This is Not a Third-World Country

(Out for our first anniversary dinner.) 

So last night I was talking to BigD.  She sent a lovely "going home"* outfit for Pickle, so I called her to thank her, to catch up and also to whine about various "I'm sick of being pregnant"** sort of things.  

In the course of conversation, she mentioned that she ran into a friend at a party.  This friend's son (who is about my age) married a woman from another country and are expecting a baby as well.  But they went home to Gainesvegas to wait out the final months until the baby is born. 

So this friend, who isn't the first one to say so, mentioned that they were surprised that I was having our baby in Norway.  

And a second ago, I checked the stats for their daughter-in-law's particular country, which is associated with many things that tend to be somewhat negative.  And, unsurprisingly, I suppose, I find that it has one of the highest infant mortality rates in its region of the world and one of the lowest standards of maternal care. 

So it's totally understandable that this couple would jet off to a safer place to deliver their baby. 

That is not the way it is in Norway. 

I've written of the medical system "flaws," many of which I am not into.  I am not on board with the all-natural, and abhor the bullying into it.  I would rather have a doctor, not only follow me through the pregnancy, but also be there when Pickle arrives.  And I won't even get started about the easy drug access and the lack of choice about how he will eat once he arrives.

But Norway is safe and completely focused on family and babies.  

And in the past week, I've started feeling much better about it. 

After our appointment with Kari, the Wonder Wife, Husband, without my knowledge went back to the hospital.  He searched out the head of the department and re-explained everything. Together they amended my chart and registration---which lovely Kari had filled in to say merely "Anxious American"---to reflect my notes and wishes.  

And last week, my doctor sent a note to the department saying I was feeling pressured and made an appointment for Husband and me to talk to another midwife on staff at the hospital.  

A few days ago we went and instead of the "It will all be fine, we will take care of you" dismissiveness we've had thus far, she explained the national process and offered advice on how to navigate better.  

So, really, most likely, it's all going to be fine.  

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

*For those of you not from the Southern United States, let me explain.  When a baby leaves the hospital, he or she must be dressed up in some sort of finery for the photos and the ride home.  This is important.  And no, Husband did not understand it either.  We opened it together and knowing better than to tease or mock, especially right now, he said "Ohhhhh, so these are the times when we pretend Pickle is a doll and you just dress him up." Clearly.  Also, because the ride home is relatively short, I may make Husband take a drive through town just because it seems like we should enjoy the schmancy outfit, which is really cute, but I won't show it now.  I'd hate to ruin the surprise. 

**Too boring for words. Suffice to say, among other things I cannot sleep, I waddle and I am now shaped like a beer-gutted redneck.  Seriously, check the photo.  If I had stubble and was wearing a stained tank top, you may for a moment wonder if I was about to give birth to a keg. 

(Last Sunday at 39 weeks.) 

Some days, my life is a poorly written SNL skit

I love Gawker for a variety of reasons and have spent much too many hours happy hours perusing the site for years.  

I saw this a few days ago and it reminded of Norwegian hospitals.* 

If you're going to have a baby in Norway, you get a letter from your local hospital about 3 or 4 weeks before your due.  That letter instructs you to come in to the birthward to pre-register, which should be a great thing.  

You meet with one of the midwives who will take your info and confirm your details (name, address, etc....).  This midwife is also supposed to make notes about your wishes (all natural vs drugs, language requirements for caregivers, would you like a window, etc....) 

So on the day (or evening) when you came in for the birth, whoever is on duty can pull out your file and be good to go.

This is especially important because the person giving birth (in this case, me) will not have ever met or have ever seen whoever is on duty at that moment.  

The person delivering the baby (in this case, Pickle) will be a complete stranger and just whoever happens to be on duty.  

Yes, the only person I will know at the time will be Husband. 

So when I say this appointment is important, it's because it is. 

Ours was not very successful.  

We had Kari, The Wonder (Mid)Wife.**  

Over the course of our 20 or so minutes, along with our other wishes, we said we'd like a note put into our file that I would like an epidural and that any caregivers should be fluent and comfortable speaking English.

She informed us that because Husband knows some Norwegian, that English speaking wouldn't be as important.***  

And more so, that, if she were the midwife on duty, she'd take an assessment and decide whether or not I could have the drugs, but that it would really be better for everyone if I practiced breathing and used the gas.**** 

After that, I was slightly disturbed, but even more so, when she began chit-chatting while she was typing into our file.... 

___________________________________________

Kari, the Wonder-Wife:  So what do you think of your new president?

Me:  I am thrilled

K, t WW:  Thrilled?

Because I thought she may not have heard me or perhaps didn't understand the vocabulary or some such, I tried again.....

Me:  Thrilled. I think he is a good man and just the right person to deal with the giant mess.  He's got a hard job, though. 

Still nothing.  Just a quick glance and silence.  So I gave it one more try.

Me: But what do you think?

K, the WW:  Oh I don't know.

And, in one last attempt to be cheery, plus clearly she had something to say...

Me: Really? Most people have some sort of opinion.

Kari, the WW: Well, I think a change is good, but I don't; know about a black man. Or any colored really.  And by colored, I mean any colored person other than white. We've only had people that are colored here for about 30 years and I don't think we'd let them run the country.

Me:   Huh. 

Husband, who has been silent until now:   Huh. 

Kari, the WW: Yes, you know how we are here. We like our own people.

Me: That's funny. I guess we just like all sorts of good, brilliant people back in the states.

Kari, the WW:  Well, that's not very Norwegian, is it?
_________________________________________

It was so odd and weird and unfunny, that, in between my rants about the system, we laughed about it until we almost cried. 

I am going to deliver the Pickle in the middle of an SNL skit...and a poorly written, not so funny one, at that.

**************************************************

*Or to be fair, it reminded me of one instance and one midwife in one Norwegian hospital. 

**And no, doctors don't get involved in these parts, unless surgery is needed.

***To be fair, Husband is actually fluent in the Norwegian language, so that note in our file would be valid and totally on point IF Husband was in actual possession of the particular ladyparts from which our Pickle will most likely emerge.  He is not.  I am. My Norwegian is only fluent-ish through Lesson 8 in my textbook.  So being able to ask a shop-person if they have a green sweater in my size won't be as useful in this case.

***The "gas" is the same gas used in the dentist office, in the case you need a bit of drilling.  One friend of mine, who missed the window for an epidural here because they told her to go home.  She took a long walk around the hospital grounds, came back and her daughter was born 90 minutes later.  She used the gas as a last resort and said "It does take the edge off and the mask is useful for screaming into." 

One year ago today

My older brother has been with his wife for more than half of their lives and married for almost ten.  

So when he toasted us at our rehearsal party and said, "Pay attention every day, because the years pass quickly." I knew he must know what he's talking about. 

He's right.

I cannot believe that an entire year has passed since the hitchin'.

And it's been a big year.  

We've knocked out (or made a big dent in) most of the major milestones...marriage, major move, cultural adjustments, employment instability (then stability), family illnesses, travel and sometime in the next few weeks, we'll have a Pickle, as well. 

And even with all of it, it's been really good and mainly a whole lot of fun. 

I don't know how we got so lucky, but we're both pretty sure staying lucky comes down to remembering something the Big D said a few weeks before.  

I asked her for advice and she said,"Why don't you two just try to always be nice to each other. Then see how it goes."

And thus far, it's been going really well.  

Shhhhhhhh...Happy Valentine's Day!

Because we got married really close to Valentine's Day and also because both of us are somewhat cynical about such holidays (too much pressure, when really you should be good to your person all days of the year, etc... etc....) we kind of ignore today....

But still, Husband is my very favorite person in the whole world and I think I'm pretty close to the top of his list, as well....

So Happy Valentine's Day, Husband!

Our first visit

As it's been well documented, Megan is my peep.  And I've been psyched about her popping over from New York for a visit...

What did we do all week, you wonder?

We burned fried chicken and then ate it anyway.

We had a night out...

(Husband flashes a gang sign while Erin plays it cool.)

(The slouch of my body is to distract from the fact that I am approximately the same width as both Megan and Kyrre.  Is it working?)

Then we got fancy to go to my baby shower. 

(My friend Omar went to India and brought me a lovely belt.  Because my waist has gone missing, now I am using it to wrap what I can.  Thanks, Omie.)

(Look at everyone.  How lucky am I?  More on this later.)

We visited with my sweet hunds.

(Milo and Lillie are blue because they just found out that Megan will not live with us forever.)

We took a driving tour of the area. Husband explained it all. 

Then for Megan's birthday, we all went to dinner. We gave her a scarf and lessons on the correct use of toothpicks, but only if you're in Stavanger, Norway or Colquitt, Georgia.  

(Don't try this at home, kids.) 

Feminism: U R Doin' It Rong

In anticipation of Pickle's arrival sometime in the next month or so, Husband and I have been taking a Birth Class.  

For those not familiar with the process in these parts, some Norwegians can be pretty particular and mostly opinionated about the "right way" that things should be done. 

And while I respect all sorts of opinions, I am about done up with most of the following phrases:

---Your body is doing what it is meant to be doing. 

---A woman's only purpose is procreation and continuation of human life.

---All natural is the only and best way to give birth. 

---You must .

---We don't treat pregnancy and childbirth like a sickness here, like you Americans do. 

I can go on, but perhaps you get my point.  It's not the opinions, it's the lack of respect for my own. 

But back to the Birth Class...it's taught by a expat British woman and the only one offered in English.  We signed up because it is helpful to get info about how to navigate the system and generally to understand the actual process a bit better. 

But before we started, I looked into the content to see how balanced the information would be and was assured that there was not any bias that all views would be discussed and considered. 

As the classes went on, it's become pretty clear that the instructor is an all natural advocate, which is fine, but not what we were promised and not what I intended to sign up to listen to for 16+ hours (yes, this class is 8 weeks). 

I'm all about the information gathering, but I am not all about getting told what to do. 

Last week, she hands us each an article and says "I didn't write this, but it's pretty much exactly how I feel about things." 

The title of the article is "Labor pain: labor power."  The basic premise of the text is that pain medication is a paternalistic creation to deny women their womanly power.  It goes on to say that without pain, you wouldn't bond with your baby. And that to offer pain relief is to deny mothers and all women their "transformation."  

And more so, that the presence of pain equals a better mother.

Just by the law of averages and general statistics, at least one of the eight women in the birth class will have a C-section. And I've had several friends adopt children and even use surrogacy to create a family. None of which involve the kind of pain touted as necessary in the article. And none of which will be indicators on whether or not she has a strong bond with her baby.

And it claims to be a feminist perspective.

If I remember correctly, I think that feminism is all about having choices, and respecting the choices of others.

Frankly, I think it is about the least feminist article I've ever read.