Turns out we don’t have quite as much time to come up with a baby name as we’d thought. At my prenatal checkup the other morning my doc informed me that VBAC is no longer going to be an option. An ultrasound indicated that I have complete placenta previa, so not only must this baby be delivered by c-section, he’s got to come out a little early to boot…to avoid further complications (like, oh, having me bleed to death). We’re looking at early March now, rather than end of March, and I’ve been placed on “pelvic rest” until then. Bed rest is also a distinct possibility, but one I hope to avoid. After seeing what the husband just went through with his surgery I’d been determined to avoid another c-section too (it brought back unpleasant memories of a slow recovery), but it looks like I don’t have much choice. And since I won’t be having any more children after this I’ll never be experiencing the joys and pains of labor. Oh well. At least a scheduled c-section is much safer and less stressful than an emergency one. And the important part is getting this little one out of me, safely. Now the hard part will still be coming up with a name, one the husband and I can agree on. I am not keen on naming this kid Zeno.
Bonus: It’d been ages since I’d thought about the freaky Dr. Ferber and his cruel and unusual child-rearing recommendations, not since the little man was a wee one. But I guess his devotees, the frightening Ferberites, are still out there (and I mean out there), and making news. The husband gave me the heads up on this recent NY Times article. It will come as a surprise to no one that I’ve long subscribed to my own brand of attachment parenting, and I’ve never been embarassed by it.
Plus: I can now use my PowerBook to access the husband’s Linux box (hello treasure trove of movies and music files) at home. Sadly copying mp3s over the wireless network is painfully slow, but I managed to score some Mirah the other night, and her mellow musical stylings have been making my days much much better.
And: At the doctor’s office the other day I had to choke down the nasty glucola drink, then sit around and wait for an hour before my blood draw. Sadly I neglected to bring a book with me, or my laptop, so instead I called the husband repeatedly. At one point he joked about the magazine selection at our clinic, saying “well, enjoy that copy of Field & Stream from 1993.” But later, while waiting for our takeout to be made ready at Evergreen, I encountered an aging, yellowed copy of Omni Magazine…from 1983. No lie.
