girl across the table from me with a similar due date, and if my life were different, I could be her mother. And then I traded premature contraction hospital visit stories with the 17-year old and her family. We're all just a bunch of pregnant chicks here, going through all the same things.

The midwives and other birth center staff want to make all of the women who come there feel positive about their pregnancies, no matter the circumstances. You're not maligned for being a pregnant teenager -- a peer counselor who was also a teenaged mom talks to you about her experiences, the midwives educate you on how to control your fertility in the future, the center offers pediatric care after your baby is born, and at each session they make sure there are snacks and water. I wonder if the young black women wonder what a white woman like me is doing there, and I want to tell them, it's because this is some of the best prenatal care in DC. These midwives are the best. You're so lucky to have them caring for you. I don't know if they know that.

Part of the pregnancy-positive celebration vibe includes the making of a belly cast at one of the group sessions. What's a belly cast? You can see some here. I'd seen them lining the halls of the birth center, white plaster and rainbows of paint drying, reminiscent of elementary school art projects. And frankly, they creeped me out a little. More than a little. I think it's because they look like plaster casts for broken bones, which always scared me as a child, because they meant someone was terribly hurt and broken and in pain. Disembodied mummy-casts of full breasts and bellies, marching down the shining tile floors of the birth center. I thought, oh, it's nice that some of the women want to do that. How fun for them. I definitely never thought, oh, I want one of those!

So, I was a bit surprised when I showed up recently for my Wednesday prenatal session, and found the conference room windows covered over with paper, and with large signs saying "NO MEN ALLOWED." In the room, all of the tables were rearranged and covered with butcher paper, as was the floor, and there were suspicious-looking tubs of water and strips of plaster. One of the teenagers, Cache, and her sister walked in after me, asking "Are we having group in here today?" "I guess." I answered. Then Cache said, "Oh, we're doing those belly cast things today." What? And I chose a seat in the furthest corner from the plaster and mildly panicked, eyeballing the art supplies like a spooked horse, because uh-uh, no f-ing way I am stripping down and anyone is plastering my belly. I AM SO NOT DOING THIS.

Fortunately, one of the midwives came into the room just then to call me for my checkup. It was short, and uneventful, other than the baby doing her usual attempt to escape from the Doppler check of her heartbeat. I walked back with the midwife towards the conference room, and she smiled, and said, "You're doing belly casts today! That's always such a special time." I nodded and smiled. And as soon as she was out of sight, I fled. Bolted. Ran. Out the door. Practically running to my car so no one would see me from the conference room. So I wouldn't set a bad pregnancy-negative example for the teenagers by ditching the belly cast class. I could not get out of there and away from that plaster fast enough.

What's it about, my visceral reaction to the belly casting? Aside from the general creepiness, I also wondered what in the world one does with the thing once it's done? I'm pretty open and relaxed and all, but I just don't see me hanging a mold of my giant pregnant boobs and belly on the wall. Perhaps if I were very talented and artistic, and could really paint it so that it was a stunning work of art, it could be hung. But really, I think mine would just end up in the trash.

I've also felt very "meh" about pregnant belly photos. Some of my friends have beautiful ones, and y'all know I am all about great artistic photos. I obsessively researched wedding photographers before choosing ours, who produced amazing, dreamlike photos of our day. Some of ours are even on her website. But I just can't muster the enthusiasm for the artistic pregnant belly photos for myself. Perhaps if my good friend Heather, who does this sort of thing professionally, lived nearby, and it were easy, I would do it. I even pondered Amalah's suggestion of the DIY pregnancy portrait, but well, I need a new tripod, and my clamp lights are somewhere in the construction zone, and, eh...too much effort. My friends all say they are so glad they have their photos. I keep probing myself to see if I think I'll have any regrets, and I don't think so. I've been documenting the belly growth pretty regularly in photos, so there's plenty of evidence of what it looked like and that I was indeed pregnant. (There are no photos of Seth's mom pregnant with him, which has led to lifelong taunts from his brother of "You were adopted. See, there are no photos of Mom pregnant with you." Seth still obsesses that this might be true, in particularly neurotic moments. I am not kidding.) Someone suggested recently that I make a flip book of the belly photos, which might be quite funny. That may be more my speed than something lovely and touching and artistic in sepia tones.

What does this mean about how I feel about my pregnancy? I don't know. I just don't love the whole experience, like some people say they do. It's not that bad. But not that great. The best part is feeling the baby move around in there, which is endlessly fascinating, as you wonder what in the hell possible pointy baby part was THAT. It's a means to an end. An end in which I get to wear real clothes again, reclaim my stomach and my bladder, and finally meet the mysterious little kicking nymph inside of me and hold her so gently in my arms.

We kind of wish we hadn't seen this

There's just something about being eight months pregnant, displaced from your house, unsure when your house will be livable again, unopened baby accessories piling up in the temporary apartment because there is no place to put it away, you know....that makes it not exactly comforting to go visit your beloved under-renovation house and see that THE ENTIRE BACK WALL IS GONE.

We assume this situation will be remedied soon.

On the bright side, the new front window for our basement has finally been installed.

I think we'll just tally it all as "progress is being made." It makes us feel better than "holymotherfuckingshitwhatthehellhappenedtoourhouse???!!!"

Three Years/33 Weeks

This past Wednesday was our third wedding anniversary. We did a low-key, nice-but-not-extravagant dinner out at a restaurant we've never been to before. I put on a maternity sweater that somehow makes me feel trim and chic; big, bright jewelry that distracts from my puffy ankles, and heels, because I will always be too vain to wear ugly/flat/comfortable shoes all the time. I looked longingly at the cozy, golden-lit bar in the front of the restaurant, and at the glittering flute of champagne that the bartender was pouring. I definitely feel at least 50% less fun these days, since I don't drink, my stomach is the size of a (flattened) walnut, and at least half of what I put into my stomach gives me heartburn, no matter what it is. Nonetheless, I managed to put away an appetizer of the lightest little puffs of delectable fried oysters, a rich Chesapeake seafood stew, and most of a piece of key lime cheesecake. When the waitress asked if she could take my dessert plate away, I leaned back in my seat, moaning, and replied, "Yes, please, before I hurt myself." Since I'm not drinking (more a factor of heartburn than paranoia), I make sure to order fancy bottled water, and harass Seth about what beverage he should order so I can taste it.

I spent some time thinking about the past three years, but perhaps more thinking about how different the next year is going to be. Three years seems like both a long time and a short time - I remember vividly our wedding, our honeymoon, and all the adventures - good and bad (mostly good, I have to say) - that have happened in between. What I think makes it seem long is the fact that I am PREGNANT, which means there will be a BABY in seven-ish weeks, which is still such a far-out concept for me to wrap my head around.

I look kind of mmm, puffy. And so thrilled to be here. I blame the photographer.
The whole experience is just so far from everywhere I have been and everything I have done until now. Last year at this time, I was deep into training for the New York City Marathon. On this day last year, I ran the Army 10-Miler, and then ran home to get in an extra 4 miles to hit my necessary weekly training mileage. Today, I tried to find a t-shirt that still covered my belly, went to the market with Seth, researched diaper bags, and got a pedicure because painting my own toenails is most definitely out of the question at this point. It's been an ambitious day - I feel pretty energetic. Unlike yesterday, when I just felt sapped of energy most of the day. It's not the total, soul-sucking fatigue of the first trimester, but I'm definitely draggy on some days. Sleep cannot be depended on. Last week, I felt like I was in a tussle of wills (already???!!!!) with the baby, who likes to curl herself along the right side of my uterus. I normally fall asleep on my left side, and will wake up a couple of hours later to flip over to my right because something has probably cramped or gone numb. Then I move whatever pillow is working for me that night, and do the cumbersome, slow-mo roll over to my right side, rearrange my limbs and belly on the pillows, and go back to sleep. Except that the baby was having NONE OF IT. Every time I would roll over to my right side, no matter how I propped my belly, the baby would kick and punch and wiggle until I just gave up and rolled back over to my left. I tried to sleep through it, but this would seriously go on for like ten minutes, and I just couldn't take it any more. Fine, fine! I'm rolling over! Are you happy? OK? And seemingly, she would be. This week, I'm allowed to sleep on my right side most nights, which has made for better sleep.

I also have some competition for my body pillow:


There is progress on our house. Of course, we wish it were faster. I really try not to think about it too much, because it would make me insane, and be a waste of energy, and I need all the energy I can get. I went over to the house yesterday for the first time in a few days to view the taking down of the back kitchen wall. This wall was originally an exterior wall, and our three-season porch was originally an open back porch. The porch will be our new kitchen eating area and mud room. I have to say, I love it. So much light comes in, and the sight line from the front to the rear of the house is great. It's going to be fantastic. (Here's the old kitchen, for comparison.)

We talk about all the photos we've taken of the house, to show the before and after. Seth has pointed out that the "new" Version 2.0 house will be the only one the baby ever knows. He can't wait to show her all the photos of the "old" house, to show her how we lived before she came along. I am sure that once the house is finished, and once she is here, it will feel like it has always been that way, and the photos may seem almost as distant to us as they will to her.

Fleeing the scene

We have temporarily fled our under-construction house.

It all came about kind of quickly. Seth's parents were here about two weeks ago, to deliver the dog back to us for safekeeping while they are in England and Australia. They were also here to look at apartments. A second grandchild on a third continent has made for some geographic challenges for my in-laws. Their primary residence is currently in London, where they've lived for the last eight or so years. For awhile, Seth's brother, his wife, and Grandchild #1 also lived in London. Which was great for everyone - loads of free babysitting for my brother-in-law, and my parents-in-law could get their baby fix. A little over a year ago, my brother-in-law got a great job offer in Melbourne, Australia. Which he took. So, Grandchild #1 (and his parents) moved to Australia. My in-laws have been on several month-long visits in the last year, and there has been some lobbying from some members of the family to get us to move to Australia so that everyone could conveniently be on the same continent. We aren't going anywhere, especially not after the Great Renovation is done, so that part of my mother-in-law's fondest dream won't be fulfilled. Unless of course we win the lottery or someone offers us very lucrative sinecures in Melbourne.

So, now we've gone and made everything more complicated by having Grandchild #2 on a continent that is neither Europe nor Australia. Now, my in-laws are wondering if they want to move back to the U.S. permanently (they spend summers here), and if so, where? They're considering DC, in order to be as close to the shiny new grandchild as possible. They definitely want to be here for awhile when the baby is born (which we think is fantastic - these people definitely know a lot more about babies than we do and we know they'll make sure we can keep her alive), and kind of try out the area, so they've rented an apartment. Due to the ridiculous glut of high-rise condo and apartment buildings constructed in the blind optimism of the real estate boom, they were able to find a place that would give them a short-term lease. While they were here looking, they asked if we might want to stay in the place while our house was being worked on, and if so, they'd rent it right away. We deferred and said, no, we're fine. Really! We don't mind living in one room, eating dinner sitting on our bedroom rug (it's like a picnic!), having to turn off all the lights to run the microwave because otherwise it will overload the pathetic upstairs circuit, washing dishes in the tub, weaving around the boxes stacked to the ceiling....and what's a little construction dust on everything? It's an adventure! I think they were rightfully probably completely horrified at the way we were subsisting.

The tipping point was the dog. The sad, pathetic dog who just had cruciate ligament surgery, requires a whole regimen of pills and supplements to treat his Cushing's disease, stiff aging joints, and allergies, and has to be carried up and down all stairs for the next six weeks while his ligaments heal. Plus he comes with a lot of stuff. And it turned out there was just no more room for one more living creature and his stuff in our one-room living space.
After one day of my popping pregnant self lugging Rufus (who the groomer has described as a "portly little guy") up and down our narrow rowhouse stairs and cast-iron stoop three times a day, barricading him in our bedroom to keep him out of the way the construction workers, and tripping over his pointy little Nylabones on the floor of our bedroom because there is no other room to be in, I agreed with Seth that we should just accept the generous, wonderful offer and move out of our damn house. (Seth does suspect he was at the end of the list of parties his parents could not go on allowing to live in the construction zone. We think the list of concern went in this priority order: (1) unborn grandchild; (2) gestating mother; (3) pathetic dog; and (4) oh yeah. Seth.)

So we did. Now we're living in what I think of as the Alternate Seth & Roberta Universe. In this alternate plane, we're a fresh-faced young (looking) couple, new to the neighborhood, with a baby obviously on the way, and a cute little dog, and we're moving into this spiffy new ultra-modern high-rise apartment building in an up-and-coming neighborhood, because we got a good deal on it, and it's near our offices, and we love new, modern buildings with game rooms and roof decks and free WiFi, and chatting up all the front desk folks, and we're saving up for a house.....It's so weird. This place is so not us. But who cares, because we have a KITCHEN and LAUNDRY. ALL IN ONE PLACE. And CABLE. Did I mention CABLE? WITH HBO AND A DVR. Even if the common areas do have furniture that looks like this:


These chairs? So not comfortable, in case you were wondering. Do not recommend flopping down in one, especially with the loosening joints and extra 25 lbs. of 7+ months of pregnancy.

(Interestingly, one of the building managers and his young wife actually ARE the alternate universe us - they have a little dog, and her due date is a couple of weeks after mine. So far, they are the only other people we have seen who also actually live in this building. Something like 20 of 200 available units are rented. Our whole floor is vacant, except for us.)

Seth's parents also rented furniture and dishes and things for the apartment, so that they will be comfortable whenever we vacate it. I had no idea you could do such a thing, but I guess these things are needed for corporate apartments all the time. The furniture is comfortable, if awfully....beige.

And in the category of Just Because We Needed More Shit Going On, we discovered earlier this week that our external hard drive had been erased. You know, the hard drive that we bought to be the super-safe backup of all our laptop data? After a whole lot of visits to the Mac Genius Bar to get our laptop issues fixed, we discovered that our laptop would no longer recognize our external hard drive. We'd plug it in, and the Mac acted like it didn't even exist. Which, well, it didn't, since it was BLANK. We think it got fried in the same thunderstorm that killed our modem. Despite the fact that the hard drive was plugged into a very expensive surge protector. Apparently, just the surrounding electrical surging energy and whatnot can be enough to wipe the data. Fortunately, the worst thing we lost was all of our music, most of which we still have on CDs, and the rest of which is still on the Mac. It just means many hours of downloading CDs again. (Breastfeeding project, perhaps? Put baby on boob. Insert CD. Click. Wait for both downloads to finish. Repeat.) So, we bought the SUV-version of a hard drive and backed up what we still have on our Mac. And we will never be keeping this hard drive plugged in or near a lot of other electronic stuff. Ever. And making more DVD data backups, so we can be sure to save priceless, high-quality, flattering photos like these forever:
Some fat guy we saw at a Red Sox- Orioles game once.

30-week plus update

The 17-year old Honda Civic didn't make it. Repairs over the next several months would have cost more than the Bluebook value, so the car is being donated. You can read the full obit/eulogy for this fine automobile here. I even got emotional when we left the car, and I have professed not to be attached to it or even like it all that much.

Seth's parents are kindly loaning us their Toyota station wagon for a few months (they're headed back to London for a bit, so they won't need it) until we have the time, money and wherewithal to buy another car. We wish we could get by with just one vehicle, but what with me planning to stay home for six months, and with anticipated daycare dropoff/pickup schedules, I just don't think we can do it. Despite the wonderful walkability of our neighborhood, it will be winter when the baby's born and I might stab someone in the eye with the nearest pacifier if I can't get in the car and get the heck out of the house with the baby some days. If we got into our dream daycare location at the Library of Congress, the pickup/dropoff thing would be MUCH easier, since it's walking distance from our house, and on the way to work. Don't even get me started on the lack of daycare facilities in the federal building that we work in, and the total disservice that is to the employees. Or the sparse options for daycare in our immediate neighborhood, despite the evident baby boom. Forget the chicken in every pot - there's a kid (or two) in every Bugaboo around Capitol Hill these days. But our car issues are immediately mostly solved. If I can get the A/C fixed in mine soon, that will also be helpful, since September in DC has decided to be muggy thus far, and I swear that my internal body temperature has risen five degrees today just to spite me and my lack of vehicle A/C. I'm just feeling distinctly.....swampy today. We are waaaay past "glowing" here, let me tell you, and into the "hot mess" category.

In other 30+ week news, after much (probably unnecessary) freaking out, I DO NOT have gestational diabetes. I did the initial glucose screening test a day after getting back from vacation, and an hour after wiping out on the sidewalk on my way to the doctor's office and scraping up knees and palms. Seth and I were walking to his car (R.I.P.) so that he could drive me to the appointment, and I stumbled slightly on some uneven sidewalk, and just....couldn't....quite...recover. Total wipeout. Cell phone and bottle of glucose solution that I was supposed to drink in two minutes went flying. Seth couldn't catch me, so he ran after the bottle of glucose solution as it rolled down the sidewalk, and retrieved my cell phone. He then heaved me to my feet, and tried to ascertain whether I was injured. I whimpered that I had to be OK, because I had to drink the stupid glucose solution right now and had to get in the car to get to my goddamn doctor's appointment. I got in the car, knee and palms bleeding, chugged the glucose, noted the time so I could tell the nurses when to draw my blood (precisely one hour after finishing the drink), and away we went to the doctor's office. Once at the office, I scrubbed up my wounds in the bathroom, noted the total lack of large band-aids to be had in an OB-GYN office, and got my blood drawn. My doctor was quite alarmed at my scrapes, and made sure I didn't fall on my belly, have broken wrists, or anything else. I couldn't explain to her that I just do this kind of thing on an annual-ish basis, and that being pregnant had little to do with it, except that my usual recovery reflexes were inhibited. We then went to get Two Amys pizza to nurse my wounds and my poor sugar-overloaded system.

Fast-forward a couple of days. The doctor's office calls to tell me I've failed the one-hour screening test, and have to come back in for the three-hour glucose tolerance test. What I didn't know then was that SO MANY things can make you "fail" the initial screening test - stress, having eaten something a couple of hours before, the time of day you take the test, etc., and that a very high percentage of women who "fail" the first test are totally fine on the second. So, I was completely hysterical for about three days, since they called me about this on a Friday, and I couldn't take the next test until Tuesday. I Googled everything in the universe, slept badly, cried, and waited for Tuesday. I also weighed myself about 20 times, because I'd felt sort of chastised at my doctor's office for my weight gain. Their scale showed that I had gained 27 pounds since becoming pregnant. The nurse mentioned that the scale was "off" and subtracted a couple of pounds. My OB raised her eyebrows, and I was told to watch my weight gain for the remaining weeks, because it would just be harder on the baby and harder on me if I gained too much weight. But when I weighed myself at home, I was 5-ish pounds less than what the doctor's scale had said. Rapid weight gain can also be a signal for gestational diabetes, so pile on some more hysteria about giant babies born with low blood sugar. Of course, the 3-hour test last Tuesday showed that all my blood sugar numbers were totally normal from all four fricking times they draw your blood during those tests. Vampires. And every time I've weighed myself in the last two weeks, I have still weighed less than I (allegedly) did at the OB's office that day.

But all of that is over. And I have finally done what I should have done (and wanted to do) months ago: I switched from my OB practice to a midwife practice. I have also therefore switched from planning to give birth in a hospital with a 40% c-section rate to now planning to give birth in a birth center with a 7% c-section rate. Those numbers sound quite a lot better to me on the slice me-dice me scale. All along, I really knew I wanted to be in a midwife practice, and that I wanted a non-medicalized birth, and every opportunity for a natural birth, if at all possible. The more I read, the more I confirmed this for myself. I'm not afraid of the pain or effort of labor. I am, on the other hand, very afraid of hospitals and unnecessary medical procedures. I have many, many reasons for this decision, and lots of stats, facts and stories to back it all up. If you're interested in this highly politicized and emotional hotbed of discussion about birth options, you can start here, here, and here for some source material.

Moving on to another birth story - our house! Our basement is really close to being finished. Our contractor thinks it will be done by October 1! Mmmm, waaaasher and dryyyyer. Laaaauuundry. Saaatellite TV......He's also aiming for a November 10 completion date for the kitchen, but we're not holding our breath on that one. If it's not completely done, we will survive. Hopefully without too many total hysterical breakdowns as it gets down to the wire on my due date. (Note to baby - this will be the one time in your life where I really insist that it will be just fine for you to show up late. Say a week? That would be greeeaaat.)

Seriously, can you believe this is the same room as this? In the photo above, there will again be a window in the bay - they just drywalled over the opening, and will put in the new window when it's ready.
This is looking towards the back of the house - the door to the back yard is on the left. The hallway on the right leads to our massive new closets, laundry area and full bathroom.
Do you like any of these paint colors? Me neither. Too light, too light, and too....peachy. But those were the only colors in the Benjamin Moore sample sizes that I thought might work. I sprung for a quart in another, darker shade today. Let's hope that's it.

However will we give this glamorous life up once our fancy kitchen is done? Yes, those are our dishes being done in the bathtub. It's so thrilling every night that we could just pass out from the excitement.

And it's not even 10:00 am on Monday

Let me update you on the status of our household:

-We have no kitchen.
-We have no washer & dryer (well, we do, but they are disconnected and stored under our porch).
-Two rooms of our house are habitable- three if you count the bathroom.
-We have to turn off all lights and other electric devices upstairs when we run the microwave because otherwise it will trip the circuit breaker because the electrical circuits for the upstairs are stupid, old and wimpy.
-The air conditioning in my Jeep suddenly stopped working on a 96-degree day.
-Seth's 17-year old Honda Civic started this morning, moved 2 feet, and then died, not to be revived.
-The Honda is now parked/stuck on the side of the street slated for cleaning this morning, is a foot or two outside the white parking lines, is slightly blocking our neighbor's driveway, and despite the note on the windshield stating that the car won't start, will probably get approximately $2,347 in parking tickets from the incredibly efficient DC parking enforcement.
-The Honda's problem is not the battery, indicating a possible exorbitant repair expense.
-We have already decided that if further repairs to the Honda are over a certain dollar amount, we're not going to repair it again.
-My car is a stick, and Seth can't/won't drive it.
-I'm almost 30 weeks pregnant.
-Someone will have to drive my laboring ass to the birth center/hospital, preferably without jackrabbiting the clutch, stalling out the car, or getting into an accident.
-OMFG 30 WEEKS PREGNANT; HOUSE MOSTLY DESTRUCTED; UP TO EYEBALLS IN EXPENSES AND DRYWALL DUST FOR HOUSE RENOVATION; PLEASE SEND NEW/GENTLY USED AUTO TRANSMISSION SUBARU STATION WAGON TO WASHINGTON DC. AND VAT OF MACARONI AND CHEESE. THX.

Holy kitchen renovation, Batman

So, this is what our dining room and kitchen looked like before we left for vacation:


And this is what we came home to:

Complete, total and utter destruction. Isn't it beautiful? I love seeing all the bones of the house, and layered remnants of 100+ years - old plaster, old windows, scars on the floor where the original walls were.

We also found a sort of time capsule behind the drywall - a 1975 calendar from a now-defunct seafood market. The 1975 date definitely explains the cheap vinyl flooring, mustard-yellow Formica countertops and the fireplace in the basement.


We're contemplating what we could leave in the house as our own time capsule. A letter? Photos of the house? A list of average gas prices?

Since a lot of people have been asking about the baby's room, I thought I'd share a photo of it:

What? You don't think she'll like it? What? Too yellow? You don't think the Igloo cooler will work as a bassinet? We thought it was handy, what with the wheels and pull-handle.

28 weeks - special Martha's Vineyard edition

Beach abstract - Chappaquiddick
We've been at Seth's family's house on Martha's Vineyard since August 21, and it has been blissful. Whenever I arrive here, I feel myself easily sliding into the slowed pace of relaxation that is summer on this island. The weather has been spectacular almost every day, with crystalline blue skies, and breezes just cool enough to be comfortable. I've read at least six books, dividing my reading time between lounging on the hammock, the sofa, chaise lounge and beach. An old family friend who is a New York restaurateur was here for a few days, and treated us by cooking better-than-restaurant dinners made with the freshest local seafood and produce. I roused myself to make some truly fantastic seafood chowder with fresh local quahogs, based on the venerable Black Dog Tavern's recipe. We've wandered all the towns, gone to the agricultural fair, the farmer's market, the flea market and the craft fair, driven on winding roads we hadn't found before, and hiked on parts of the island both new and familiar to us. I can't let myself think about the fact that we are going home to DC tomorrow.


Vacation - all you ever wanted. Not a bad way to spend a lot of dreamy hours.
Shearing demonstration - an Angora goat.
Mohair wool - comes from Angora goats.
Prizewinning rabbit. He seems underwhelmed.
No fair is complete without racing pigs.
Belly on the beach - 28 weeks. Maybe I shouldn't have posted this right next to the chubby, pink little pigs.

My life in pictures

Kitchen cabinet and countertop samples. Can you distinguish between the three shades of cream-ish painted cabinetry?

Babies. Childbirth. Guh.

The room in our house formerly known as "the study." Now known as "warehouse for all our crap from the basement and kitchen." This is even after we got rid of 2/3 of the junk in our basement.

Yes, those boxes do go all the way to the ceiling.

House renovations and childbirth. That's all I got.

Technical Difficulties

I know, I know, there's nothing new on here. It's not really my fault. I swear.

Sometime after we got our beloved Mac PowerBook a couple of years ago, we started calling it "The Baby." As in: "Where's The Baby?" "Is The Baby charged up?" "Can I play with The Baby?" "Are we bringing The Baby on vacation?" You are probably relieved to know that we have mostly stopped doing that, since there is an actual, human, in-utero baby on her way. We do occasionally now call the PowerBook "The First Baby."

Sadly, our First Baby (the sleek, white plastic one with the embossed Apple on its forehead) is in the Apple Infirmary. Two trips to the Genius Bar, one replaced battery, and one replaced logic board did not solve the mysterious fan-running-loud-and-overtime, overheating, rapid battery-draining, and screen freezing that's been going on for a couple of weeks. So, our preshus laptop has been shipped off for more serious repairs. We're all worried, let me tell you. We do have a hard drive, with all our data backed up. Except that I wake up in the middle of the night with neurotic thoughts that something is wrong with the hard drive too! Which are not rational, of course, but probably just an excuse to worry about something other than the bigger things like, say uh, BABY and HOUSE RENOVATION.

So, we've been sans Mac for many long days now. We also had an internet service outage a couple of weeks ago, caused by a lightning-zapped dead modem. The modem is up and running. Just no Mac. Sigh. We've also suspended our DirectTV service during the renovations, so we are pretty disconnected with the civilized world. I get a little panicky when I think about all the new Deadliest Catch and Daily Show episodes I'm missing. At least the Olympics are on network TV right now, a media form which I'd quite forgotten about since being introduced to the wonders of satellite and Tivo. Between our new HDTV adaptor and antenna and our BlackBerries, we're managing to survive. So don't worry about us. Except that there are a lot of evenings ahead of huddling in our bedroom (the only habitable part of the house) with take-out burritos and new episodes of The Biggest Loser. So if you do happen to have the complete DVD set of Buffy The Vampire Slayer to loan out, I wouldn't turn it down.