La Petite Princesse

IUGR.  It stands for Intrauterine Growth Restriction and B the G just got labeled with it.  Her estimated fetal weight is below the tenth percentile and apparently this could be a cause for concern, possible premature labor or simply that she is a small baby.   What this means for us is bi-weekly trips to the neo-natologist to monitor her growth rate and my blood pressure to make sure both of us are thriving.  I could go more into what that potentially could portend, but I'm not going to.  She is small for her age and for now we need her to gain weight and grow.

I have started to dread my ultrasounds because rather than being a sweet little view into her world inside of me, they have become nerve-wracking, nail-biting waiting periods where I lay tense and anxious, hoping I don't get another bizarre diagnosis of some potential problem.  The doc told me that she had sent home every other patient she had brought in that day to monitor for IUGR and was hoping to go for a shutout.  But I blew the curve of course and now I get to become very good friends with the peri-natal receptionist.

For now, suffice to say we may bring her into the world early depending on how she measures up in the next couple of weeks.  In the meantime, I am supposed to relax (Ha!), try to eat more protein and monitor her movements to make sure she is still on spin cycle in there.  Each one of these things is going to pose difficulties for me and I am trying to work on them.

Protein:  Because Justin is a vegetarian I don't eat or cook meat as much as your average American wifey.  So I've tried to bulk it up recently with more burgers and steaks wherever I can get them.  The smell of meat cooking makes me queasy so I am working around this as well.  I bought some protein shakes at the health food store yesterday.  Blended one  up as soon as I got home and it tasted like frothy, strawberry flavored Elmer's Glue.  I choked it down and will continue to do so. Maybe the vanilla is better.  In the meantime, Justin is chasing after me with steaks and ground beef, which is hilarious considering how he referred to my burgers in the past as "dead flesh".  Now he's hawking it harder than a shill at Coney Island.  "Have you had some meat?  What did you eat today?  Would you like to go out for a steak?  Step right up, step right up.  I'll get the car."

Fetal Movement:  Here's where I begin to go more crazy than I already am with this pregnancy.  The doc says monitor her movements.  I say, how much should she be moving?  The doc says you know that answer best, whatever is normal for her.  So now, if I don't feel her moving pretty much every ten minutes or so I panic.  I poke at my belly.  I talk to her and sing to her and put on Blossom Dearie or Pink Floyd, both of which seem to stimulate her.  I have had earnest discussions with her about this and they are reminiscent of Richard Pryor in the movie The Toy.  The scene where he is in the toy store and is standing in the big, yellow Wonder Wheel as it's struggling to stay inflated - "Don't let me down now, we're a team, Wonder Wheel!  Hold yourself together.  I can't do it without you.  Come on Wonder Wheel",  as the thing is deflating all around him.  I don't even feel ridiculous doing this, because it inevitably produces a twitch or a kick and I can breath for another ten minutes.  I think she thinks I am deranged.  I think am on my way.

Relax:  Absurd considering the above.  I can distract myself with a book or TV and lay on my left side and eat my meat burger and strawberry glue shake, but it's always there in the back of my mind.  "Is she moving, breathing, eating, growing???"  

I get it now that this pregnancy is working at me, prying at my worst faults and forcing me to look at life, mine and everyone else's as a gift.  Despite the obstacles it has thrown in my path, I still feel lucky to be me, to quote some Blossom.  I marvel at women in third world countries who go through this process repeatedly with no counseling or advice or ultrasounds or monitoring.  They just get pregnant and have their babies.  I marvel at women who do this three, five, seven times, each pregnancy seemingly effortless and practically a ritual.  I marvel at women who have a child with an illness or birth defect, a genetic abnormality or worst of all a stillbirth or death.  Where do they get the strength?  Is there a maternal switch that flicks on that allows them to cope and function?

Maybe it is the same switch, albeit on a lower voltage, that is forcing me to choke down this protein shake and get over my gag reflex with cooking meat and sing and sing to B the G until I get a kick.  More ultrasounds on Friday so I am aiming for the fifteenth percentile with all of this.  We're aiming high.  We're a team, Wonder Wheel.  Grow little bean, grow!