And now, allow Dietrich to demonstrate:
Tuesday, September 07, 2010
Taking it literally
Like Americans, Ukrainians have several idioms that they use to describe how they slept. We, for instance, say, "I slept like a log." They, for instance, say, "I slept without back legs."
And now, allow Dietrich to demonstrate:
And now, allow Dietrich to demonstrate:
Thursday, August 05, 2010
Lev's birth story (part 4)
The delivery room was yellow. And tiled. And, in an example of extremely poor design, the loo was through an office and down a hallway. And those are about the only impressions I have of it. The hour I spent there was just a little too intense for good memory making.
In Ukraine, you often carry your medical records with you, so one of the first things we did was hand over a folder containing all my analyses, bloodwork, ultrasounds and results of prenatal visits. For some reason, the doctor chose not to read it. Instead, he kept asking me questions:
"How big did your last ultrasound say the baby would be?"
Pause for contraction.
"About 3 1/2 kilos? I don't know. It's written in the folder."
----
"How much weight did you gain?"
Pause for contraction.
"About 13 kilos? I don't know. It's written in the folder."
----
"Did your eye exam show that you can have a natural birth?"
"Yes."
"What was your vision?"
Pause for contraction.
"I don't know. It's written in the folder."
You get the idea. Evidently, he finally did, too, and started reading. I know he started reading, because pretty soon all the medical personnel started laughing. "You're allergic to buckwheat? How odd! Probably it's only toasted buckwheat that you're allergic to." And so on.
I'm pretty used to this reaction to my strange, strange allergy ... but I really couldn't understand why this was applicable to my current situation. Surely they weren't planning on feeding me?
While all this was going on, we also met our midwife. Turns out, she was the one who would actually deliver the baby. The doctor was just there to ask irritating questions, I guess? No, just kidding ... he did play a bigger role than that.
I love our midwife. I don't know her name. I would not recognize her face. But I love her. She:
a) Didn't make me use the fetal monitor. This meant I was free to roam, and didn't have to deal with an uncomfortably tight belt around my uncomfortably contracting belly.
b) When I said I didn't want pain medication, she bathed me in encouraging words and called me a little rabbit. (That's a tender nickname in Russian.)
c) Responded to my individual reaction to contractions. So, for instance, when she saw me jolt into a sitting position on the hospital bed, she said, "No, don't sit like that, this will be better." And then she rolled out the birthing ball. I'd tried a birthing ball with Dietrich, but it felt very unstable. This midwife showed me how to position my legs, plus she rolled the ball right up to the end of the bed, so I could lean on the edge. It felt stable -- and wonderful.
d) Left decisions up to us. My water hadn't broken. She and the doctor said they could break it, but I clearly was hesitant. So, they told me to think about it and let them know when I was ready. The midwife came back one more time to clarify the possible outcomes (longer but gentler labor if water stayed intact, shorter but more intense if it was broken), and then she did another wonderful thing for us --
e) She left us alone. For a good stretch of time, it was just Eric and I, working together, in that delivery room. When I finally decided I was ready to be done and that I wanted my water broken, he had to leave the room and go down the hall to find someone.
Here's where the doctor actually did something: He broke my water. But first he checked me and declared, "Your cervix is gone!"
"Oh great," I said. "That means I'm at 10 centimeters?"
"Young lady," he responded. "Ten centimeters, eight centimeters, 15 centimeters -- who cares? Your cervix is gone!"
He broke the water, checked me again, then said: "OK, I'll say nine centimeters. Tell me when you want to push."
The next contraction found me yelling, "I want to! I want to!"
At this point, the quiet ended. Lots of people rushed in. They were touching me and positioning me and basically throwing me off my game. I lost it for a minute, but the midwife yelled (louder than I was yelling) to get my attention, and quickly guided me through the pushing. I never felt like I got to the point of focused pushing, and Eric said the baby's shoulders seemed stuck and that the midwife had to pull pretty hard on him.
Still, just a few minutes later, Lev (middle-name-still-to-be-determined) Oldenburg was out and on my chest.
I couldn't see his sweet face, just his fingers and arms and legs. He was purple, but no one forced him to cry to pink him up. They just let us hang out together.
And then I really lost it. I started laughing. Cackling, actually. Loudly. My joy overcame my self control and all I could do was let it pour out of me. Lev was here. He was alive. Healthy. And, as an added blessing, I'd had the natural birth that I'd longed for. And I did it all in Russian. Crazy. Happy. Thankful.
In an unexpected twist, after about 30 blissful minutes with our little one, I was informed that I'd be knocked me out while they fixed me up.
While I was out, Eric had a moment of clarity while holding Lev. We had gone back and forth on a middle name for weeks. Since Lev isn't a common American name, we wondered if we ought to give him a plain-Jane middle name so that he'd have a backup option. While I understood that reasoning, I was holding out for Eleos, which means "mercy" in Greek.
When I woke up, shaking uncontrollably and wearing different clothes, Eric brought Lev to me and explained that, during their quiet first moments together, he had realized that Eleos was perfectly appropriate.
The medical staff slipped away, and we were left alone with Lev Eleos Oldenburg, who started nursing and hasn't stopped since.
And, today, nearly 10 weeks after his arrival, I feel the same way I did in the seconds after I first spotted his tiny fingers.
Crazy. Happy. Thankful.
In Ukraine, you often carry your medical records with you, so one of the first things we did was hand over a folder containing all my analyses, bloodwork, ultrasounds and results of prenatal visits. For some reason, the doctor chose not to read it. Instead, he kept asking me questions:
"How big did your last ultrasound say the baby would be?"
Pause for contraction.
"About 3 1/2 kilos? I don't know. It's written in the folder."
----
"How much weight did you gain?"
Pause for contraction.
"About 13 kilos? I don't know. It's written in the folder."
----
"Did your eye exam show that you can have a natural birth?"
"Yes."
"What was your vision?"
Pause for contraction.
"I don't know. It's written in the folder."
You get the idea. Evidently, he finally did, too, and started reading. I know he started reading, because pretty soon all the medical personnel started laughing. "You're allergic to buckwheat? How odd! Probably it's only toasted buckwheat that you're allergic to." And so on.
I'm pretty used to this reaction to my strange, strange allergy ... but I really couldn't understand why this was applicable to my current situation. Surely they weren't planning on feeding me?
While all this was going on, we also met our midwife. Turns out, she was the one who would actually deliver the baby. The doctor was just there to ask irritating questions, I guess? No, just kidding ... he did play a bigger role than that.
I love our midwife. I don't know her name. I would not recognize her face. But I love her. She:
a) Didn't make me use the fetal monitor. This meant I was free to roam, and didn't have to deal with an uncomfortably tight belt around my uncomfortably contracting belly.
b) When I said I didn't want pain medication, she bathed me in encouraging words and called me a little rabbit. (That's a tender nickname in Russian.)
c) Responded to my individual reaction to contractions. So, for instance, when she saw me jolt into a sitting position on the hospital bed, she said, "No, don't sit like that, this will be better." And then she rolled out the birthing ball. I'd tried a birthing ball with Dietrich, but it felt very unstable. This midwife showed me how to position my legs, plus she rolled the ball right up to the end of the bed, so I could lean on the edge. It felt stable -- and wonderful.
d) Left decisions up to us. My water hadn't broken. She and the doctor said they could break it, but I clearly was hesitant. So, they told me to think about it and let them know when I was ready. The midwife came back one more time to clarify the possible outcomes (longer but gentler labor if water stayed intact, shorter but more intense if it was broken), and then she did another wonderful thing for us --
e) She left us alone. For a good stretch of time, it was just Eric and I, working together, in that delivery room. When I finally decided I was ready to be done and that I wanted my water broken, he had to leave the room and go down the hall to find someone.
Here's where the doctor actually did something: He broke my water. But first he checked me and declared, "Your cervix is gone!"
"Oh great," I said. "That means I'm at 10 centimeters?"
"Young lady," he responded. "Ten centimeters, eight centimeters, 15 centimeters -- who cares? Your cervix is gone!"
He broke the water, checked me again, then said: "OK, I'll say nine centimeters. Tell me when you want to push."
The next contraction found me yelling, "I want to! I want to!"
At this point, the quiet ended. Lots of people rushed in. They were touching me and positioning me and basically throwing me off my game. I lost it for a minute, but the midwife yelled (louder than I was yelling) to get my attention, and quickly guided me through the pushing. I never felt like I got to the point of focused pushing, and Eric said the baby's shoulders seemed stuck and that the midwife had to pull pretty hard on him.
Still, just a few minutes later, Lev (middle-name-still-to-be-determined) Oldenburg was out and on my chest.
I couldn't see his sweet face, just his fingers and arms and legs. He was purple, but no one forced him to cry to pink him up. They just let us hang out together.
And then I really lost it. I started laughing. Cackling, actually. Loudly. My joy overcame my self control and all I could do was let it pour out of me. Lev was here. He was alive. Healthy. And, as an added blessing, I'd had the natural birth that I'd longed for. And I did it all in Russian. Crazy. Happy. Thankful.
In an unexpected twist, after about 30 blissful minutes with our little one, I was informed that I'd be knocked me out while they fixed me up.
While I was out, Eric had a moment of clarity while holding Lev. We had gone back and forth on a middle name for weeks. Since Lev isn't a common American name, we wondered if we ought to give him a plain-Jane middle name so that he'd have a backup option. While I understood that reasoning, I was holding out for Eleos, which means "mercy" in Greek.
When I woke up, shaking uncontrollably and wearing different clothes, Eric brought Lev to me and explained that, during their quiet first moments together, he had realized that Eleos was perfectly appropriate.
The medical staff slipped away, and we were left alone with Lev Eleos Oldenburg, who started nursing and hasn't stopped since.
And, today, nearly 10 weeks after his arrival, I feel the same way I did in the seconds after I first spotted his tiny fingers.
Crazy. Happy. Thankful.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Growth ...
Five weeks
Six weeks
At eight weeks, Lev is quite possibly the happiest person I know. He's full of smiles, especially when you sit down in front of him with a rattle or some bells and shake, shake, shake. He's a bit of a flirt, raising his eyebrows in an attempt to lure all the girls in the house (i.e., mom) to his side. We took him to his first big group gathering last night, and he was content to be passed from person to person, with occasional stops at mom for snacks.
Lev loves his brother! And brother loves his Lev! Lev's at his most content when he gets to float in the bathtub while brother splashes, kicking up waves. And to wake Dietrich, we plop Lev down next to him. Lev's attempts to gobble up brother always rouse sleeping Dietrich. Also popular with Dietrich: instigating "brother hugs" and doing "quiet activities" with mom while Lev eats.
Friday, July 02, 2010
Lev's birth story (part 3)
Armed with suitcase and medical records, we went to our friends' house and watched the rather disappointing series finale of "Lost." I was having contractions throughout, but the interval between them was getting longer (30 minutes once!), not shorter. So, back home we, our suitcase and our medical records returned.
At this point, after about 15 hours of contractions, I was losing focus. I was starting to forget everything about childbirth that I'd read, and was beginning to feel like I really should be in a hospital. I started thinking silly thoughts, like "What if the contractions are hurting the baby?" (As though babies aren't made to endure labor.)
So once we got home, I decided to call a midwife friend. She didn't answer, so I called my mom. While I was on the phone with her, Eric perused "The Birth Partner," and once I hung up, he was able to assure me that what I was experiencing was totally normal. Between calls, I paced the kitchen. Eric suggested moving into the living room, but for some reason, I only wanted to be in my comfy kitchen.
I made one more call, to a close friend, who told me that labor with her second started, stopped for a night, and then started again. She recommended trying to get some sleep, in case I had another full day of labor ahead of me.
That seemed wise, so I told Eric I was going to take a shower, and then I'd try to rest. I didn't even get the water turned on before my contractions jumped to every five minutes. It was hydrotherapy without the hydro! We timed just a few, and then felt like we really needed to call the birthing center. By the time we talked to a doctor, it was five of midnight. I know because he asked me my due date, and I said, "Tomorrow," looked at the clock, then clarified: "I mean, in five minutes."
We could have hitched our own ride to the birthing center in a taxi, but the cost of an ambulance was included in the cost of the birth, so we opted for the ambulance. Plus, we figured an ambulance was unlikely to dump us on the side of the road if birth appeared imminent.
About 30 minutes later, the ambulance arrived. (Quick cultural aside: Ambulances here are called "Quick help," and the joke is that they are neither quick nor helpful.) Dietrich was asleep, so we asked them not to come up to our apartment to get me. We rode the lift down. (Whether to trust our lift in a medical situation is a conundrum I frequently contemplate. Thankfully, it didn't get stuck. This time.) Immediately upon entering the cool night air, I was hit with a contraction that forced me to drop down and hang on to the stair rail while Eric went ahead and loaded our stuff into the ambulance.
I think that rather-public contraction scared the EMT, because as soon as we got into the ambulance, we had the following conversation:
"How long between your contractions?"
"Five minutes."
"WHY DID YOU WAIT SO LONG TO CALL?"
"The hospital said to call when they were five minutes apart."
"Oh. OK."
"Why? Do you think we waited too long?"
"YES!"
"Well, do you know how to help me if I need to have the baby here?"
"Yes."
"OK, then. Let's go."
And away we went. It was just after midnight, and the streets were fairly deserted, so we made it to the birthing center in about 30 minutes. Evidently the ambulance turned on its lights to tell a car to pull over at one point, but I was totally unaware of this. My handy timer and I were totally occupied with contractions, which (I imagine to the EMT's utter dismay) were coming every 2-3 minutes. I couldn't even talk as they started; I would just hold up my fingers to indicate how much time had passed. It was intense.
In all my prenatal visits (which were many), I never once saw a woman in labor come into the birthing center. I figured there must be a back door. But they brought me right into the shiny, white, cavernous lobby. And there we waited: me, Eric, the EMT, another ambulance person and the night watchman. They were silent. I was making bovine-like sounds every two minutes. And they echoed. I was quite happy when the nurse finally arrived to take me to a less-echoey room.
My first stop was an examination room, where the doctor declared me to be at five centimeters. "Five - that's pretty good," I said. "I mean, I was hoping for eight, but five's OK."
And to the delivery room we went, stashing our suitcase in a locker along the way.
At this point, after about 15 hours of contractions, I was losing focus. I was starting to forget everything about childbirth that I'd read, and was beginning to feel like I really should be in a hospital. I started thinking silly thoughts, like "What if the contractions are hurting the baby?" (As though babies aren't made to endure labor.)
So once we got home, I decided to call a midwife friend. She didn't answer, so I called my mom. While I was on the phone with her, Eric perused "The Birth Partner," and once I hung up, he was able to assure me that what I was experiencing was totally normal. Between calls, I paced the kitchen. Eric suggested moving into the living room, but for some reason, I only wanted to be in my comfy kitchen.
I made one more call, to a close friend, who told me that labor with her second started, stopped for a night, and then started again. She recommended trying to get some sleep, in case I had another full day of labor ahead of me.
That seemed wise, so I told Eric I was going to take a shower, and then I'd try to rest. I didn't even get the water turned on before my contractions jumped to every five minutes. It was hydrotherapy without the hydro! We timed just a few, and then felt like we really needed to call the birthing center. By the time we talked to a doctor, it was five of midnight. I know because he asked me my due date, and I said, "Tomorrow," looked at the clock, then clarified: "I mean, in five minutes."
We could have hitched our own ride to the birthing center in a taxi, but the cost of an ambulance was included in the cost of the birth, so we opted for the ambulance. Plus, we figured an ambulance was unlikely to dump us on the side of the road if birth appeared imminent.
About 30 minutes later, the ambulance arrived. (Quick cultural aside: Ambulances here are called "Quick help," and the joke is that they are neither quick nor helpful.) Dietrich was asleep, so we asked them not to come up to our apartment to get me. We rode the lift down. (Whether to trust our lift in a medical situation is a conundrum I frequently contemplate. Thankfully, it didn't get stuck. This time.) Immediately upon entering the cool night air, I was hit with a contraction that forced me to drop down and hang on to the stair rail while Eric went ahead and loaded our stuff into the ambulance.
I think that rather-public contraction scared the EMT, because as soon as we got into the ambulance, we had the following conversation:
"How long between your contractions?"
"Five minutes."
"WHY DID YOU WAIT SO LONG TO CALL?"
"The hospital said to call when they were five minutes apart."
"Oh. OK."
"Why? Do you think we waited too long?"
"YES!"
"Well, do you know how to help me if I need to have the baby here?"
"Yes."
"OK, then. Let's go."
And away we went. It was just after midnight, and the streets were fairly deserted, so we made it to the birthing center in about 30 minutes. Evidently the ambulance turned on its lights to tell a car to pull over at one point, but I was totally unaware of this. My handy timer and I were totally occupied with contractions, which (I imagine to the EMT's utter dismay) were coming every 2-3 minutes. I couldn't even talk as they started; I would just hold up my fingers to indicate how much time had passed. It was intense.
In all my prenatal visits (which were many), I never once saw a woman in labor come into the birthing center. I figured there must be a back door. But they brought me right into the shiny, white, cavernous lobby. And there we waited: me, Eric, the EMT, another ambulance person and the night watchman. They were silent. I was making bovine-like sounds every two minutes. And they echoed. I was quite happy when the nurse finally arrived to take me to a less-echoey room.
My first stop was an examination room, where the doctor declared me to be at five centimeters. "Five - that's pretty good," I said. "I mean, I was hoping for eight, but five's OK."
And to the delivery room we went, stashing our suitcase in a locker along the way.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
A tribute
Dietrich and Grandma Norma last August.
My Grandma Norma was ill for a long, long time, suffering first from depression and then from the struggles of an aging body. She hadn't walked in years (though on good days she would talk about re-learning this valuable skill). She passed the years in a comfy chair in her glass-walled living room, a fire blazing (even on the hottest of days), birds gobbling up the seed in the feeders on prominent display outside. She frequently had visitors; she was beloved.
I never doubted Grandma's love for me,and never felt like I had to earn it. She was excellent about staying in touch, even when I wasn't. She used to write lovely letters in beautiful script. The letters slowed with the years, and frequently contained apologies for her harder-and-harder-to-read scrawl. Eventually, poor eyesight and hand control put an end to the letters. But she frequently mentioned that she prayed for me every day. And I'm sure that she did, right up until the end.
A few years ago, she told me that she didn't feel alone during the quiet daytime hours because she knew that Jesus was with her. She said it with tenderness, but in a matter-of-fact way -- as though she were talking about a visible person. Jesus was convincingly real to her. I hope for such faith to permeate my life.
In their marriage, Grandma and Grandpa exemplified devotion, humor, partnership, continual growth. Grandpa is feisty; Grandma was his perfect foil. In her illness, Grandpa took care of Grandma; she let him. They delighted in their life together, and their stories and advice evolved as my life evolved. When Eric and I first married, it was stories of how they built a beautiful relationship. When Dietrich came along, we were treated to tales of how they raised their three boys.
A few years ago, as we all do, they hit a rocky patch. Grandpa told me about it after the fact, giving Grandma an affectionate squeeze and remarking that he loved her even more now. This when either (or both) of them could have just decided that, after more than 60 years together, they were done working on this relationship. Oh, that I should be so blessed.
Grandma died last Friday while she was out to dinner with my Grandpa. They were celebrating their 67th anniversary. She will be buried today; her eldest son will officiate. They'll sing "Count Your Blessings" -- Grandma certainly did. And being descended from her certainly is one of mine.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Four weeks old
At four weeks, Lev has finally woken up. His big blue eyes are constantly watching, watching. He finds the kitchen wall and the bedroom light particularly fascinating. And he's started flashing a smile every once in a while. Oh, we love him so.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Lev's birth story (part 2)
Upon arriving home from our ice-cream outing, with contractions still 30 minutes apart, I jumped on Skype to let Eric know the goings-on, and then planned to take a nap. Our pre-nap messages:
[5/27/10 3:06:59 PM] eric and josie oldenburg: every 30 minutes since about 12:30
[5/27/10 3:11:46 PM] ericoldenburg: wow! that's pretty consistent. do you want me to come home or can I keep plugging away at things.
[5/27/10 3:12:02 PM] eric and josie oldenburg: oh, keep plugging away. every 30 minutes is nothin'
[5/27/10 3:12:25 PM] ericoldenburg: yeah, but if the consistency is there then it could speed up quick.
[5/27/10 3:12:56 PM] eric and josie oldenburg: yeah, but i was out and about the whole time. let's see what a nap does to them. :-)
[5/27/10 3:13:34 PM] eric and josie oldenburg: ps. they freakin' hurt. i mean, obviously manageable, but this is just the beginning.
[5/27/10 3:18:31 PM] ericoldenburg: gotta step out for a few ...
[5/27/10 3:18:35 PM] eric and josie oldenburg: bye
So down I go for a nap. As soon as my head hits the pillow, the contractions jump to 13 minutes apart, and I get a phone call. It's soon evident that I will not be taking a nap. So, back I go to the computer.
[5/27/10 4:12:47 PM] eric and josie oldenburg: last three have been 13 minutes apart.
[5/27/10 4:13:32 PM] ericoldenburg: 13 minutes is a lot closer together than 30. i should come home, yeah?
[5/27/10 4:13:45 PM] eric and josie oldenburg: no, no ...
[5/27/10 4:13:52 PM] eric and josie oldenburg: if they get to 10, then yes.
[5/27/10 4:13:56 PM] ericoldenburg: why not?!?!
[5/27/10 4:14:15 PM] ericoldenburg: by 10 then we should be on our way to the hospital.
[5/27/10 4:14:40 PM] eric and josie oldenburg: no, the hospital said not to call until 5 minutes apart.
[5/27/10 4:15:04 PM] ericoldenburg: hmmm.
[5/27/10 4:15:17 PM] ericoldenburg: ok, then.
[5/27/10 4:15:51 PM] ericoldenburg: i'll plan to finish up here and come home. if something happens, let me know and i'll come home.
[5/27/10 4:15:55 PM] eric and josie oldenburg: ok
[5/27/10 4:16:08 PM] ericoldenburg: i should cancel tonight though, right?
[5/27/10 4:18:16 PM] eric and josie oldenburg: not yet! wow, i'm a lot calmer than you right now. :-)
[5/27/10 4:29:00 PM] ericoldenburg: all i'm sayin' is that 13 is a lot closer to 10 than 30.
[5/27/10 4:29:08 PM] ericoldenburg: you can't argue with that.
He's right. I couldn't argue with that. But the last thing I wanted to do was cancel our plans and then find myself sitting at home bored and regretful. Plus, I'd really been looking forward to that night's outing. All season, we'd gone over to our friends' apartment once a week to watch the final season of "Lost," and all season we'd been comparing how many weeks of the show were left -- and how many weeks of pregnant Josie were left. So, to the long list of unanswered "Lost" questions, we'd added: "Will Josie get to finish the show?"
So, we didn't cancel. Instead, Eric's mom and I made dinner (soft tacos), then Eric, his dad and I popped out to the market, where I bought dental floss and we loaded minutes onto our cell phones.
Still a fairly normal day, except that I carried my trusty timer with me everywhere I went, even to the market. Using this handy kitchen tool to time the contractions myself was much easier than trying to communicate with Eric each time a contraction began and ended.
And when our "Lost" friends called to see if we were still on, we said yes. But we're bringing our suitcase and medical records with us.
[5/27/10 3:06:59 PM] eric and josie oldenburg: every 30 minutes since about 12:30
[5/27/10 3:11:46 PM] ericoldenburg: wow! that's pretty consistent. do you want me to come home or can I keep plugging away at things.
[5/27/10 3:12:02 PM] eric and josie oldenburg: oh, keep plugging away. every 30 minutes is nothin'
[5/27/10 3:12:25 PM] ericoldenburg: yeah, but if the consistency is there then it could speed up quick.
[5/27/10 3:12:56 PM] eric and josie oldenburg: yeah, but i was out and about the whole time. let's see what a nap does to them. :-)
[5/27/10 3:13:34 PM] eric and josie oldenburg: ps. they freakin' hurt. i mean, obviously manageable, but this is just the beginning.
[5/27/10 3:18:31 PM] ericoldenburg: gotta step out for a few ...
[5/27/10 3:18:35 PM] eric and josie oldenburg: bye
So down I go for a nap. As soon as my head hits the pillow, the contractions jump to 13 minutes apart, and I get a phone call. It's soon evident that I will not be taking a nap. So, back I go to the computer.
[5/27/10 4:12:47 PM] eric and josie oldenburg: last three have been 13 minutes apart.
[5/27/10 4:13:32 PM] ericoldenburg: 13 minutes is a lot closer together than 30. i should come home, yeah?
[5/27/10 4:13:45 PM] eric and josie oldenburg: no, no ...
[5/27/10 4:13:52 PM] eric and josie oldenburg: if they get to 10, then yes.
[5/27/10 4:13:56 PM] ericoldenburg: why not?!?!
[5/27/10 4:14:15 PM] ericoldenburg: by 10 then we should be on our way to the hospital.
[5/27/10 4:14:40 PM] eric and josie oldenburg: no, the hospital said not to call until 5 minutes apart.
[5/27/10 4:15:04 PM] ericoldenburg: hmmm.
[5/27/10 4:15:17 PM] ericoldenburg: ok, then.
[5/27/10 4:15:51 PM] ericoldenburg: i'll plan to finish up here and come home. if something happens, let me know and i'll come home.
[5/27/10 4:15:55 PM] eric and josie oldenburg: ok
[5/27/10 4:16:08 PM] ericoldenburg: i should cancel tonight though, right?
[5/27/10 4:18:16 PM] eric and josie oldenburg: not yet! wow, i'm a lot calmer than you right now. :-)
[5/27/10 4:29:00 PM] ericoldenburg: all i'm sayin' is that 13 is a lot closer to 10 than 30.
[5/27/10 4:29:08 PM] ericoldenburg: you can't argue with that.
He's right. I couldn't argue with that. But the last thing I wanted to do was cancel our plans and then find myself sitting at home bored and regretful. Plus, I'd really been looking forward to that night's outing. All season, we'd gone over to our friends' apartment once a week to watch the final season of "Lost," and all season we'd been comparing how many weeks of the show were left -- and how many weeks of pregnant Josie were left. So, to the long list of unanswered "Lost" questions, we'd added: "Will Josie get to finish the show?"
So, we didn't cancel. Instead, Eric's mom and I made dinner (soft tacos), then Eric, his dad and I popped out to the market, where I bought dental floss and we loaded minutes onto our cell phones.
Still a fairly normal day, except that I carried my trusty timer with me everywhere I went, even to the market. Using this handy kitchen tool to time the contractions myself was much easier than trying to communicate with Eric each time a contraction began and ended.
And when our "Lost" friends called to see if we were still on, we said yes. But we're bringing our suitcase and medical records with us.
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