Class of 2014

Two thousand fourteen is the year Baby P.C. will graduate from preschool and head on to kindergarten. Chris and I are already looking forward to photographing the little tyke with new lunchbox and an oversized bookbag on the first day of school, as our proud parents had done with us.

However, 2014 is also the estimated year Chris will finish his MBA from the University of St. Thomas in St. Paul. Yes, he was accepted! He's also just relieved to have the GMAT and the application process behind him and is looking forward to being a student again, even if continuing with a full-time job means the program will take longer to finish. But as he talks about different directions he could take his career with an MBA, it's heartening to witness him dream, and I couldn't be prouder of him.

21-week visit

We had another routine doctor's appointment today, (they occur monthly for the first two trimesters or so) which included an extensive ultrasound to assess the baby's size, heart beat and organ function. Out of all appointments up to this point, this one, which usually occurs around 20 weeks is considered the "big one," and definitely the most exciting. The good news is that all looks a-okay - all organs and limbs are there and functioning properly, including two adorable little feet the ultrasound technician purposefully zoomed in on. I surprised myself by how awed I was over that final image and immediately popped my head up to catch a glimpse of Chris's reaction. He seemed equally enthralled. The technician guesses Baby P.C. weighs about one pound, but it's too big now for her to try to measure from head to heel. Based on on an estimate we read online, we assume it's probably just under a foot. The technician didn't see anything that concerned her, so she didn't feel the need to call the doctor in and instead will just pass along the selected images for her to review later.

The only uncomfortable part of the ultrasound is that you're supposed to drink about a liter of water shortly before the appointment. The full bladder allows for a better view of the lower part of the uterus and verification of the location of the placenta. While I think the ultrasound experience is really neat, at the same time, I couldn't wait for the first opportunity to go to the bathroom.

We had a special treat at the end when we got to see 3-D images of our baby. The images were rather amazing, because there was enough clarity for Baby P.C. to look like a real baby. As the technician zoomed in and out on different areas of the body, it was often difficult to tell what I was even looking at, except that she would conveniently type in "heart" or "brain" alongside the image. But when the first 3-D image popped up on the screen, all I could think was, "Wow!" We were given a few printouts and I'll let family members be the judge of whom Baby P.C. resembles.

The appointment concluded with meeting with the clinic's only midwife, who listened to the baby's heart beat and, for the first time, measured my stomach with a tape measure. The ever-bulging gut measures at 21 centimeters.

I like everyone I've met at the clinic, but I really liked the midwife. She asked me if I'd ever considered working with a midwife and thought that because of my health, low-risk pregnancy and my curiosity and desire to learn, (and the latter for Chris, as well) I'd be a good candidate. Hurray for being encouraged to ask a lot of questions! Despite all I've read and the many Pregtastic podcasts I've listened to, which have featured midwives on some episodes, I admitted I still wasn't quite sure what role a midwife would play in my prenatal care and during delivery.

A midwife is licensed and is an advanced nurse practitioner who, like an obstetrician, handles the care of expecting mothers before, during and after childbirth. Midwives and obstetricians are both autonomous practitioners, but can also provide complimentary care. Although midwives are medically trained to handle complications and emergency situations, they maintain working relationships with obstetricians, who can be called in at any point if a more advanced or invasive level of care is needed. Unlike the obstetrician who just pops in when the baby is ready to be delivered, but who has left all the hours of labor preceding to the care of nurses, (My mom, who had spent weeks in the hospital after open heart surgery, resolutely declared that it was the nurses who ran that place.) the midwife remains with the mother (and that team of nurses) throughout labor.

The biggest difference I saw was related to philosophy. Stereotypically, (and she really stressed that these are stereotypes and that if one approach works well for one woman it doesn't mean it works the best for all women) obstetricians are trained to manage labor, while midwives are trained to support labor as a natural process. While our understanding of medicine and how we have learned to manipulated labor has changed drastically over the decades, the labor process in itself has remained unchanged since the beginning of time. I imagine that before modern medicine, delivery practices (well-intentioned, even if not always the best of practices) were passed down from generation to generation. I've read that midwifery (pronounced mid-wiff-ery) as a profession, so to say, dates back to the 1300s. It's the holistic approach steeped in a long tradition of caring for women that I really go for. I liked that midwives are more likely going to encourage as natural of a process as possible, will actively include the support person and are sensitive to the cultural or personal wishes of the expectant mother.

I may not have looked into a midwife, because I knew I was comfortable with, and preferred, a hospital setting and the use of pain medication. I was under the misconception that midwives practice mostly natural (i.e. unmedicated) home or birth center births, while in fact, the majority of them work out of a hospital, as this midwife does. Since the obstetricians and one midwife at my clinic are on an on-call rotation, who actually delivers your baby would depend upon who is on call. She just recently started working for the practice and her goal is to be able to hire additional midwives, so that patients could choose one of two circles of care - from an obstetrician, or a midwife.

I was also assured that pain medication or an epidural are not frowned upon and she stressed again that midwives support choice. After just a short visit, I was growing increasingly convinced that a midwife in a hospital setting might be the perfect combination between a conventional and a natural labor. While I consider alternative medicine or practices legitimate, I would prefer to use them in conjunction with conventional medicine. I haven't grown up in a culture with an extensive practice of alternative medicine and I haven't been taking classes in natural birth, so I know I would be unprepared for a natural, unmedicated birth and the experience could easily be traumatic for me (and Chris!). But I am curious about seeing what works best for me and one of my biggest worries about labor is having decisions made for me. I respect a doctor's extensive medical knowledge and experience, but if it's not a life-or-death situation, I want someone with the patience to explain the alternatives and consequences and who is comfortable with allowing me to make decisions that are best for me. If there are two options and one procedure is easier for the medical team to perform, but the other offers better potential outcomes for me or the baby, I know which one I'm going to pick.

I was ready to sign on as this midwife's patient, but Chris and I are going to switch clinics so we can be closer to home. As appointments increase near the end of my pregnancy, it'll be more convenient for both Chris and me to be a short drive to the clinic, which is also in the hospital. But my conversation with the midwife at today's appointment made me more open to considering a midwife as an option and something to look into at the new clinic. Unfortunately, the new place also only has one midwife on staff, so I will most likely not be able to work exclusively with her.

And finally, for all those (okay, so I know there are only about seven of you reading) who've been eagerly waiting to find out the sex of the baby, well, all will be revealed in due time.

Somersaults

After a bit of worrying and a reassuring chat with a nurse at my doctor's office, I think I've finally realized that I've been able to feel my baby moving. If no one had told me that I could start feeling movement as early as 15 or 16 weeks, or if I hadn't been asked by curious friends whether I've felt it move yet, I wouldn't have given the lack of detectable movement a second thought. Despite all the changes in my body, it appears I had actually gotten used to all the noises and odd sensations coming from my belly. Or since I've forgotten what it feels like not to be pregnant, it's possible I'd just thought the inner workings of my stomach were always that active.

By yesterday, the "bubbles popping against the inside of my stomach" sensation that started intermittently maybe two weeks ago erupted into repeated "butterfly flutters" throughout the day. It was one of the oddest sensations I've ever felt and actually, a lot of times it tickled. And it was tickling parts of my body that have never been tickled before, which made the experience sometimes uncomfortable. Chris, who loves to tickle, was delighted when I described how the baby's movements felt, and exclaimed, "That's my child," as he tried to tickle me some more. I was being attacked from both sides!

I was still in a bit of disbelief about all the new sensations. "I think this is really the baby moving," I told Chris. "Yes, it's the baby," he replied with a twinge of his own disbelief that I couldn't really recognize all these crazy movements being that of the baby and not just crazy stomach rumblings. Hadn't he read to me numerous times what those first movements might feel like? "So it's actually a baby and not tapeworm?" I half stated, half asked (in reference to a joke of mine about me finding it hard to believe I'm actually pregnant and that is what is really causing my stomach to expand). "No, it's really just the baby," he said hardly looking away from the Stanley Cup game on TV, and visibly unconcerned.

Someone from my soccer team thought the explosion in movement was just because the baby was excited about opening day - that is, the opening day of the summer season for Hansa, an intramural soccer team from Minneapolis. As the child-to-be of a sports fanatic who grows giddy in anticipation of going to a pro baseball game or remains captivated by ice hockey, even when the season stretches into June, (the sports fanatic is Chris, not me, in case you are confused) I can believe that the baby was doing somersaults of delight in a pool of amniotic fluid in anticipation of a new season for a scrappy local soccer team.

On the Air

I got to do something only probably I could get excited about - I appeared on Pregtastic! (Online radio - hosted by pregnant women for pregnant women - http://www.pregtastic.com/) If I were in San Diego where the podcast is produced, I would have weaseled my way in as a regular, but after an e-mail to the producers telling them how much I love the show, and that I unfortunately live in Minnesota and can't come to the studio, they were nice enough to invite me to participate via phone.

Being on the other end of production was surreal, but also a bit unnerving. As a phone-in participant, I obviously couldn't see anyone else, which made conversing with women, whose voices I've listened to every week, but have never met, difficult. It was also difficult to hear a lot of the conversation, with those farthest from the phone almost impossible to hear. So there were a lot of awkward moments where the podcasters waited to let me speak, except I hadn't heard my cue.

I started to relax near the end of the taping when I learned that we could rerecord. Since until yesterday I had only ever listened to the finished product, I was under the impression that they just winged it - and got it all perfect every time. I had been starting to wonder why the show wasn't appearing to be as polished as the others produced (and hoped my novicehood wasn't a contributing factor). Although I had been encouraged not to be shy, I found myself not wanting to break up the flow of the interview by trying to jump in with a question when I couldn't see if someone was about to speak, and vice versa. Then Royce, who does the production, while Patti, his wife, moderates, halted recording and asked if we could brainstorm some better questions of our guests to tease out what the Bradley Method of Natural Childbirth (that week's topic) is in a nutshell. He thought we were having a great Q&A, but were probably still leaving listeners uninformed about what the method entails. We proceeded to ask additional questions and that section, which was recorded at the end, will just be added to the beginning. I started to feel more comfortable with participating, knowing that if I were asked to clarify my question, or if there were communication problems due to my phone participation, all that could be cut out. Or so I hope....I have yet to listen to the final product. Just please take it easy on your judgment of my performance! And so as not to lead anyone one, my participation was rather minimal, and was probably reduced further during editing.

So what is the Bradley Method of Natural Childbirth? Well, from what I learned from the podcast, it's taught during a 12-week course by trained instructors who have used the method for the birth of at least one of their children. It deviates from the typical birth classes offered through hospitals, which educates you on what to expect during labor, and covers topics from nutrition and exercise while pregnant though postpartum. The classes also focus on relaxation techniques (as opposed to distraction techniques) to reduce or handle pain during labor. One aspect of the method I found unique is the role of the father (or partner), who is trained to be the woman's coach and advocate. While fathers are no longer relegated to the waiting room, I think some are left to "Just tell me what you want and I'll help" and then find themselves not sure what to do with themselves.

While I have no qualms about a medicated birth, the wannabe-hippie in me is open to being informed of all options, even if only to reaffirm my original choice. So although I know that a natural, unmedicated birth is not for me, and I would actually feel more comfortable delivering at a hospital, (home births are billed as being more relaxing, because labor isn't interrupted by a trip to the hospital and mom is on her home turf - but my ability to worry about every little thing that could go wrong would actually make the experience more stressful for me) I otherwise want the least technologically-manipulated birth possible and can envision incorporating bits and pieces of various methods or practices into my birth plan. I worry about being left out of the decisions about my own care, and although I am fine with medication and a traditional hospital setting, I embrace a far more holistic approach to childbirth to the "drug 'em up, drag 'em out" era of my mother and grandmothers'.

After we wrapped up the interview, I thanked Pattie and Royce for inviting me to participate and for producing such an informative podcast. Mentioning the name of the show to my friends elicits a shocked laughter, but I've learned more from the guests and the fellow pregnant women than I have from any book. And even though the producers and their fellow podcasters are still just anonymous voices heard over the Internet, I do feel a sense of camaraderie and I'm thankful for the wealth of knowledge and experiences they share with equally anonymous listeners.

World's Oldest Blogger

I find it sad when I read about someone I wish I could meet, but only first learn about this person after he or she has died. Still, the obituary for the "world's oldest blogger" made me smile. Maybe she reminds me of my own e-mailing, Internet-searching grandmother, (but not a blogger - I guess she just leaves that to the grandchildren) who proves how technologically savvy her generation can be when given a few (patient) tutorials.

Chris complained in jest that someday we won't need to talk to each other anymore - we'll just read each other's blogs. I don't think we'll ever lose the need for face-to-face communication, but blogging gives those who want to participate the creative outlet to express thoughts that wouldn't otherwise come up in conversation. Just like I'll have a record someday for my children about this point in my life, I think the family of the World's Oldest Blogger are thankful a blog has given them two and a half year's worth of this woman's unique views on the world.

Now I'm just lamenting that Maria Lopez's blog posts are in Spanish, which I don't speak.

Maria Amelia Lopez, Spanish granny blogger, dead at 97

Associated Press

MADRID - A Spanish great-grandmother who described herself as the world's oldest blogger — and became a Web sensation as she mused on events current and past — has died at the age of 97.

Maria Amelia Lopez died May 20 in her hometown of Muxia in Spain's northwest Galicia region, according to her blog amis95.blogspot.com. No cause of death was given.

Lopez started blogging in 2006 after her grandson — "who is very stingy," she wrote — created the site as a present for her 95th birthday.

The blog went on to attract a huge following, with more than 1.7 million hits, as Lopez shared her thoughts on everything from life in Spain under the dictatorship of Gen. Francisco Franco to the U.S.-led invasion of Iraq, which she criticized.

Lopez said discovering the Internet and communicating with people all over the world changed her life, and she urged elderly people everywhere to get wired.

"It took 20 years off my life," Lopez wrote. "My bloggers are the joy of my life. I did not know there was so much goodness in the world."

Lopez's notoriety even earned her a meeting last year with Prime Minister Jose Luis Rodriguez Zapatero, who she supported enthusiastically.

"He was charming," Lopez wrote. "I would have liked to speak to him more, but I was so excited I was speechless."

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The World's Oldest Blogger was even on Facebook! Read on....


Maria Amelia Lopez: "World's Oldest Blogger," 97, Dies In Spain

A Spanish great-grandmother who billed herself as the "world's oldest blogger" and who gained a global following on the Internet, died today at the age of 97, local officials and reports said.

Maria Amelia Lopez, who was introduced to the world of blogging by one of her grandchildren, used a mix of humour and nostalgia to recall life during the long dictatorship of Francisco Franco and give her take on modern life.

"Today it's my birthday and my grandson, who is very stingy, gave me a blog," she wrote on her first post on amis95.blogspot.com on December 23, 2006.

Her blog quickly soared in popularity after the media reported on it, having seen more than 1.5 million hits, and it earned Lopez a meeting with Socialist Prime Minister Jose Luis Rodriguez Zapatero, who she openly supported.

In summer, Lopez would write from her seaside home in Muxia in northwestern Spain, where she was born in 1911; and from the Galician farmhouse where she lived with her grandson Daniel during the rest of the year.

Her posts touched on personal health problems, from trips to the doctor to bouts of dizziness, to her opinion on current events; from the violence of the Basque separatists to Iran's nuclear pretensions.

She blogged sporadically -- sometimes once a week, sometimes daily -- with the aid of her grandson because cataracts impaired her vision.

In recent months Lopez was increasingly posting video messages on her blog instead of written texts.

In one of her last posts made in February, she enthused about how the "Internet amazes me more and more" after her grandson Daniel introduced her to the social networking site Facebook.

She promptly set up a group on Facebook to defend old people's rights.

"One day soon I am going to die. All I am really scared of is losing my mind. In the meantime, I'll carry on," she said in an interview with Britain's The Guardian newspaper in September 2007.

Lesser of Two Evils

With cabin season in Minnesota upon us, I realized that I couldn't avoid the issue of shopping for a new swimsuit. I thought I'd have some luck at Land's End, whose website advertises the hundreds of swimsuit options and endless possibilities...unless of course you're pregnant. It had been my default swimsuit one-stop shop pre-pregnancy since it happens to sell petite sizes. Even though they sell everything from mastectomy suits to those that could accommodate the upper body of "bikini girl" from this season's American Idol, I was surprised that they don't sell maternity suits. The saleswoman, who obviously has never been pregnant, suggested I just buy a larger size. Unlike t-shirts, swimsuits need to fit properly, unless I want to relive those scarring days of middle school gym class when I forgot my swimsuit and was forced to take one from the lost and found, one that was inevitably too big. I wasn't sure if her next suggestion of checking out the kid's section was an untactful attempt at trying to find something smaller, or if seeing that there was nothing for me, wanted to drum up business on behalf of the future clientele incubating inside me.

I ended up at a nearby Motherhood Maternity store. I went in with a mission simply to find something that would fit and allow me to while away my weekends at the cabin doing a favorite activity unlikely for someone so pale - sunbathing. Fashion has always been something I indulged in just enough to keep from looking horribly out of style, but during my pregnancy, I've reduced myself to just looking presentable. So I grabbed every suit in the smallest size and disappeared into the changing room. I was dismayed to discover that the smallest size is no longer a little big on me, but almost too tight. Ugh. I reminded myself of my tall, skinny friend's story of being one size shy of "plus sizes" in maternity clothes, and tried to convince myself that the sizing of maternity clothes, like wedding dresses, must be four decades behind modern-day sizes.

I was relieved to find a tankini that would serve its purpose for the summer and wasn't flashy enough to go out of style for any future summers spent pregnant. But as I studied the swimsuit top that fell like a dress just past my hips instead of hugging my frame, it began to remind me of the swimsuits my grandmother used to wear with the built-in skirts. I began to waver and wonder if it was too old-fashioned or not stylish enough for a woman, who though she had turned 30, was hardly old. But it fit. The saleswoman asked the woman in the dressing room next to me if she found a swimsuit she liked, and she replied that she had found the lesser of two evils. As I gazed at the pile of discarded swimsuits on the bench in my dressing room, I changed out of what I decided was my least of many evils and headed over to the check-out counter.

Scott's First Published Article

My brother, Scott, has more poignant and flattering memories of my mom. After extensive international travel, Scott traveled from coast to coast in the Summer of 2007 to finally see more of his own country. This article about our mom and his love of travel, is his first published piece and was published, appropriately, on Mother's Day in the Travel section of the Philadelphia Inquirer, the paper my mom wrote for.

http://www.philly.com/philly/travel/44475382.html

Posted on Sun, May. 10, 2009


Personal Journey: Gift of love is passed between mom, son

By Scott Partenheimer
For The Inquirer

My mother passed on to me a love for travel, which festered and lingered and has taken on the form of what some define as obsession. When she passed away, I was confronted with unparalleled grief, and a small sum of cash she left me. I knew this money would not while away in the bank, but instead would be spent on the one thing she would approve of: travel.

Enter the Great American Road Trip. 10,000 miles. Coast to coast, border to border. All solo, executed in my '99 Ford Explorer Sport, affectionately dubbed Black Betty. The goal of the trip was to leave my life for a while - the ongoing grief and the daily rigors of student-teaching in New Jersey - while honoring my mom. Nowhere was this goal so sharply realized as at the Grand Canyon.

I'd been sleeping in Black Betty through Arkansas and parts of New Mexico, to stretch the money as far as possible. I was hoping to spend a night on the canyon floor, but camping permits had been booked months earlier by the crushing number of visitors the park receives every summer. Against the advice of the National Park Service, I decided to hike to the bottom and back in one day.

The temperature at the Colorado River that June day was a staggering 112 degrees. I spent a few hours in a stream, then began my ascent at 4 p.m. to avoid the worst of the heat. I began to worry when I got dizzy and nauseated, but those sensations subsided as I realized I had one of the biggest tourist attractions in the world almost to myself. In the five hours it took to reach the rim, I saw eight people.

The most striking thing about standing alone in an ancient canyon is not the view, however, but the wind. One moment of pure silence is replaced by winds sweeping through the canyon thousands of feet away, reminding me of the well-known bereavement poem by Mary Frye:

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.

A mile from the canyon's rim, I stopped to rest. I eased myself onto a rock and watched as the sun submitted itself to the horizon, retrieving its golden hues from the canyon walls. A slight wind kicked up on the edge of the ridge, and I sat with my head in my hands, trying to fathom how anything could feel so beautiful.

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Scott Partenheimer lives in Haddonfield.