Number Two January 1 - 18, 2005 Tom has to share his place in the sun - and not only in this journal

	Another on the way... a bored little Hippo is sucking on a thumb

This journal is aimed mostly at those who had received our new year's card and who are still pondering a question, whether it is appropriate to "infer from it somehow" or not. In fact, a much more important thing is on its way, than a mere date with a new digit in the year -- our Little Hippo #2, i.e. Tom's sibling. We hope that this new baby shall be a bit less curious and stays where it should be till the beginning of August.

	Sometimes Tom gets to go out with both parents. He entered this little pool on the edge of Pacific ocean so quickly and resolutely, that we could not prevent it.

What caught me off guard in this pregnancy, was my sudden transfer from a category of "you're a young woman, there won't be any problems" into a category "you know, we need to consider your age". It strikes me as completely absurd -- especially since, were I four months younger (i.e. my term would fall before reaching age of 35), I would be still in the former category. This does not mean I want to belittle veracity of the statistics, nor do I dispute a need of some -- however artificial -- threshold, yet still it seems weird to me. I had resolved to take it all with a dose of humor, and let it not get into my head, alas, I have been too optimistic. No idea whether local health care providers also hold shares of lab companies furnishing amniocentesis test results, but so far every one of them could not refrain from FORCING me to (re)learn about wonderful benefits of this invasive procedure. They claim not to be exerting pressure, to the extent of accusing me of being a careless mother, yet their arguments, culminating in a patronizing, "there's no reason to be afraid, it does not hurt", had gradually grown my urge to start screaming hysterically.

	With one's most favorite daddy, one can do plenty of interesting things

Right in my first sentence, I try to explain that I would like to decide for a procedure, which may end in miscarriage, only in the case we were shown some serious reason -- that is, one other than my thirty fifth birthday occurring in March. My trying does not work -- I must usually escalate to somewhat harsher methods, to make my momentary health care representative notice that I happen to have an opinion. To give an example: with statements to the effect that amnio is more accurate than other tests, I ask whether such a test can guarantee a 100% heathy child? Having been informed how low the risk of miscarriage is, I demand to know, what such a risk is for a woman who had already experienced one premature birth, and how negligible in my case is the little fact that amniocentesis can cause contractions and spasms which last for several days? Since there are no conveniently up-beat answers available to these questions, I now have this particular "consultant" cornered enough, and we can move on to some topic other than this incredible wonderfulness of amniocentesis. So far, I had explained my position on amniocentesis to a midwife during my first examination; to a nurse who ordered my alternative genetic tests; to a receptionist at the genetic test location, who automatically wanted to make me an appointment for amniocentesis; to a genetics consultant; to a genetics lab technician, and eventually to the uppermost genetics uber-director. Given the fact that I have been scheduled for a whole barrage of consultations and examinations, I am considering to have my general opinion about amniocentesis tattooed on my forehead. It might save me the need to endlessly repeat that I want to base my decision on some medical facts and not on "your health insurance will cover it".

	Tom could not decide whether to enjoy our care for his hair, or whether to be afraid of a noisy hair-clipper.

With this Little Hippo, I have had a sonograph test in my seventh week, I had an entry exam, initial blood tests, and a test for nuchal translucence. The last had been done at this specialized genetics location. The Little Hippo was already tired of all the empty talking (another hour of "consultation" -- you may guess what it was about...!), and by the time we got to the sonograph, it had laid down with a thumb in its mouth and refused to dance for the technician. She kept poking it, waking it up, and in the end sent me to have a serious drink of water, to fill my bladder and make things visible. Yet in the second round the technician still did not succeed, so she eventually had to call for the chief of the clinic, to have the most specialized one of specialists review my uncooperative baby. The specialist has concluded (besides telling me that amniocentesis is blah blah blah) that the Little Hippo looked quite normal, and I could finally go and relieve Sid of parenting duties, which he had been fulfilling for three hours already.

	Haircut does not seem to have harmed Tom in any way.

Tommy has begun to make concessions for his younger sibling. He has to come along to get thoroughly bored in doctors' waiting rooms, which is manageable in case of a fifteen minute exam or a blood sample, but completely unrealistic, should any obstruction arise. A first interview with a midwife is supposed to take an hour -- but thanks to a delay in appointment schedule, we spent whole two and half hours at the clinic. For a fraction of this time, Tom intrigued the nurses, but he mostly ran outside in a parking lot, with Sid watching and playing with him. Genetics were no different -- except that the waiting room contained altogether six chairs on six by six feet of space, of which two chairs were occupied by a couple with a two-year old, pacifier sucking, hysterically screaming toddler. He cried uninterrupted for the whole duration of our stay at this location, making (not only) Tom quite nervous. I can't imagine just myself, taking care of our exploring junior while being examined at length, so Sid must make himself available and skip work.

Tommy certainly does not mind -- he keeps showing that daddy has been his most favorite person in our humble household. He usually monitors every squeak in the evening and immediately rushes to our door between kitchen and garage, to subsequently hang around Sid's neck like a 25 pound necklace. It seems to me that he is happier now that Sid takes him to swimming lessons (I refuse to buy pregnancy swimsuit and cannot wear my regular one for I look like an idiot in it). Fortunately for us, weather got better lately and all playgrounds had a chance to drain and dry, so I can make Tom's day somewhat more interesting. We all had passed a flu phase, can again go visiting, take walks with our neighbor's boy, and we even have attended one children's birthday party -- still it seems I stay a "boring mother".

After a lot of hesitation, Tom has received a new haircut. Sid and grandmother long protested my idea of using a electric clipper, but Tom's entirely straight hair cannot be cut with scissors -- if I did that (and did not reduce the volume all over his head -- I'd like to see the champion who can manage to cut our Tommy this way without ragged edges), he would look like a village idiot. I could just as well give him a Moe cut (of The Three Stooges fame). Anyway, Tom got the same treatment (with an electric clipper) like Sid gets -- and we don't feel too bad about it. Our indulgent child became, during the cutting, caught between two emotions -- he really loves to have his hair brushed, which is exactly the feeling you get with the clipper; on the other hand, he fears noisy things. A comical situation ensued -- he held tight and enjoyed it, yet tears of fear sprung up in his eyes. The only thing I'm not sure about, is how parents of little girls deal with haircuts -- I must either hope that our second Little Hippo is a boy again, or I shall look for a hair-styling class.

Copyright © 2005 by Carol & Sid Paral. All rights reserved.