Back from the land of ice and… more ice

Jeez, I go away for one measly week and suddenly everyone in this community has had embryos shoved in them, gotten BFPs, had their uteruses scraped, discovered who their real father is… OK, not that last one, but I wouldn’t be surprised at this point. What I’m saying is: Many apologies for my lack of commenting — honest to god, I really do care who your real father is, but the Internets have only semi-immigrated to Iceland and this made checking up on y’all these past 10 days not the easiest of tasks.

To answer your first question: I did not see fluffy ponies with beards while in Iceland, but I did see a lot of very pretty ponies. I also did not encounter any puffins because that required spending 1.5 hours on a boat, which I didn’t think was worth it, so my only puffin sighting was on my husband’s plate for dinner one night (and it was disgusting). HOWEVER, despite not achieving these goals, I had an amazing time in this weird, weird country. Our first stop was the obvious first stop, the Blue Lagoon:


It was the perfect way to de-jetlag ourselves. The water is warm without being dangerously hot, there’s a swim-up bar offering blue drinks and face masks made with volcanic ash and silica, and the surroundings are, as you can see, pretty darn stunning. So as not to bore you with a virtual slide show of our vacation, here are a few more quick pics:


This was the first house we rented, about an hour or so north of Reykjavik. Found it on Air BnB and highly recommend it.


This was our back patio, and what you see here is about as dark as it ever got in Iceland. The sun stayed way up in the sky right through the night, which you’d think would be kinda neat but was in fact mildly torturous.


This was our second place, about 2 hours south-east of Reykjavik, not far from the active volcano Eyjafjallajökull. Also an Air BnB find.


One of our hikes — those little white specks are sheep with a death wish.


And this is me, perched on a volcanic glacier (the black stuff is ash), NOT wearing the recommended crampons and therefore getting visions of my OB asking, post-tragedy, “And remind me, what made you think it was a good idea to go hiking on a glacier in a foreign country with inappropriate footwear while you were five months pregnant?”

As a so-called babymoon, it was a resounding success — there were a couple times when I started feeling hungry to the point of wanting to devour whichever sheep next crossed my path, or insanely fatigued to the point of asking my husband to “go on without me”, mostly on account of all the hiking we did, so I took it a bit slower near the end, but the little creature inside me kept moving around, which was immensely reassuring.

To answer your second question: Yes, I have calmed down a bit since our anatomy scan and minor scare about isolated echogenic bowel and it being a marker for reams of scary diseases. All my tests have come back negative — except we’re still waiting another couple weeks for the Cystic Fibrosis one — and I’m just trying to cling to the fact that my baby looks and seems healthy otherwise. Also, while we were in Iceland, we stopped in at a local farm and arrived just in time to see a lamb being born! I’d never witnessed anything like this before and it was amazing, and I took it as a sign that everything would turn out OK. Yes, fine, we also ate lamb that night for dinner, but the sign is still valid, dammit!

Lastly: I am finally starting to show (well, at least after three meals and lots of fizzy beverages), so I will post a 20-week bump pic at some point soon. However, my plan to document my growing abdomen as it coincides with my changing bathroom isn’t quite going to work because… OUR BATHROOM IS DONE! Miraculously, our contractor whipped the entire thing off during the time we were away, so we just have to paint the walls and it’s finito. I know you’re all DYING to look at pictures of floor tiles (no, really, they’re beautiful), so that will be in my next post.

Now, onto you ladies — dust off those welcome mats because I’ll be popping by yer blogs unannounced in the very near future!

Most anticlimactic gender reveal ever


So far, I have been pretty impressed with Canada’s public health system in terms of using it to navigate this pregnancy — we’ve never had to wait too long, staff have always been friendly, and even the weird “hospital” we go to (ie. the third floor of a Hydro One office building that’s been converted into Mount Sinai’s overflow space and therefore kind of feels like a movie set or a pretend hospital) isn’t too shabby-looking. But yesterday, when we had our anatomy scan and opted to find out the sex of the baby, I had my first moment of “Hmm, maybe this is where hand-holding midwives come in handy.”

The scan itself went OK — they got us in right on time, baby was kicking up a storm, the ultrasound tech was in a good mood. Halfway through, he said he needed baby to flip around so he could get a better shot of the brain and heart, so would I mind touching my toes for 5 minutes? I did him one better and ended up in a series of upside-down yoga poses (yes, while still in the ultrasound room), which actually worked. As he showed us some images on the screen, we got an under-the-bum shot and I was pretty sure I saw two little balls. The tech said nothing in response because he wasn’t allowed to disclose the sex. But later, I was pretty sure I heard him reference “his arm” when talking about its position. So fine, I had a bit of a hunch and was leaning toward “boy” anyway because of my slowly climbing betas and because all of you guys seemed to agree.

But here’s the deal: As the tech can’t reveal the sex, and the ultrasounds are performed separately from your appointment with the OB, the office staff basically just hand you a copy of the report at the end, which mentions the sex “somewhere near the bottom.”

So hubby and I take our piece of paper, ride the elevator back down to the lobby, sequester ourselves next to a random fern in the corner, and start hastily scanning for the words “boy” or “girl”. We look at the bottom, as directed, and the first thing we see are comments from the supervising doctor saying something about “isolated echogenic bowel” in the lower-right quadrant and how this can be linked to Cystic Fibrosis, Trisomy 21 and other conditions, and how we may want to consider genetic counselling. In the midst of totally freaking out, we scan up and see the words “likely male”. At this point, neither of us care. There is maybe 10% of us going, “LIKELY? Is there a penis or isn’t there?!” and then 90% of us going, “WHAT THE FUCK IS ECHOGENIC BOWEL?!” We open up our phones and start madly Googling and find a few semi-reassuring studies, but are still left standing in the lobby of a hydro building feeling pretty upset about seeing words like Cystic Fibrosis on our report and having NOBODY there to explain what this really means.

Skip to today: I’ve seen my OB and he said he encounters fetuses with echogenic bowel pretty much every other week (I have to say, I find this slightly hard to believe, seeing as it supposedly only appears in 1% of second-trimester ultrasounds). But that in itself is not a problem and usually disappears by the next ultrasound. Technically, however, it can be a marker for stuff like Cystic Fibrosis, Trisomy 21 (Down Syndrome), IUGRTORCH, etc. etc., so you just want to make sure to rule this stuff out. I already did my Trisomy bloodwork and the chances of baby boy having this are about 1 in 5,800 (fine). The baby was measuring on track, so pretty sure there’s no growth restriction (IUGR) happening. I don’t have any history of Cystic Fibrosis, but I guess hubs and/or I could be carrying it recessively, so we’re going to get tested, and same with the TORCH stuff. The rest of the anatomy scan was perfect and there are no other markers for anything scary, so basically we should try to relax about this. But still… I keep reading about there being a 5% chance of Cystic Fibrosis and that feels like a horribly high number. Will get results in a couple weeks.

First nightmare

OK, so usually when people start telling me about the craaaaazy dream they had last night, I start rolling my eyes because other people’s dreams are not entertaining. Like, “Ooooh, your brain had some unusual thought processes? That NEVER happens! FASCINATING….” The one exception to this rule is my husband’s dreams, because they genuinely make for the most absurd narratives (one of my favourites was one in which he was walking somewhere, then looked down and realizing he was walking on crocodiles).

Anyway, my point is that I will make this entry brief, in light of the fact that it involves a nightmare I had last night — the very first involving my pregnancy being at risk. In short, I was at some haunted hospital, at night, and a nurse was moving the doppler on my stomach, and said, “The heartbeat is too fast,” then gave me a look that said, “This is totally over.” And so I rushed to the fertility clinic for a proper ultrasound, except my doctor was suddenly Christopher Lloyd circa Back to the Future, and he wouldn’t let me do an ultrasound because I apparently broke the machine last time when I kept giggling. So I was begging and pleading with Christopher Lloyd and swearing on my life that I wouldn’t giggle anymore and I just really needed to see my baby.


And then I woke up. It sounds like the dumbest dream ever, but it was terrifying. I’m pretty sure what prompted this was something I read recently about how I shouldn’t be sleeping on my back because the weight of the fetus in my ute can compress some artery that, in turn, would make my heart rate slow down and deliver less blood/oxygen to the baby. And ALL last night, I kept waking up to find myself lying on my back, then panicking and turning onto my side. And then it would happen again, and again, and again (and this is especially weird because normally I hate sleeping on my back). OK, I’m boring myself now… so I’ll stop. But I think the lesson here is: Don’t ever watch Back to the Future. Or maybe also: Don’t freak out about every single pregnancy guideline. Take your pick.

1. Have baby; 2. Make millions of bazillions of dollars

Well, it’s Tuesday, aka the most boring day of the week (unless you’re, like, really into cheap movies), which means it’s the day I am most inclined to abandon work and watch YouTube videos of raccoons being like people or, even crazier, research local daycare options. We haven’t really figured out whether we’ll need daycare, or when, or how much we can spend on it, but hubby is insistent that we should at least put our name on a bunch of waiting lists just in case. Having written a fairly comprehensive article once on the state of daycare in Toronto (long story short: it’s insanely expensive and takes years to get your kid in anywhere), I felt I was starting from a knowledgeable place. But it’s still an overwhelming learning process — the city rates every one of its daycares on a MILLION different aspects, from toys available to how the room is decorated to how strictly the Canada Food Guide is adhered to, etc. Do you choose the daycare that rates high on learning or the one with a community garden and care providers who speak Croatian and Sinhalese? What about the one that gets really awesome ratings in nearly every category but is technically housed in the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health? What about that private Scandinavian daycare that believes in “spacious simplicity”? Is that a euphemism for “room with nothing but a single rocking horse, which is actually a statement piece and not for playing with because children need to learn restraint”?

Really, I suppose I should just sign up for all of them and then make a call on a case by case basis when spots come up. But something keeps holding me back… I guess it’s the whole still-feeling-like-a-fraud thing, like I can’t believe we’ll actually have a baby that will actually need care. And there’s another thing, too — the fact that I have no idea what I’ll be doing once my “mat leave” (read: minor allowance from the government that essentially amounts to a couple of bucks, one Tim Hortons coffee and one complimentary renewal of my driver’s license) ends. On the one hand, freelance writing is a great career to have when you’re raising children — you can work from home, the schedule is flexible, etc. — but on the other hand, it barely covers the bills and you can’t really give yourself a promotion. I admire moms who stay home to raise kids, but our household income just doesn’t allow for that. I am quickly realizing that momma needs a steady paycheck.

So my plan has been: 1. Have baby; 2. Become a breast-feeding, diaper-changing zombie for at least six months; 3. Find a way to transition into a new career, like one that involves water coolers and dental plans.

Is this really dumb, though?? Should I have figured out a new career trajectory and established myself BEFORE getting knocked up? Will it be impossible to go on a proper job hunt and do interviews and impress people when I have so-called mommy brain (hate that expression, by the way) and spit-up on my clothes? I’m suddenly paranoid that I’ve screwed this up… so if any of you out there have managed to change careers after having a kid, please chime in and let me know it’s possible!

Oh, and here’s your Weirdest Google Image Result of the day:


Bump pics and delusional stroller needs

A’ight, so I’ve taken the plunge and added a “bump pics” page to Yeah, Science! — those of you who are experts at analyzing mid-sections for fetal presence are more than welcome to take a gander, while those of you who find this photo-documentation obsession unsettling can just take a pass. I decided I would wear the same thing in each photo, but don’t ask how I came up with this combo — I frankly NEVER wear yoga pants, let alone yoga pants combined with a dress shirt (?). But now I’m stuck with it.

On another note, I found my dream stroller last week while walking past a thrift store near my house. Are you ready for the amazingness? Ready? Bam:


How cute is it?? Don’t get me wrong — I am WAY too superstitious to actually buy a stroller at this stage in the game, but I’m obsessed with vintage prams and fell in love with it. It’s totally practical, too — can fit into any sized trunk, easy to navigate down the aisle of a streetcar, collapses into a car seat and weighs no more than a small avocado.

Don’t worry, though — if someone happens to purchase it before I do, there’s a back-up plan in place. It’s called this:


Or possibly this, which I have on hold at Etsy:


16 weeks, aka the “awkward phase”

Well, the good news is that we still have a heartbeat! I realize this isn’t really news at all, because why on earth wouldn’t we have a heartbeat at this stage, but frankly I’m still kind of amazed. My OB is a wiz at locating it with the doppler — the first time, he didn’t have to move it at all, just knew exactly where to place it like he was some kinda fetal psychic (also known as spending upwards of three decades finding heartbeats, I suppose); this time, it took him about two seconds to locate it, and let me tell you, that first second was the most terrifying second I’ve ever experienced and felt like an ETERNITY. But it was there, and lovely. They weighed me and it turns out I’ve gained a single pound in the past 3 weeks (is that normal? I seriously never weigh myself and have no concept of what a pound really means). Blood pressure was miraculously low. Finally, the doc asked if I had any concerns and I said, “Oh, you know, just that the baby is dead…” and then he said — he actually said — that I could come in and listen to the heartbeat any time I wanted. Now, maybe this is common in the U.S., but in the land of public healthcare, anything that is even remotely unnecessary just isn’t accommodated — they’re not even doing routine physicals, breast exams or pap smears anymore. I gave him a shocked look and was all, “Um, I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t be wasting tax payers’ dollars on quelling my totally unjustifiable fears.” But he insisted it was fine. Lastly, I wanted to make sure that it was all right that I still didn’t have any sign of a growing tummy, and his response? “Oh no, you definitely have a bump!” Erm, excuse me while I put that in bold. I tried to explain it was probably just my breakfast and lack of exercise he was noticing, but he sounded pretty adamant that it was firmer than last time and most definitely growing.

This is a weird phase of pregnancy to be in, I have to say, because on the one hand, I love that other people can somehow detect a roundness down there even though I can’t; but on the other hand, I’m almost certain I’ve been this bloated before and it really just depends on the time of day and the meals I’ve eaten and so forth, so it’s almost insulting when it gets pointed out to me (like, you wanna point out how big my boobies are too, Mr. Acquaintance I Barely Know? Didn’t think so). I also feel this need to avoid the awkward transition phase by either wearing tight pants and sucking in or doing the exact opposite — consuming a buttload of carbs and pushing it out so there is no mistaking it.

Just FYI, I have been taking bump pics (8 weeks, 12 weeks and 16 weeks) in my shitty bathroom mirror, but I seriously am hesitant to upload them here when all three look THE EXACT SAME. I don’t know… should I just toss them onto a “bump pics” page anyway? Or maybe wait until 20 weeks, when there is sure to be some sign of real progression??

P.S. I was going to try and post a funny comic or image or whatever about looking preggo when you’re really just bloated, so I Google Imaged “burrito baby” because this is the term I always use after having eaten a lot of Mexican food and feeling as though I’m going to give birth to a burrito. Anyway, this is what turned up in the results:





That’s not even a burrito — it’s a taco! Gawd, get it right, people.

Calming myself with a (non-tequila) sunrise

Our 16-week appointment is coming up, which is totally NOT a milestone of any kind, nor should it be any cause for concern, but of course because it’s been three weeks since I last heard the heartbeat, I’ve started panicking. Again with the fears that Right On Time Fetus is dead, again with the obsessive-compulsive thoughts about how it maybe just stopped growing. Distraction, as always, is so damn important — and it was great last week because I turned 34 and was easily able to distract myself for a few days with other, more selfish fears of aging and disease. Then I had to pay my taxes — the infertility meds came in handy for easing the financial strain this year, but it was still a major blow to the bank account having to write those cheques. The only upside was that it proved to be another great distraction as I replaced baby fears with fears of The Tax Man coming to my front door and threatening to audit me and take even more of my monies.

Finally, I decided this weekend to attempt a form of distraction that did NOT involve fear (wha? huh?). Rather, it involved escaping to my parents’ new cottage two hours north of the city, perched right on a beautiful lake. It was my first time sleeping over there and — because it’s east-facing and still doesn’t have curtains or blinds — I was woken up at 5:45 a.m. by the sunrise. This is what I saw from my position in bed:


Normally, I would have been irritated at anyone waking me up at 5:45 a.m., be it a friend, stranger, or ball of fire in the sky. But I figured I should probably get used to this if there still is a heartbeat inside my abdomen, as it will eventually make for a pretty sleepless fall/winter, defined largely by wailing and pooping. And so I took a few moments to appreciate the insane peace and tranquility of a Muskoka lake before anyone else had woken up (and if Right On Time Fetus was awake by that point, well, good for him/her. Wait, can fetuses even open their eyelids at 16 weeks? Gawd, nevermind).

Anyone have any other calming rituals I might be able to borrow in the days leading up to these tests, scans and appointments?

32E. Not even kidding.

I keep reiterating to everybody that absolutely nothing has changed since I got pregnant — at 14 weeks, there is still no trace of a bump, no symptoms, no nausea, and even those revolting cravings I had for Kraft Dinner and McDonald’s cheeseburgers have vanished (bless you, hippocampus). However, I think I’ve been in denial about my boobs. They’ve been slightly tender since beginning the progesterone soon after my transfer, and my husband has insisted that they’ve grown, but every time I look at my profile in the bathroom mirror, I really can’t notice any difference. I have, however, realized that only one bra tends to fit me now, and it was the bra I purchased worrying that it might be a titch too big on me. If I wear any of my other bras, I can just about stuff myself into them while getting ready in the morning, but they are guaranteed to be making an exit by the time I undress myself at night. And let me tell you, there is not a lot of sexiness involved in taking your shirt off and attempting to entice your hubby as Lefty pokes its nipple out to check on things while Righty oozes out the bottom like it’s searching for its keys.

Point being: I came to admit it. My tits were bigger. I needed a new bra.

So off I went to this store in Toronto that basically refuses to sell you a bra unless you agree to do a proper fitting with a sales rep, which sounds annoying, but it really just ensures that you walk away with something that fits (and the vast majority of women have their size all wrong). I described what I was looking for — ie. something comfy but not ugly that my boobs won’t be able to escape — and off went the sales rep. When she came back with a series of bras that had inch-thick straps and three to four hooks on each clasp, I was momentarily disturbed. But then I tried on the sexier black one made by Freya (you can see it here; it’s not the nursing bra, just the regular version):


It was awesome. No underwire but plenty of support, lifts up the tatas and covers them without looking like a granny bra. Plus, I took it as a good sign that it was made by a company called Freya — my husband and I were considering that as a girl’s name; we probably won’t go for it, but I still think it’s very pretty. I gave it a test run yesterday and, sure enough, at the end of the night, I removed my shirt and everything was in place. Then, I happened to notice the actual size of the bra and gasped: 32E. I have only ever purchased 34C. As if I’m an E CUP?! Is there even milk being made in there yet, or is that just general bulge?? Deep breaths.

Anyway, I guess this marks my second official pregnancy purchase, after the pseudo-informative book. What usually comes next, ladies? Stretch mark cream? Pre-natal yoga videos? I kinda just want to skip to ironic onesies — is that allowed?

Skunks and headaches

Many apologies for the radio silence, gang… do you bloggers ever get into this weird mode where you feel the need to ignore the Interwebs for a while, until you reach the next “thing” (CD1, NT scan, WTF appt, etc.)? I kind of get like that sometimes, including in pregnancy, so while on the one hand I’m thrilled to be 14 weeks, on the other, I’m desperate to hit the next mark, 16 weeks, when we get results on bloodwork. So I’ve kind of ignored this space. On top of this, there’s been a wave of bad news recently… it felt for a while like there was suddenly BFP after BFP, but just as quickly I started to read of failed IVFs and miscarriages amongst some of my favourite bloggers and it was so upsetting. I can’t stop thinking about all these women going through a stage of infertility that I never had to deal with, and feeling like there’s nothing I can say to help them. Shoot, and isn’t it NIAW this week? Way to drop the ball, Me.

Anyway, I’ve also been sick (great excuse, totally using that) and busy (even better — not unoriginal in the least). We’ve decided to renovate our bathroom, which is all happening in June but requires immediate purchasing of tub, shower fixtures, floor tiles, etc. I will show you guys the before and after shots because I promise you they will be AMAZING and totes worthy of an HGTV special. Also, my cat Weeps got sprayed right in the face by a skunk recently, so much of my free time has been spent attacking her with watered-down ketchup (organic!), soapy de-skunking solution, and baking soda. Has it worked? Erm, not so much, but at least her eyes are looking better:


Look at that face! So smooshable!

In pregnancy-related updates, there ain’t much to report, other than the fact that I endured my first headache sans Advil. I actually cannot remember the last time I didn’t pop an ibuprofen when my head was pounding, so this was a bit scary. I wasn’t sure just how bad it would get, how far it would progress. I’ve never had migraines, but my eyeballs were really aching this time and I couldn’t really eat anything without feeling sick. I knew I could probably run out and buy some Tylenol, which is safe to take while preggo, but it’s never really worked for me before. Instead, I took my beloved grain-filled Sac Magique:


I warmed it up to super-duper hot, wrapped it around the back of my head, chugged some tea, lay in bed with all the lights off and slept for 12 hours. Success! Although to be honest, I’ll probably try some Tylenol next time anyway.

In the mean time, I’m feeling and looking the exact same — ie. no symptoms, not showing. This makes it all the more bizarre when I’m, say, asking a masseuse not to push on my belly “because I’m pregnant” (he was looking at me like, “She’s probably lying to cover up a weird psychological issue with people touching her stomach”), or accepting congratulations and answering questions about my pregnancy from acquaintances who’ve just found out or even strangers at a party who overheard me say something. I just get this sense that people automatically look at my belly and think, “Um, where is it?” I also find it strange to gush about my pregnancy in a group setting with other women in their 30s — I automatically start doing mental calculations to figure out the chances at least one of them is going through or has endured infertility, and usually try to change the subject after five minutes. Recently, this happened at book club, where I was getting excitedly questioned by a couple of women, but the whole time I just kept thinking about the one friend at the table who was living child-free (by choice), the other who was in her late 30s and also living child-free (less by choice), and another who had gotten pregnant at the exact same time as me and then found out she lost the baby at 8 weeks. I don’t know if this is an infertility-survivor thing, per se, but I will always be very conscious, when conversation turns to babies, that not everyone wants to talk about this for hours on end. And frankly, that includes me (seriously, I don’t need sleep-training advice just yet, but thanks!).

So — any ideas for how to smoothly segue from pregnancy talk to, say, anything else? Like, “Oh, speaking of diaper brands, I was just going to ask you about… loss of bladder control in adulthood?” Surely you guys can come up with something better than this!

To OB or not to OB?

(Trailer for BBC show Call The Midwife, which I totally want to see, even though we aren’t using one. Any of my British readers seen this yet?)

I’m not sure how it goes in other places around the world, but here in Ontario, the moment you get pregnant you have to decide whether you want an OB or a midwife to deliver your baby. Thanks to our public healthcare system, both of these options are 100% free, but you can’t have both. I must say, I’ve generally heard that having a midwife makes the entire experience much more enjoyable. You get a lot more attention, they’ll come to your house and take time to explain things to you, and there’s much more offered in the way of post-partum care, like help with breastfeeding. Having said this, all the doctors I know who’ve had babies have opted for an OB. Maybe this is because they don’t need all that extra hand-holding, or perhaps it’s because they know something I don’t about the treatment you receive in hospital when you’re registered with an OB rather than a midwife. I’m not totally sure, but ultimately, hubs and I decided to go with an OB.

Why? Well, a few reasons:

1. We both come from families of doctors, who all advocate this choice; also, we can always turn to our parents/siblings if we need medical advice at 11 p.m. on a Sunday, so the “availability” factor isn’t really an issue.

2. I don’t think doing infertility treatments necessarily means your pregnancy is “high risk” but I have high blood pressure and I’m worried it will come into play later on. I want an OB to take responsibility for identifying and treating pre-eclampsia, not a midwife.

3. Thanks to a few good connections, we managed to get paired up with the head of obstetrics at the best hospital in Toronto, a 10-minute drive away. He gets rave reviews. We are not about to turn this opportunity down.

Having said all this, I might very well switch to a midwife if/when we end up getting pregnant for a second time. So far, our experience in the “traditional” system has been a bit confusing — there is no one to really guide us through everything, nobody telling us what information we need to bring in order to get ultrasounds done, nobody informing us which part of which building we should be going to afterwards to make an appointment with the OB, no explanation of how these pee sticks work and what bloodwork should or shouldn’t be done. It’s all on us to keep asking questions and demanding to be seen by someone, which is a bit frustrating. But at least we’re type A and can deal with it.

I also think it’s interesting how worked up people will get talking about care providers. The debate somehow gets watered down into polarized sides — you’re either in the “natural” camp or the “medicalized” one, which drives me crazy. Newsflash: Just because you choose to go with an OB, doesn’t mean you sign on to induced labour and epidurals and all these other drugs. You can still voice your opinion on what you do and do not want, and you can be in and out of that hospital in under 24 hours if you play it right. I don’t buy into theories that doctors are out to make money on their patients (certainly not in this country) or would put their own interests above that of a mother and baby in labour.

Anyway, that’s our plan… and our reasoning. I think if we really want to indulge, we may look into hiring a post-partum doula to help with the craziness of having a newborn, but that’s still under consideration. So tell me: Who did you choose — or who would you choose — for your care provider, and why? And do you pay any attention to friends or family members who don’t agree with your decision?