A Test of Patience

I (along with Z Baby!) have been totally restless the last two nights. It reminds me of growing up on the farm and how mama cows, sheep, dogs, etc. would get really antsy and we knew they were going to give birth soon. And last night I was just certain I would go into labor. But so much for my motherly instincts!

We had an ultrasound on Tuesday and an appointment with our doctor yesterday. The ultrasound estimated Z Baby to be just 3.073 kg (6 lbs 11 oz) +/- 10%, so if that is anywhere close to accurate she's smaller than we thought. Everything looked great though. Amniotic fluid levels are high, baby's heart rate is perfect, and the placenta is functioning normally. And my child is still active - plenty, plenty active. In fact, last night as she kicked, punched, wiggled, spun around from side to side, and basically just refused to be still for more than 3 seconds at a time, I started to have this fear that maybe I was carrying an octopus in there. Seriously, there have to be more than just four limbs. I've got sharp pointy parts poking me in at least seven different places right this moment.

As of 6:30 yesterday evening, my doctor reported that I was 1-2 cm dilated and 60% effaced. We talked options since I am 40 weeks and 4 days now. He said that as long as baby and I both remain healthy, he has no reason to induce labor. He recognizes that a normal gestational period is 38-42 weeks. So, unless I request it, he won't recommend inducing until after that period except if something changes health-wise. Tempting? Oh yes. But the increased risk of complications and harder labor isn't worth it to me when everyone is healthy as is. So if nothing happens between now and then, on Saturday we will begin having twice per week ultrasounds to keep a close eye on everything.

But for now, the waiting game continues. (And all the many things you can eat/drink/do that are supposed to start labor - lies I tell ya, just lies!)

Matters of Taste

I'd heard all the maid horror stories from friends and acquaintances. Tales of maids who steal, those who spend their days on your couch watching novelas and eating everything in sight, and how no small appliance is safe when you ask a maid to use it. I entered this thing fully informed.

But (knock on wood) I've been pleasantly surprised with our faxineira, Lucilene. She does a nice, thorough job with the cleaning and ironing. Granted, she has a slightly unnatural fear of my washing machine (which we're going to have to cure her of once baby is here - we're cloth diapering!), but for the most part she does everything I ask of her and even more.

And by 'more', I mean that she apparently has some unfulfilled dream of being an interior decorator that she likes to live out while she's in our apartment. She has a jolly good time rearranging all the decorative items in my living/dining room and she really seems to enjoy going through the baby stuff and putting out on display all the books, stuffed animals, etc. that I try to keep contained. She's also been known to randomly flip over the reversible comforter on the twin bed in the baby room from the more classy striped side that I bought it for to the tacky floral print. And the bag of oranges I had on the shelf under the microwave in the kitchen? Well, this week she pulled out one of my pretty pie pans and created an orange pyramid to adorn my counter top with.

It seems to make her happy, so hey, whatever. I just spend the next couple days putting things back where they belong and then she comes along and works her 'magic' once again. It's really not the end of the world. And usually I get a good giggle from her organizational/decorative efforts.

But occasionally I come across something that just really isn't working for me. Usually it involves an object rather foreign to her that she really has no idea about. For example, I have a couple Glade Glass Scents air fresheners in the house. Sure, Glade advertises that "These beautiful air fresheners contain natural fragrance oils set in an etched glass design—a perfect complement to any room, anywhere" but at the end of the day, let's face it, it's an air freshener . . . not really something that I consider a conversation piece or the highlight of my decor. So I like to keep them discreetly on a high shelf behind other more display-worthy items. But you can bet that every week when Lucilene dusts the living/dining room the air freshener gets moved into a highly coveted location: to the middle of the coffee table or on the shelf that has a spotlight focusing on it (oh and she's sure to turn on the spotlight to really show it off) or front and center in an arrangement of framed photos.

And then sometimes the problem is more of a practicality issue than just a simple matter of taste:

Well, actually, it could have a lot to do with taste. I'm not sure how it would work out if dried chives were used in place of chili powder or fennel for parsley or ginger for Italian seasoning.

I brought down a nice spice rack that we received as a wedding gift and it sits on my counter top next to the stove. And granted, it was needing a good wipe-down. But taking all the tops off the jars to clean them and then put them back on haphazardly . . . well, maybe not the best idea in the world. And you would think that with 20 jars of spices, odds are that at least one got put back correctly and I almost did think that too - but it turns out the jar labeled cinnamon was actually cumin. (So glad I sniffed it before making apple muffins this morning!!!)

So today's put-back in order project involves lots of spice smelling. I never realized how similar oregano, parsley, basil, marjoram look. As do paprika, chili powder, cinnamon, and cumin. And I really need to get that fixed before Z Baby arrives and Eric takes over cooking duties for a few days - YIKES!

Got Easter Chocolate, But No Baby

Well, the Easter Bunny did manage to find me and was sweet enough to leave bonbons hidden all over the living room for me yesterday morning.

Unfortunately though, the Easter Stork was nowhere to be found.

Eric had Good Friday off, and I think this was the first time we've ever stayed in town for a holiday weekend instead of traveling somewhere. The city was completely dead - but we enjoyed the nice quiet weekend.

We spent much of our time cooking together (homemade noodles, spicy chicken enchiladas, a chocolate cake to die for), going for walks, watching movies, and long conversations with our daughter about how we would really appreciate her coming out and playing with us now.

We're so blessed that this pregnancy has been completely complication-free and healthy, and I've really felt great (or as great as you can lugging around 30 extra pounds that appeared basically overnight) pretty much the entire time. I think it's just the waiting that is really starting to get to us now! And the impatience feels much more justified now that I am officially past my "due date". I personally think it would be fair to serve my child with an eviction notice now . . . you are hereby ordered to vacate the premises within 72 hours or something along those lines . . . I mean, I think I've been more than generous allowing her to live rent free in my uterus this long!

Baby, Doctor, and . . . Guns?

Ela é grande . . . não enorme . . . mas grande!
(She's big . . . not enormous . . . but big!)

Those were the words of my doctor yesterday as he felt Z Baby through my belly. He's guessing her to be around 3500 grams (~7 lbs 11 oz) now. And being that babies put on roughly half a pound per week at this point, I'd be quite content with her coming now and not in, oh, say two or three weeks!

The appointment went well again although I was pretty certain my blood pressure was going to be elevated after my experience in the waiting room . . .

I arrived at my scheduled appointment time, but we've never been seen on time, so Eric was just meeting me there about 30 minutes later. I walked into the small waiting room outside of the doctor's office and was greeted by 4 armed guards - 2 men and 2 women - along with a very large scary-looking woman in a red jumpsuit (presumably from a retention center of some sort). There weren't any more seats available, and one of the guards quickly jumped up and offered his to me.

So I ended up squeezing in on the couch between two of the armed guards. They were all quietly reading magazines with the exception of the very large, very pregnant, very not friendly looking woman in the jumpsuit and flip flops; she was just staring at the wall.

I'm not sure if I've ever been in a more uncomfortable setting, but that would soon change.

After several minutes a couple of the guards got up and walked out of the waiting room. And then the other two did the same. And then I started wondering: hmmmm, if they feel the need to send along four people with guns with this woman to a doctor's appointment, um, how safe is it to leave me alone in the room with her? Granted, all the guns were just outside in the hallway, but still . . .

That's when I decided to pick up a magazine. I spent the next twenty minutes or so reading with one eye and watching my waiting room companion with the other.

Eric called to tell me he was almost there. I told him not to be alarmed if there were several police officers with guns at the door when he got to the waiting room. After a moment of silence he asked, "Um . . . why? What have you done?"

About that time, the doctor came out and called the jumpsuit lady back and the two female officers came back in and went into the office with her. (See? They wouldn't even leave the doctor alone with her!)

I'm not sure why she was being seen at a private doctor's office rather than with the public health care system . . . or why they don't have physicians at the detention facility rather than sending out the inmate with four armed guards. But, hey, whatever . . . our tax dollars at work, I suppose.

So back to the appointment. I am the tiniest bit dilated, but Z Baby is still hanging out pretty high. My doula is coming over today to give me an aromatherapy massage and work some acupressure points that are supposed to help start labor . . . we shall see! We're trying everything these days as I'm hitting that less-than-comfortable part of pregnancy that leaves me a little fussy. ;)

We have an ultrasound scheduled for Monday if she doesn't make her grand entrance before then.

The Problem with Growing Up Tossing Hay Bales

Being a country girl from South Georgia living in the big city in a country with a very macho society is not without it's challenges. And being prego only seems to amplify my problem.

I grew up on a 'hobby' farm with three brothers. And instead of being 'the spoiled princess' many might expect, I really sort of ended up being seen by my family as just another one of the boys. I wasn't spared unloading 100-pound feed sacks from the back of my pick-up truck just because I had boobs. And likewise, my brothers did just as much cooking and cleaning as I did too. My parents did an exceptional job of keeping all four of us well-rounded, regardless of our gender, and not instilling a girls-do-this or that's-a-boy's-job mentality.

(And the "but I'm a girl" argument was never a valid one - especially not with my father. I remember when I was 16 and ready to head out the door to some no-doubt very important social engagement one evening, my Dad stopped me and asked if I could change the tire on my truck. In all my teenage sassiness, I informed him that, um, I had a cell phone - if a tire needed changing there were plenty of guys I could call to do that for me. I also remember that I wasn't allowed to leave the house that night until I had taken down the spare tire, jacked up the truck, taken off a perfectly good tire, put on the spare, and then reversed the whole thing back to it's original state. At the time, in the midst of my 16-year-old angst, I thought it was the stupidest waste of my time ever . . . but goodness help the man today who assumes I can't change my own tire! Oh, and when my daughter starts driving? Yeah, you bet I'm going to make sure she can operate a lug nut wrench!)

And you better believe that God knew what He was doing when He led Eric and I to one another. My dear hubby has three sisters and grew up on a family farm. He is one of the politest, most chivalrous men I know, but he certainly doesn't view women as weaklings. Rather, he considers us great farm hands! And while he really gets aggravated when he comes home and discovers his pregnant wife has moved the couch, carried a night stand from one room to another, and been climbing a ladder by herself instead of waiting for him to get home and help, he takes no issue with me carrying the lighter of the bags/boxes/suitcases when his hands are already full or tackling other routine tasks - even while pregnant. (I've had women here comment that if my husband were Brasilian he would never let me do this or do that . . . I'm pretty quick to inform them that there's a good reason I married who I did!)

I appreciate it when a man opens a door for me, and I think it is quite appropriate to help me carry something heavy. I am not one to get offended at offers of assistance or displays of good manners. But I despise being told I can't do something because I am female (or more recently, because I am pregnant). And admittedly, I ran into it a good bit in the US too. While working at a small landscape plant nursery in Georgia, I can't tell you how many times people would question if there was a man around who could load their plants for them and then respond in disbelief to learn I was the only one working and would be loading the 15 gallon/10' tall tree into the back of their pick-up all by myself.

But Brasil has taken it to a whole new level for me. Especially now that I am quite visibly pregnant. I had to work hard yesterday to keep a sense of humor about it all and not just get really frustrated!

The porteiro (doorman) at our apartment called me to say a box had been delivered for me. Excited at the prospect of "good mail", I hurried down to retrieve it. First off, I was scolded by him for taking the five flights of stairs instead of the elevator. Then, he showed me the box. As I went to take it from him, he pulled it back and informed me that it was to heavy for me to carry. He suggested I wait for Eric to come home and get it. It was early in the afternoon, I was excited to see what kind of goodies the box contained, and there was no way I was waiting several more hours! I tried to convince him that it really wasn't a problem, and I appreciated his concern, but I would be fine taking the box up myself. He adamantly refused to hand it over to me though.

I considered just quickly snatching the box and running to the elevator with it, but something about the vision of a 39 1/2-week pregnant chick trying to do anything resembling running was too much for me to handle. I've seen penguins run - it ain't pretty. Add that to my recently developed lack of balance and increased clumsiness and it's a darn good bet that I wouldn't make it to the elevator with tripping, headbutting the wall, and ending up in an unconscious heap in the middle of the floor. And furthermore, once word got out, it would probably only strengthen the building's case about the crazy Americans living on the 5th floor. I can hear the old women gossiping now . . .

But anyway, eventually, after much back and forth, we agreed on a plan. He took an empty trashcan and placed it upside down in the elevator and balanced the box on top of it. (This way I wouldn't be tempted to bend over and lift the box for further inspection.) Then, once I arrived on the 5th floor, I was instructed to ask my housekeeper, who was working yesterday, to come and carry the box inside for me.

Of course, the second I was out of the porteiro's sight, I giddily picked up the box to see who it was from and the housekeeper was never summoned to carry it in for me. And as with all international packages, the weight was noted right there on the customs slip: 6 lbs 5 oz.

Seriously. I spent 10 minutes arguing with the concerned doorman about my ability to manage a package which weighed less than a gallon of milk. I'm pregnant, not crippled, people!!!

(And for those whose curiosity I've peaked: the box was from my good friend Amanda who sent along all kinds of baby clothes, blankets, the most adorable pair of socks ever, a book (Chicken Soup for the New Mom's Soul), and more for Z Baby. It was a fun package to receive while I wait around for the little one to make her grand entrance!)

Z Crib of Z Baby

(And yes, I intend that to be "crib" as in the place-where-baby-sleeps along with "crib" as in MTV rapper speak for location-where-one-lives. I suppose we could simplify matters and just title this The Nursery or The Baby Room, but, seriously, what fun is that?)

To see where we were with the nursery in December, click here.

First, to acquaint you with the layout of the room:

Perspective from the doorway, looking left

From inside the room


Standing in front of the window looking back towards the doorway

And a few details:

A simple hot pink and white MDF bookshelf we built after we were unable to find anything we liked (within our price range).


This is the large painting over the crib that I am completely in love with! We met an artist at the Afonso Pena Feira that does a lot of children's themed work. He did the cutest animals and kids, but he didn't have anything with sheep. After talking to him a bit and exchanging a bunch of email, we commissioned this piece and we were so happy with the result!!! So much fun! (Think our subsequent children will be jealous that they never had a piece of art commissioned for them?!? hehe)



We bought these three smaller paintings from the same artist before asking him to do the custom one with the sheep.

I fell in love with this guy (made of wood, re-bar, and washers) at a local artisan shop. He was deeply discounted due to a crack in the wood, but I think it just adds more character. :)

And the elephant piggy bank was a gift from my middle brother, Justin. He bought it from a local potter up in the North Georgia mountains where he lives. We've had it since Christmas, and I still giggle every time I look at it!

And maybe the most important components of the little princess' room . . .

her closet

and shoe drawer.

Could you not just die from the cuteness of baby footwear? I mean, seriously, I've been able to refrain from buying too many pairs (most of these were gifts) . . . but once she is here and wearing them, Lord help us! Eric thought I had a problem with shoes, but I think he is realizing that we're about to take things to a whole new level around here! His only consolation? At least baby shoes don't take up as much space. :)

The Good Doctor

It was brought to my attention that I haven't updated on the obstetrician situation, and since we just had our second appointment with the new doctor yesterday, I thought this would be a good time to report.

He's fabulous!

My doula gave me a list of a few doctors that are involved in the natural birth movement here. We chose one that was covered by our insurance plan and have been so pleased with him!

He spent about an hour with us at our first appointment talking about our birth plan and explaining all the issues (from his perspective) with the attitude towards birth in Brasil. He quoted researchers from all over the world, told us how Brasil attracts a lot of international attention from the OB research community (and not in a good way), and praised us for creating a birth plan that was, in his opinion, exactly where you should start with your expectations. He also mentioned some of the work that he is currently involved in to gain more options for women in hospitals and among the medical community. He left us feeling really confident that we have a doctor who is 100% on-board with our wishes and desires.

There is one private hospital in town that the natural birth community describes as menos pior (less worse) and is the hospital that our new doctor most likes to work with when a patient desires fewer medical interventions. We toured it and feel comfortable with their policies and facilities (and they are a lot closer than the public birth center that we liked, so we can labor at home longer.)

Yesterday's appointment went great. Z Baby is dropping a bit, has remained head down, and I've got some effacement, but no dilation. And the waiting game continues . . .

Meanwhile, Eric has taken to asking me each day before he goes to work if I'm going to have the baby today - he says he needs to be able to plan his day. He also likes to ask me before he goes to sleep each night - as he says he wants to know if he can expect a full night's rest or not. I need to come up with a good answer to his questioning as to avoid the "but you said . . . " I'm thinking of going with a. "you'll have to ask your daughter" or (the typical Brasilian response to everything) b. "se Deus quiser" (if God wants). ;)