The worst thing about living outside America is not that I have to ration my Annie’s macaroni and cheese dinners. Nor is it that I can’t go out for a good pancake breakfast or grab a bagel and cream cheese on the corner. Those things frustrate me, they really do. But the worst thing is, of course, the goodbyes. Followed closely by phone calls home on the holidays, when everyone is together but me.
On Sunday my parents left after a weeklong Christmas visit and I was sadder than usual when we dropped them off at the airport. The coming baby has upped the emotional ante of living abroad, it seems. My parents will be back in a matter of weeks to meet the little one but I couldn’t help but be affected by the fact that when they come back my life will be totally, irrevocably different. It was a milestone of a goodbye. When you live near your family (and friends who are like family) you don’t have to deal so openly with all these “last times.” This is the “last time” you’ll see me before the wedding, the “last time” you’ll see me without a child; the “last time” we’ll see each other for xx months. It’s exhausting.
But with these heavy emotions come some perks. Living far away also means you get concentrated times of love and fun, when you’re willing to stay up past your bedtime for an extra round of hearts because sleeping can wait until after the visit. And now that we have a big enough place to comfortably accommodate my parents, it means sharing lazy mornings together in the kitchen with coffee and a slowly diminishing loaf of pumpkin bread. It means quality time – and realizing how lucky you are to miss your family, not only out of love but because you genuinely like them.
Filed under: preggers
Tuesday was a big day. It started with an earthquake, ended with an ultrasound and was taken up by a presentation of three months’ worth of work in between.
I wish I had a good story about the biggest earthquake to hit Scandinavia in 100 years. Me unnecessarily diving for cover, dropping to my knees and praying, or even a hanger falling off its rail. But my experience with the quake went something like this: feel shake, wonder if it is big truck coming down the street, realize it is lasting too long to be big truck, wonder briefly if it is end of world rumble, realize it was over too quickly to be end of world rumble, ask sleeping Erik if he felt that, get no response, look out window and see world functioning as normal, leave for work. I actually forgot about the whole thing until I heard someone else mention it and then got a call from Erik (part of the living world at this point) asking if I had felt the quake.
There’s even less to say about the meeting I’ve been preparing for since late August. It went fine, well even. No major feedback or changes to be made. A tad anti-climactic but certainly better than dramatic discussions and huge overhauls of the work.
No, the drama came later. Because even when earthquakes and powerful people don’t ruffle you, you can count on public transportation to fuck things up royally and have you shaking and in tears. That was the picture of me at 5:55pm on Tuesday evening, after a late train and the world’s slowest bus refused to deliver me to the hospital in time for my 6pm ultrasound.
I had been looking forward to my second ultrasound for months and wasn’t sure what would happen if I was late. Would they yell at me and take me in anyway? Would they refuse to see me and reschedule to the appointment or just say tough shit and leave me appointment-less. The last option may sound harsh but this was the same women’s clinic that refused to see me once before when I was a few minutes late. Late only because I got lost in their maze of a building for twenty minutes (literally) and none of the million people I asked could point me to the gynecologist.
So, I cried on the bus and shot evil stares at anyone who dared push the button to get off, thereby delaying me even further. When I finally got to press the button myself, I ran for the clinic, or rather, quickly hobbled. It must have been a pathetic site: a galloping, crying, enraged pregnant girl unable to move at the speed she would like. Eventually, I made it to the clinic and was greeted by Erik and the nicest ultrasound technician imaginable. She rubbed my arm and even let me run to the bathroom to splash water on my beet-red face before escorting us into the room.
And from then on everything was just fine. Baby Bobo is still healthy and growing well. She is positioned with her head kindly pressing against my bladder. She has hair (!) and she is, for sure, a she. Unlike last time, the baby didn’t give us any pretty profile shots. She kept her face firmly hidden and we walked away with one measly picture of a foot. But what a cute foot it is. And for this first-time mother, way more earth shattering than the earthquake.
Last week I listened to a Brian Lehrer podcast about the widespread commercialization of parenting in the US. His guest talked about wipe warmers, baby sign language, super-expensive strollers, fetal education, and a mound of other overrated ‘must-haves.’ And, much as I felt when I was getting married, I thanked my lucky stars that I am far away from all the industry that can surround weddings and babies.
The Swedish approach to pregnancy and early parenting is laid back. Wipe warmers? As far as I know many parents here don’t even use prepared wipes, relying instead on warm water and baby paper towels. I’ve never heard of anyone here having a baby registry and pimped-out nurseries are few and far between. I haven’t met with a doctor once throughout my pregnancy and meetings with my midwife tend to be along the lines of “Everything ok? Everything looks okay. Take some more iron. Goodbye!”
Yes, there are times when this laid back approach is frustrating and I yearn for the control and care of America. Like when I was four months in and still hadn’t been told which supplements to take and was trying to figure it out myself. Or when Erik and I went around wondering when we’d get invited to our free parenting classes and my midwife seemed unconcerned, “Oh, a bit later in the pregnancy. I’ll write you down.” I found out today that they had mistakenly crossed my name out and that’s why I hadn’t been invited yet.
Unlike a lot of Swedes, I don’t believe it’s taboo to buy things for the baby well before the birth, and since I have the space, I do want a nice nursery. Simple and classic, but still, nice. And yes, we did buy a semi-fancy stroller, but we bought it off Craig’s List in NYC, paying less than half of what we’d pay for an equivalent new one in Sweden.
No, I’m not monkish about the pregnancy but if I had to choose one extreme over the other, I’d pick the place where diaper genies are still considered luxurious (note to readers: I have already signed up for a free diaper genie-type thing in exchange for being subjected to spam emails and phone calls) over the pressure to make sure my baby is watching as much Baby Einstein as all the others.
Besides, I’ve realized in addition to keeping me sane, keeping a low-key approach to pregnancy has other perks. It means that every little thing I do buy or receive is that much more special. Just one of many reasons why this past weekend’s surprise baby shower was so lovely. Because I really didn’t expect it and my friends really didn’t need to do it.
Yep, on Sunday little Baby Bobo and I were treated to a surprise fete by my girlfriends and it couldn’t have been nicer. I thought I was going to Melissa’s for a small brunch with Charlotta, a friend down from Stockholm. But when I got to Melissa’s I was greeted with pictures of a pregnant me taped to the front door, and inside, a kitchen full of hiding friends. I cried. We toasted. And then we ate from Melissa’s delicious brunch spread.
While I helped myself to scones and salad, I got the skinny on my friends’ wonderful sneakiness. How Celia and Melissa, who hadn’t known each other before, had collaborated in the planning. How Erik had almost messed the whole thing up by allowing me to plan a housewarming party for last Saturday, the original date of the shower. How my American girlfriends and my mom were in on the secret and how they all sent their love.
After eating we commenced with the gifts. Bobo received two adorable onesies (one from lollapard and one from småfolk), one super-cozy night-gown from Lindex, a cd of world lullabies, a soft striped hat, a wooden rattle and a knitted scarf and mitten set. For my part, I got a homemade boppy (thanks again, Ginny!) and a gift certificate for a facial.
Of course, I would have appreciated all of these gifts even if I still lived in America. But somehow the fact that I’m not drowning in baby stuff, that I don’t have a registry and that I live in a place where people don’t have baby showers made the whole thing so amazingly sweet.
So hurrah for Sweden and it’s sane approach to pregnancy and hurrah to good friends who know when a little bit of America is just what’s needed.
P.S. Before anyone feels the need to point this out, I do realize that there are plenty of sane parents in America who don’t buy into a lot of the craziness and plenty of crazy parents in Sweden who do.
Filed under: preggers
And so it begins. Two months and three days to go until my due date and the symptoms, or side effects, or the oh, ouch, ugh of pregnancy have begun to arrive in earnest. The belly has gotten heavier and my frame is feeling it. My legs, which I’ve learned from occasional yoga are wound extremely tight, feel the bulk of the burden. A few weeks ago, I experienced sciatica but the baby must have shifted and the splitting nerve pain went away. In its place I have weak, tense legs that seem to only want to take itty-bitty steps. It kind of feels like I’ve just come in from a run, except the only running I’ve been doing lately is for the bus or towards a stand of mini-donuts in town.
My tailbone has been getting whiny as well and I’ve started to do that arching of the back thing that pregnant women do when they get up from a chair. If I don’t, I sometimes get a shooting pain in the ass. I’ve looked this up and it seems to be my ligaments stretching in preparation for the big day.
And speaking of big, my stomach is getting rather tight. I continue to eat like a horse but it doesn’t always feel like there’s room in there for much hay. Last night, feeling the pressure in my stomach, I looked down at the two remaining soy meatballs on my plate. They were taunting me and my queasiness. I ate them, of course, but it wasn’t pretty.
And last (for now) but not least, is the acid reflux (I think that’s what it is). My upper chest and esophagus burn slightly after eating, especially after spicy foods, and I have a general feeling that my food is being digesting about a foot north of where it should be. It’s lovely. I read the other day that there’s a connection between heartburn and babies being born with lots of hair. Not sure what acid reflux could indicate. Lots of indigestion, maybe.
My little litany of symptoms still reads quite mild. So far I haven’t had to endure any of the truly awful pregnancy stuff. Even when I’m groaning to Erik about “Heavy! Agh!”, I’m generally okay with these unpleasant bodily changes because they all point to baby really being on the way. And soon.
