My husband, our nearly 5-year-old son and I are watching the Super Bowl tonight, and, 30 minutes ago, our son announced he wanted to take his bath—as, in, right then, in the middle of the second quarter.

I told him that I was staying put on the couch through the half-time show, then I’d sit with him while he bathed.

Bored by the game and the commercials, regardless of our trying to involve him, he said, “No.  I want to take my bath now.”

“Well, then head on up and run your own bath water,” I said.

“No,” he said, seriously, as if taking his bath solo were actually an option.  “Then you’ll be alone with Daddy down here.”

“And, you don’t want me alone with Daddy?”

He nodded.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

I know that his possessiveness is age-appropriate, but also that his reaction is a sign that my husband and I aren’t spending enough time together as a couple. 

We’ve got to make that a priority before our baby boy, now 29 weeks in utero, arrives, which, because of my placenta previa, could be any time between now and my April 23 due date.  After all, when my son was born five years ago, I wasn’t able to separate from him for 3 1/2 months–and, even then, I cried when I got home because I missed him so much. 

So, we need to bank ample alone time ASAP.

I’m not at my most attractive right now, which is an understatement.  My skin is translucent because it’s the dead of Chicago winter.  I have huge dark circles under my eyes because my “pregnancy bladder” is waking me up multiple times a night.  Because I’ve been on bed rest, I’ve been makeup free and am in desperate need of a haircut and highlights.  I’ve gained 50 pounds, and, because I haven’t been able to exercise for the past 11 months, I’m not only up 50 pounds, but completely out of shape.  These days, the overall package that is me isn’t pretty.

Yesterday, when my husband left to pick up my 15-year-old stepson, who is on a four-day midwinter break from his out-of-state school, I announced to my nearly 5-year-old son that I was going upstairs to put on makeup. 

“Why?” he asked.

Well, my first answer was that, as of Thursday afternoon, I could.  Because I haven’t experienced placenta previa-related pre-term bleeding in three weeks, my doctor said that I can transition from full bed rest to partial bed rest, so I’m now allowed to stand up for a few minutes to perform basic tasks like applying makeup.

My second answer was that I looked terrible, so I wanted to put on some makeup so my stepson, who has been away for a month, who has only heard about my 4-day hospitalization and bed rest, wouldn’t be freaked out upon seeing me.

My son said, “You don’t look terrible.”

“Thanks, sweetie.   But, I’ll look better if I put on some makeup.”

This morning, my son walked into my bedroom just as I was deciding what to wear for the day.  I told him I was going to put on a tank top.

“What’s a tank top?”

I pulled a black one out of the closet, held it up and said, “This is one.  It’s basically a t-shirt without sleeves.”

“Then everyone will see your arms.” 

“I know.  But, because of the baby in my belly, I’m hot all the time, so I’m going to wear a tank top underneath my sweater, in case I need to take my sweater off.”

As I pulled the tank top over my head and pulled it down over my super-sized belly, he said, “You look pretty good in that.”

My sweet, sensitive son gave me a compliment. 

And, whether he was serious—or simply trying to make me feel better about myself—doesn’t matter.  Sometimes, in the third trimester of pregnancy, moms-to-be need little white lies.

Today, I hit the 29-week mark in my pregnancy, which is cause for celebration, considering that I was hospitalized for placenta previa-related, pre-term bleeding three and a half weeks ago, at just 25 weeks of pregnancy.

Yesterday, I had my 28-week appointment and left joyous, for I saw, via both abdominal and trans-vaginal ultrasounds, that my baby boy still looks perfect in every way, plus learned that he weighs 3 pounds.  At his gestational age, he’s a big, big boy—who already has chubby cheeks—so, if he were born even tonight, his chances of not only surviving, but thriving, are strong.

Other great news:

My blood pressure was 104/60, which is healthy.

My second glucose tolerance test, required because my nearly 5-year-old son was born at a whopping 9 pounds 7 ounces, was negative, meaning I still don’t have gestational diabetes.  (FYI: My pregnancy books state that the average weight of a full-term baby is 7 to 7 ½ pounds. For any woman who has given birth to a baby over 9 pounds, two glucose tolerance tests are recommended, rather than the usual one.)

My “world-record-length” cervix is still long—at least 5 cm—and closed.  When I was pregnant with my son in 2005, I was dilated starting at 27 weeks of pregnancy, so the fact that I’ve made it to 29 weeks with no cervical thinning, funneling from above, or dilation is phenomenal news, especially considering my placenta previa.  Having the placenta, unstable and prone to bleeding because of its low position, on top of a weakened, dilated cervix would be very bad.

The not-so-great news:

I weigh 196.7, so I’ve gained 50 pounds, some of which is related to two in vitro fertilization (IVF) cycles and some of which is pregnancy weight.  One of my pregnancy books says that, by week 29, average weight gain should be between 19 and 25 pounds, so I’m double the high end of that range.  But, maybe that’s why my baby is so big, which is a good thing, considering the risk of pre-term delivery.

Based on the two ultrasounds, neither the ultrasound technician nor the head of my high-risk pregnancy practice could say, for sure, whether I still have complete placenta previa or marginal placenta previa.  The problem: a blood clot, which is not a problem in itself, for it is simply the result of my prior bleeding episode.  The problem is actually the location of said blood clot, which is right on top of my internal os.

I had no idea what my internal os was, so I asked, and it’s the inside opening of the cervix, the door through which a baby first travels on his way down the birth canal.  What couldn’t be determined by the ultrasound technician or my doctor is whether this clot is just a clot covering the cervix, which is no big deal, or if this clot is part of the placenta, meaning the placenta is still completely blocking the cervix.

So, we wait.  I’ll have another appointment in two weeks that will be a doctor appointment without ultrasound to check the size of my uterus, my baby’s fetal heart tones, my lungs because of my asthma, and so on.  And, in four weeks, I’ll have a doctor appointment with ultrasound, so my high-risk team can see if my placenta has made any upward progress.

If my placenta is covering the cervix and doesn’t move, I will have to have a C-section, because it would be impossible for my baby to make it down the birth canal ahead of the placenta.  And, with the placenta leading the way, the complications include hemorrhaging for me and complete cut-off of oxygen for him.  So, if my placenta stays put, a C-section it will be.  And, I’m OK with that.  Anything to protect my baby.

Until my next appointment, my doctor said that, because my placenta hasn’t bled in three weeks, I can transition from full bed rest to partial bed rest, being prone for only four to six hours in the daytime—unless I experience more-frequent contractions or start to bleed again.  While my initial instinct was, “I’m free! I’m free!” because even being allowed six hours out of bed is thrilling, I’ve decided to maintain as mellow a schedule as possible for the duration of this pregnancy, doing my absolute best to keep my baby inside of me until he’s full-term, which is defined as 37 to 42 weeks.

While being so restricted is difficult, it’s a short-term sacrifice toward my baby’s lifelong health. And, quite frankly, I’d make any sacrifice, short- or long-term, to ensure my baby’s well-being.

When my mother was pregnant with me 42 years ago, her doctor told her that, based on how she was carrying, I was a boy.  So, it was quite the shock when I, their first child, arrived sans the male genitalia. 

My parents had agreed on a name for their expected son, but, having welcomed a daughter, they needed to reconvene.  In their discussions, my mother said she liked the name Kathy, but my father vetoed the name, saying that he had an old girlfriend named Kathy, and he didn’t want her to think he’d named his daughter Kathy because he was still thinking about her.

In the end, they combined the first names of my two grandmothers, so I’m Mary Katherine.  After a year of being called Mary Katherine, a mouthful, my grandmother Katherine, who went by Kay, started shortening my name to Mary Kay in the letters she wrote to my mom, and it caught on.  But, for most of my life, I have been Mary Kaye, for I added the “e” in second grade, I think.

I never liked my name, pining for a normal name exactly like Kathy, the name of two other girls in my grade school class.  My friends and I tried to think of a cool nickname, some combination of Mary and Kaye, but the best we could come up with was Macky, not a viable option.  Of course, it’s never cool to nickname yourself, but, others have called me Mare, Mary and M.  And, for the past 11 years, since moving to Chicago, I’ve been M.K., for, regardless of how many times I introduced myself as Mary Kaye, my new acquaintances and friends would respond by calling me M.K. instead. 

Of course, as an adult, I recognize that Mary Katherine is a beautiful name, especially within an Irish Roman Catholic family.  But, as a kid, I just wanted to blend in with one name, not a double one.

Now that I am a parent, I fully recognize the difficulty of selecting a child’s name. 

When I started trying to get pregnant on my own in 2003, I was absolute in my decision about what my baby’s name would be if he were a boy, and, being single, I didn’t anticipate being faced with any reason to change my mind.

I had picked a strong, traditional, blatantly boy name that is not only my father’s, but also one of my four brothers’.  It has three variations, which I felt would accommodate not only whatever my future son’s personality would be like, but also his preferences as he grew from little boy, to big boy, to teenager, to man. 

But, nine days before I got pregnant via insemination with donor sperm, I met the man who is now my husband.  He was divorced with two sons, then ages 8 and 10.  And, his oldest son is named the exact same name I had chosen. 

At my 20-week ultrasound, I found out that I was having a son, which presented a dilemma:  I loved this man I was dating, and we believed we had a future together, so, if I stood my ground on my son’s name, we would have ended up with two sons with the same name, as in, “Hi, this is our son Bobby, and this is our other son Bobby.” 

Believing in our relationship, I gave up my first-choice name, and, after looking through a baby-name book, latched on to John, which means “God is gracious,” because I felt so blessed to finally be pregnant after seven intrauterine insemination (IUI) cycles.  But, recognizing the complications involved with naming my son John Kennedy, I decided to name him Sean, the Irish form of John, which has the same meaning.

The day after making this decision, I called one of my brothers to wish him a happy birthday.  He asked if I had come up with any names, now that I knew I was having a boy.  I told him I’d decided on Sean. 

“That’s the name of my second son,” he said, although his wife wasn’t pregnant.  “Sean Ryan.”

“Oh,” I said.  I was going to name my baby Sean Patrick.”

Not wanting to create family conflict, I gave up on Sean.  FYI:  My brother and his wife never had that second son, but two daughters instead. 

But, regardless, the name I ultimately chose for my son, a name suggested by my then-boyfriend/now-husband, is perfect for him.  Apparently, it’s the perfect name for a lot of little boys, for, of the seven boys in my son’s preschool class, three have his name.  Yet, when I decided to name him, I’d only known one guy, a nice guy from high school, with the name.  Oh well… 

Pregnant with another son, the fourth in my husband’s and my blended family, the naming issue now is much more complicated.  While my husband, then my boyfriend, was hands-off when I was trying to select a name for my son five years ago, as this baby’s biological father, he is actively involved with the process. 

Two of our three sons, now ages 15, 14 and almost 5, are either begging or demanding to be able to name the baby.  Our 15-year-old wants to name the baby Vlad, which, according to him, is a “sexy vampire name.”  Our 4-year-old is adamant that the baby’s name will be Luke, a downgrade from his initial request of Luke Skywalker.

My problem is the same as one faced by my father in 1968, when I was born, yet it is much larger in magnitude, for I dated from age 15 to age 36, 21 years before meeting my husband.  My husband’s suggested the name he thinks is best, and I’ve told him that’s the name of my former fiancé, which is, for me, the one name that is absolutely off limits.  After all, if we’d a daughter, we would never have named her the same name as his ex-wife.    

My husband has suggested another name, and I’ve stated that it’s the name of another serious boyfriend.  And, I have six more, if I go through my dating history, only counting those boys or men with whom I was serious.

And, let’s not get into the names of my former male pets, all of which are traditional human names…

Limiting the decision to just my husband and me, the parents of this baby I’m carrying, prior associations with names can rule some out.  Then, of course, we both have personal preferences, liking some names and despising others.  While I love the name Luke, for example, having selected it as one of my final choices for my 4-year-old son, my husband doesn’t. 

At least we agree that we’ll name our son a traditional, obviously boy name.  And, considering I haven’t had any additional pre-term bleeding in almost three weeks, giving us hope that our baby boy will be born at term, we may have ample time to figure this baby naming thing out.

I haven’t written a blog post for three days, three days devoted to finishing a 34-page photo book, the fundraiser for my son’s preschool class, by PhotoWorks’ 25-percent off deadline last night.  Now that my volunteer duties for the preschool project are complete, I’m back to normal life, if I can call being on bed rest normal.

Tonight, I’m going to vent about “fat talk.”  

First, I have to admit that my family’s comfort with “fat talk” has been generated by me—by my jokes about my extreme weight gain.  Because I am self-deprecating, my family members assume I am comfortable with them being me-deprecating.  And, while I usually am, laughing along with the teasing, I hit my limit in the past few days.

Of course, being on bed rest for three weeks has minimized my sense of humor, while maximizing my size.  My bra size is now a 38E—an E, for God’s sake—up from its normal 34C.  And, the frightening thing is that, sitting atop my massive pregnant belly, my breasts actually look petite.

I am so happy to be pregnant at 41, elderly in the reproductive sense—as in literally reproductively elderly, as my diagnosis is “Elderly Multigravida with Antepartum Condition or Complication.” 

I am so happy to be pregnant considering my “antepartum complication or condition,” which is my uterine abnormality, the result of my mother unknowingly taking the synthetic estrogen diethylstilbestrol (DES) for nausea when she was pregnant with me.

But, while I feel so blessed to be pregnant, it’s not easy to live with the significant, body-altering side effects of the medications necessary for my two in vitro fertilization (IVF) cycles, one of which is weight gain.  Nor is it easy to live with the fact that the initial IVF weight gain is then topped with the necessary pounds of pregnancy.

But, because of the loss of one of my twins in September, I added unnecessary pounds through emotional eating in my attempt to cope with the death of my son, whose tiny body was still inside me.  I added unnecessary pounds as I hoped that my body would absorb him, rather than abort him, so that my other son would be saved. 

So, I have gained well beyond the recommended amount of pregnancy weight.  I’m not only pregnant, but also fat.  I know it.  My family knows it.  But, I don’t want to hear “fat talk” anymore.

My nearly 5-year-old son is the main perpetrator.  Sunday night, while we were lying in bed talking before he went to sleep, he asked if would put my arm around him.  I did.  After 30 seconds, he grunted and said, “Can you move your arm?  It’s too heavy.  I think it weighs 188 pounds.”

Monday, out of the blue, he said, “Mama, you’re a big, fat ninja.”

I know why he called me big and fat, so I asked, “Why do you think I’m a ninja?”

“Because you’re fat,” he giggled.

To me, fat would be the least likely adjective to use with ninja, but, then again, I’m not 4.

Yesterday, at bedtime, he started singing, “You’re a fat ninja.  You’re a fat ninja.”

Today, he announced that we were going to play “dinosaurs vs. people.” 

“Who gets to be the dinosaur?” I asked, because he has a remote-controlled dinosaur robot that can kick the asses of any of his toy people.

“You do,” he said.  “Because he’s fat.”

“Nice,” I responded sarcastically, knowing full well that he thought I should have the fat dinosaur because I’m fat.  “Fat dinosaur should be matched with fat Mama” makes complete sense in his young mind.

Hearing my tone, he tried to recover.  “Well, his tail is skinny.”

So, tonight, when he once again complained about the intolerable weight of my arm around him, I decided to have “the talk”— as in “the talk about fat talk.”

I started by asking him how he’d feel if people called him fat. 

He said, “If I was fat, and people called me fat, I would punch them in the face.”

“Do you want me to punch you in the face?” I teased.

He giggled.

I explained, “I know I’m fat.  But, after the baby is born, I will lose the weight.  And, until then, it sometimes hurts my feelings when you call me fat.  I know it’s true, but sometimes it hurts my feelings to be told the truth every day.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sweetie, it’s OK.  You didn’t know it hurt my feelings.  But, now that you do, can you please not call me fat anymore?”

“OK.”

We’ll see how tomorrow goes…

My son, nearly 5, and I spent all yesterday morning snuggling in bed.  Being 28 weeks into a high-risk pregnancy and on bed rest, I am completely justified in this behavior.  My son, being my only weekday, daytime companion—except when my friends visit me—is my hero for keeping me company.

We started out the morning with my son watching Tom and Jerry cartoons, his favorite, while I was reading Eat, Pray, Love: One Woman’s Search for Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia for the second time. 

I first read the memoir about two years ago for my neighborhood book club.  I’m re-reading it, very analytically this time, because its author, Elizabeth Gilbert, just released her new book, Committed: A Skeptic Makes Peace With Marriage, so I’ve recently read numerous articles promoting her new endeavor—articles that have referenced the phenomenal success of Eat, Pray, Love, which has sold 6 million copies.  As a writer working on my own memoir, Nine Days: An Unconventional Love Story, I’m constantly reading memoirs, but, other than Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes, I know of few others with this level of readership.  So, I’m studying Eat, Pray, Love to try to figure out exactly, specifically why it is so over-the-top successful.

Anyway, back to our morning…  After our recorded Tom and Jerry cartoons were over, my son brought in his LeapFrog® Star Wars: The Clone Wars-branded Leapster2, which my husband and I gave him for Christmas because he pines to play video games with his older brothers, ages 14 and 15.  As a parent, I think the Leapster2 is the greatest invention, because my son feels cool playing with his hand-held video game player, yet the games themselves, such as Jedi Reading and Jedi Math, are educational.  We spent about an hour together, playing Jedi Reading, in which I helped him identify the lower-case letters needed to spell various four-letter words, like lift and soft.  While he knows all of the capital letters in the alphabet, he struggles with some of the lower-case ones, so I gladly assisted him.

When he grew tired of playing Jedi Reading, he picked up Eat, Pray, Love and, flipping through the pages, asked me to tell him the number of each page he identified.  If the page also included a chapter number, I added that too. 

When he stopped at page 134, which also features the beginning of chapter 42, I told him both numbers, then he said, “I will read this to you.”

He doesn’t know how to read anything except his name, but I said, “OK.”

Starting intently at the page, he recited, “There was a lady who walked all over the land.  Because she had a baby in her belly, she was very gassy.  Then she started ‘diarrhea-ing.’  Then she pooped everywhere.  She was 42 years old.” 

Giggling, he couldn’t continue, which I’m sure Liz Gilbert would be relieved to hear, for, while she is candid in her book about the negative side effects—some gastrointestinal (see page 41)—of her worldwide travels, she is much more eloquent than this.  And, she wasn’t pregnant.  And, she was just 34 when she traveled to the “Three I’s,” as she called them. 

After reading Eat, Pray, Love, my son decided to build a fort around my ever-expanding body.  Struggling to completely protect large me from the outside world, he had to retrieve pillows from his own room to use, in addition to the bountiful supply in mine.

When he’d finished with the fort, he decided that he was going to come into it with me, which necessitated much rearranging and the addition of a blanket.  He then announced, “Darth Vader is in here.” 

Slumping down, he lowered his voice and said, “You have to be quiet so he can’t hear us.”

Unarmed, we had no way to protect ourselves, but then my son whispered, “What this hard thing?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered back.

Feeling with his foot, then reaching down with his hand, he pulled Eat, Pray, Love out from under a stack of pillows.  Thrilled, he whispered that it would be our weapon, that we would use it to bash in Darth Vader’s brain.

Two minutes later, Darth Vader was lying on the bedroom floor, very, very dead. 

Killed by the paperback version of Eat, Pray, Love.

So, to Elizabeth Gilbert, my sincere apologies for my son not only butchering your very spiritual, inspirational, best-selling book with his potty-mouthed rendition, but also using it as an imaginary weapon of death and destruction. 

He’s only 4.  I’m on bed rest and bored.  And, he’s desperately trying to entertain me.

As with most families, the five members of mine tend to feel comfortable enough to show our worst traits and moods to each other.  From a personal perspective, this is fortunate, because it means each of us feels unconditionally loved and accepted.  However, this individual confidence—and resulting uncensored behavior—can be a burden for those witnessing the others’ all-time lows.

My son, now nearly 5, is the youngest in our family by nine years and, as such, is obviously the least emotionally mature.    

Whatever he feels, he shows. 

When he’s happy, this personality trait is spectacularly fun for us.  He smiles and giggles.  He tries desperately to make us laugh, telling jokes, making silly faces and contorting his body in bizarre dance moves.  He’s unbelievably affectionate, giving kisses and hugs freely, along with ample “I love yous.”

Yet, when he’s sad or angry or lonely, we need to watch out. 

He lashes out verbally—with “I hate him” or “I hate them”—when his feelings are hurt, like when his older brothers, ages 14 and 15, won’t play with him, or, when playing a video game not appropriate for a 4-year-old to even watch, they forbid him from entering their room. 

He cries when he will be separated from those he loves, like when his brothers have to leave our home to go back to their mother’s or when his Daddy will be out-of-town for a business trip. 

He has complete meltdowns when his brothers are here, and he’s the only one who has to go to bed. 

He’s grumpy when he’s tired—or simply doesn’t get his way. 

When he’s mad at anyone or anything these days, he proclaims that he’s “starting to hate everything.”

His behavior is age-appropriate, yet I feel guilty because he has had—and continues to have—more than his share of loss.  In September, his 15-year-old brother, who suffers from dyslexia, went away to a school with a special program for dyslexics, so he’s only seen him twice in the past five months.  Every other weekend and on Monday nights, he is ecstatic when his 14-year-old brother lives with us, only to feel abandoned at the tail-end—every other weekend and every Monday night.  He was beyond thrilled to be a big brother to two baby brothers, then sad when we lost one of the twins.  He was upset when, two weeks ago, I was hospitalized for four days due to pre-term labor. 

Our son’s sense of loss and resulting sadness related to his brothers’ visitation schedule led my husband and me, at the ripe old ages of 43 and 40, to start trying to have another child.  After two in vitro fertilization (IVF) attempts, we were successful.  Our son is due on April 23, so our 4-year-old still has almost three months to wait to have a sibling who will never have to leave our home.  I am literally counting the days…

However, I’ve learned that, while my son acts sad and mad and lonely at home, he’s the epitome of sunshine when he’s at preschool every Monday through Friday afternoon.  His head teacher says he has “such a good outlook on life” and that she’s “never heard anything negative come out of his mouth—except for some Star Wars stuff.”  When asked to specify what is special about each student for a book I wrote as a fundraiser for my son’s class, the two assistant teachers said that what makes my son special are “his happiness and love for life” and “his tender eyes and cheerfulness.”

So, when he’s able to be social, he’s jubilant.

Tonight, while we were eating dinner, I told him that I was going to write my blog about how happy he is at school.

“I’m not happy,” he said.

“Well, then why do your teachers all say that you’re so happy every day at school?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“So, you’re not happy, even though everyone says you’re the happiest kid in your class.”

“It’s because I’m always laughing,” he admitted.

“But you’re not happy.”

Nodding in agreement, he said, “I’m just laughing all the time at my friends,” then demonstrated how he smiles at his friends when they’re funny.

Even though my happy-go-lucky-when-in-public guy won’t admit that he loves being around 14 other kids at school, I know that he’s smiling and laughing and loving learning for three hours every afternoon.  And, maybe being so energetically happy out in the world is one of the reasons he is such a grump at home.

Regardless, when his baby brother is born less than three months from now, he will be more content at home.  While he will still miss his older brothers, his loneliness will lessen because of the 24/7 love from his baby brother. 

This morning, he announced that he and I are going to take care of the baby, because “Daddy has to go to work,” and his brothers “aren’t here very often.” 

He’s declared to my husband, who is unsure of the name our son wants for the baby, “Well, it’s my baby.”

So, while I know that our little man will always share his most negative feelings and behaviors with us, I can’t wait until his baby brother’s presence eases the feelings of loss and abandonment that are now so prevalent.  I can’t wait until he’s almost as happy at home as he is at school. 

I’m counting the days…

Today, my 13^th day of bed rest, I had my doctor’s permission to leave the house.  Unfortunately, it was only to head directly to labor-and-delivery for the second time in the past two weeks.

I was first hospitalized on Wednesday, January 13, when I was 25 weeks into my pregnancy, because of pre-term bleeding resulting from placenta previa.  Dr. O, one of my doctors, released me on Sunday, January 17, 48 hours after my last bleeding episode, directing me to be on full bed rest at home, but to immediately contact my high-risk pregnancy practice if any of the following occurred: 

1. An increase in baseline frequency of contractions
2. Greater than 4 contractions per hour, not responsive to 1-2 hours of rest and hydration
3. New backache
4. Increased vaginal discharge
5. Leakage of fluid
6. Vaginal bleeding
7. Cramping
8. Pelvic pressure or feeling of fullness

I have been diligently on bed rest—and, since Friday, January 15, a non-bleeder.  But, this morning, at the tail-end of a visit from my friend Heidi and her son, I went to the bathroom and found “increased vaginal discharge,” #4 on the above list, and, based on its brown color and consistency, I thought part of my placenta had fallen out of me. 

I didn’t come up with this scenario on my own.  I know a woman who had placenta previa, who lost half—yes, half—of her placenta in the same way, resulting in her doctors telling her that her son would be brain-damaged due to the reduced nutrients and oxygen he was receiving from the remaining half.  He turned out just fine; in fact, he’s brilliant, rather than brain-damaged.  But, because of her story, and because of the type of vaginal discharge I discovered, I put two-and-two together and thought the same was possibly happening to me. 

Regardless, “increased vaginal discharge” is “increased vaginal discharge,” so I called my practice, one of the nurses talked to the doctor on call, and I was told to go to labor-and-delivery for monitoring.

I called my friend Heidi, because I’d promised I’d touch base after hearing from the doctor, and she offered to drive me to the hospital.

I packed up my belongings in case I was in for yet-another multi-day hospital stay. 

I packed up my nearly 5-year-old son’s belongings in case he had to spend the night with friends.

I called my son’s preschool teacher to prepare her for his arrival, because he knew I was returning to the hospital and briefly cried, asking how many days I would be gone this time. 

I called my friend Yana and made the arrangements for her to take my son after school and overnight, if I wasn’t released in time. 

And, Heidi and I were off.  

I’d assumed she would just drop me off at the hospital, but she said she was going to stay with me, that our friend Kristy was watching her two kids to free her up.  I warned her, “You might be in for more than you can handle,” but she said she’d be fine.

I checked in at labor-and-delivery, and, as the nurse in my practice had promised, the staff was waiting for me.  Katie, my nurse from my last visit, was my nurse once again.  She brought us up into a room, handed me a hospital gown and a one-foot-high elastic band to wear around my waist, and, after I changed, found my son’s heartbeat with the fetal monitors, which she placed underneath the elastic band, so they’d stay in place.

Heidi was sitting in a chair across from my bed, as Katie said that the doctor would conduct a vaginal examination with a speculum to see if she saw any blood or cervical dilation. 

I looked at Heidi and said, “I don’t think you’re going to want to be sitting there.”  She laughed, agreeing, and moved to the chair next to my bed.

Dr. H, the doctor in my practice who was on call, was in the middle of a C-section, so another labor-and-delivery doctor came in to do my exam. 

Sitting next to me, rather than across from me, Heidi would no longer have the same, unobstructed, well-lit view of my nether region as the doctor, but I still had to be naked from the waist down, providing quite the show.

Heidi reassured me, promising to focus on her iPhone®, so she wouldn’t see anything, which I appreciated, saying, “I have gotten to the point where I don’t care who examines me, but I don’t want my friends to see my vagina.”

The doctor, whose name I can’t remember, said she saw no blood, and my cervix still looks closed.  I’d brought my “increased vaginal discharge” with me in a small plastic baggie, so the doctor could examine it too.  She said it looked like mucus and that it was so discolored—brown instead of clearish—because it has soaked up the leftover blood in my uterus.

She said I was right to call, but that everything is fine, so, after checking with Dr. H, who was finishing up that C-section, she released me back to my life of full bed rest at home.

I was only away from home for an hour and a half. 

When I walked in my door, with Heidi following me with my mini suitcase and briefcase, because I’m not allowed to lift anything, I hugged her tight.  I can’t express how much I appreciate her staying with me. 

After she left, I called my son’s teacher and asked her to tell him that I was fine and already at home.  I called my friend Yana to tell her that she didn’t need to watch my son after all.  I called Fran Howell, executive director of DES Action USA, who’d left a message for me while I was at the hospital. 

And, then I couldn’t keep my eyes open.  I was so emotionally and physically drained from those two hours of fear that I dozed on and off for three hours, while my son, when he got home from school, watched TV next to me.

I am so relieved that my baby and I are fine, considering I am only 27 weeks into this pregnancy.  I am so relieved to be back home.  But, it’s going to take me a few days to recover from this…

Today marks my 12th full day of complete bed rest and my 10th full day without placental bleeding.  Of course, I’m thrilled that I haven’t had another bleeding episode.  But it’s hard to be not only house-bound, but also bed- and couch-bound.

It’s hard to ask my husband to run up to 7-Eleven to grab a gallon of milk, even though he’s happy to do it.

It’s hard to ask my nearly 5-year-old son to shove all of the clothes down the laundry chute because I’m not supposed to do anything but lounge around, except when I take my once-daily shower and use the bathroom.

It’s hard to have my husband take my son to his doctor’s appointment and his weekend birthday parties.

It’s hard to have my friend take my son to his weekly soccer class.

Because while I am so thankful for all of the help I’m receiving, I would like to live my own life, to run my own errands, to participate in my son’s activities.

Now, I experience life vicariously.  I sit here at home all day, every day, and I miss what my life, though hectic, used to be like.

I remember friends who, when they were brand-new moms, revealed to me how they felt so isolated all day at home with their newborns, how they were so desperate for any conversation, they would pounce the moment their husbands walked through their front doors at night.

Now that’s me.

When my son comes home, I ask him:

“How was soccer?”

“How was your playdate?”

“What did you eat for lunch?”

“How was school today?”

“What did you work on at school?”

“Did you play outside on the playground?”

“What were you doing when your teacher said you were goofing around?”

I ask until, exasperated, he’ll ask me, “Do I still have to talk?”

Having heard my son’s recitation of his day, I let my husband get off easy, with a simple, “How was your day?” or “How did your conference call go?”

When I’m home alone, I am staying amazingly busy.  I refuse to watch television.  I don’t expend any physical energy, so, not tired, I don’t nap.  I’m sorting through paperwork, throwing nonessentials away and filing the rest.  I’ve written the book that will be the fundraiser for my son’s preschool class.  I’ve revised and updated the book proposal for my memoir.  I’ve responded to requests for interviews for DES Action USA’s newsletter and a feature story on infertility.

I’m trying to view my time on bed rest as an opportunity to accomplish certain goals, rather than a burden.  But, I still miss basic freedom.  I still miss participating fully in life with my family.

But, who wouldn’t?

Yesterday, I had my pre-scheduled 27-week appointment with the Center for Maternal and Fetal Health, my high-risk pregnancy practice—my first appointment since being released from the hospital after a 1 ½-day episode of pre-term bleeding. 

My weight was 193.7, so I’d gained only two pounds in two weeks, even though I’d been on bed rest for nine of those days.  My blood pressure was 110/62, which the nurse proclaimed “good.”   Another nurse checked my baby’s fetal heart tones, and his heart rate was consistently around 148, which is normal.

When Dr. E came in, she said she was happy to see me outside of the hospital and that I look great.  She measured the length of my ever-expanding uterus, saying it’s perfect for my son’s gestational age.  But, she recommended against a trans-vaginal ultrasound or vaginal exam—to check the position of my low-lying placenta and the condition of my cervix—because either could re-start my placental bleeding.

When I was pregnant with my son, now nearly 5, a doctor in my previous high-risk pregnancy practice found, at my 27-week appointment, that I was dilated—the curse of having a T-shaped uterus as a result of my exposure to diethylstilbestrol (DES) when I was in utero.  She immediately put me in a wheelchair and had a nurse push me over to the hospital, where I stayed for 48 hours, the time necessary to not only receive the steroid injections that advanced my son’s development, in case he was born pre-term, but also to monitor my dilation.  When my cervix didn’t dilate further, I was released and directed to spend my days at home on bed rest.

Yesterday, the first day of my 27^th week of pregnancy, I was feeling nervous, because of my history, about whether my cervix is still long and closed, as it was at last check.  But, then I realized that, whether my cervix is thinning, dilating or funneling isn’t relevant at this point.  I’ve already received the two steroid injections to advance this baby boy’s brain, heart, lungs and stomach, and I’m already on bed rest.  Everything that would be done, if my cervix were becoming “incompetent,” is already covered.  Therefore, it’s not worth risking an exam that could irritate my placenta.

My next appointment is in two weeks, unless I have complications in the interim.  Dr. E told me to stay on bed rest, saying that, if I still haven’t bled by this next appointment, she may be able to lift some of my restrictions.

Today, it’s been 10 days since my initial bleed, 10 days of bed rest.  My baby boy is still inside of me, where he belongs, and he’s had 10 additional days to grow, to gain weight and strength.  Dr. O, the doctor who released me from the hospital last Sunday, said it’s rare for placental bleeding to necessitate pre-term delivery.  So, I will hold on to that thought, as I struggle to keep the bed-rest blues at bay.