Tag Archives: Pregnancy

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And He Laughed… and Squealed. And It Was Perfect.

You spend 40 weeks with this monster growing inside of you. You’re happy, but the time you spend with your head over the toilet or dreading the numbers on the scale makes you wonder why you got yourself into this mess. All the planning in the world doesn’t help you at that moment. All you can do is sit and imagine the little person’s first smile or laugh and dream of its personality and you hope that reminds you of why you’re doing this.

Pregnancy isn’t for control freaks. You can’t control anything really, and you’ll lie to yourself if you think you can. Those people who freak out in the delivery room because they lose control should’ve done one thing to prepare: let go of the idea you can control everything. The minute you do that, it does get a lot easier. Do you go “I can’t wait to get induced and have extremely painful contractions that are worse than natural labor” when you find out you’re pregnant? Do you think “Hey, let’s just cut me open right now and get this sucker out because his heartbeat kept dipping”? I doubt either of these things were ever said. The reality is when you’re there in that moment, anything can happen and you need to prepare mentally for the fact that whatever happens you had no control over.

My midwife said that I did the best thing I could for myself when I when in for my induction. I studied enough about what was going to happen to not get freaked out but to be fully prepared mentally. I went into the hospital with the expectation that everything I didn’t want to happen was going to happen and I was going to get a c-section and a healthy baby. I was mentally prepared that I had no control over any outcome, but was mentally ready for the worst case. I was elated that my mental scenario didn’t happen.

It doesn’t end there, control freaks. You think that once that kid is born you regain control. Excuse me a moment, I just laughed a little. You can’t control a baby, it controls you. You might believe parenting books when they say “you just lay them down and they’ll know it’s bedtime”. The fact is sometimes you lay them down and they squeal with delight for playtime. They say “schedule feedings”, but I wonder if they actually had a kid. You can’t control when they eat or how much they eat when they do. You can’t control how many diapers they use in a week and you definitely can’t control when they wake up at night. Just know that this lack of control should help you know in life, you just can’t control everything. At least letting go of this control is worth it with the glowing smile and the high-pitched squealy laugh your little one shows off to let you know he loves you too.

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We

In the morning, it’s hard to find anything worth watching. You’re stuck with baby reality television shows, infomercials, or biased news talk shows. So, I generally chose the baby reality shows. It makes me feel better than I’m no longer pregnant anymore and I get to laugh at how silly they look talking about normal things making it seem like they’re the first person to have to make a cold lunch for one child while pregnant. Yeah, we’ve done that move on. I find reality shows are really just comedies for me to sit around with my popcorn because the way they make every day life seem like an over-dramatic soap opera is really just hilarious.

Something did catch my attention on Monday, and I decided to watch 3 hours worth of these shows for an experiment. On the first show at 7 am, the husband of this woman who was having a difficult time with the pain begs for an epidural after several hours. Her husband stood outside talking to the camera while they were putting the epidural in and said “we really wanted a natural childbirth so we’re pretty disappointed by this. Maybe next time.” I took the controller to rewind this (thank you DVR) to see if I heard this man correctly. It turns out, I did. I couldn’t believe my ears that a person could be that idiotic.. or selfish I haven’t decided yet. So I watched for a week and it turns out that in more than half of these shows the husband or partner says something like “we had hoped to have a natural birth/breastfeed but she couldn’t do it and we’re disappointed.”

If I had heard my husband say anything like that, I’d probably punch him in the face. It wouldn’t be hormones, it would be my short temper. The “we” part of the baby process ended with the making of the fetus. “We” cannot have natural childbirth, “I” can  have natural childbirth. He can be a part of the decision and most definitely was a part of every decision that was made. But there certainly was only one of us squeezing a child out. You could say “my wife wanted a natural childbirth but was disappointed she couldn’t” and it would be perfectly acceptable. I understand, maybe the “we’ makes him feel more involved. But it seemed like “he” wanted the natural birth more than she did, and to be disappointed that she “failed” him is incredibly aggravating.

Personally, I’d like to see him pop out a baby naturally and see how long he lasts. I give him 5 minutes before he offers to do unspeakable things to the anesthesiologist for pain relief. Then I hope he’s too far along to get one and has to go at it alone. No, I don’t feel bad for saying that. The most important point of this whole rant can be applied in mostly every situation in life: It’s easy to make decisions for other people without knowing what they’re going through. In pregnancy and birth, nothing ever really goes as planned. And no one ever realizes how excruciating it is until going through it. Instead of being disappointed that your wife couldn’t “suck it up”, sit by her every second of the way at your place next to the bed and let her decide if she’s in too much pain. Get her ice chips and rub her back and make her feel better, not worse. And to you reality show “supportive” soon-to-be dads, understand that any woman who had gone through childbirth and sees you say something like that, realize that we’re all thinking about punching you in the face.

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6 Weeks Later

I’m sitting there, embarrassed that my first “holy crap I leaked, and it’s obvious and embarrassing” happened, but pleased at least it was at the doctor’s office where they’re used to that sort of thing. I’m waiting in the uncomfortably cold room wondering why if they’re going to hand you something to “keep you warm”, they don’t give you something that’s actually warm while you wait to be examined. It could be worse though, I could still be pregnant. Or maybe that wouldn’t be a bad thing considering I got more sleep and could sit down and enjoy more of a meal than a granola bar or something else I only need one hand to eat.

Then the door opens, a troupe of people cheering and applauding me. My midwife comes in with a microphone… “3 minutes?!! 3 MINUTES??!! How does it feel?”

I look at the camera and asked “..3 minutes…?” I had no clue what was going on.

I shook my head and closed my eyes a minute, they were drooping from being exhausted. I opened them and my midwife and her student P.A. were standing there, waiting for my answer. “Seriously, what’s going on?”

She laughed, “I think you set a record. A 3 minute push time. How does that make you feel?”

“Really, that only took 3 minutes? It seemed a whole lot longer…”

“Don’t tell your friends, you’ll lose them all afterwards. Both deliveries happened quick and the last one was 3 minutes. I’m afraid to see how your next one goes. I might have to hospitalize you before your water even breaks. You might not last the 10 minute drive.. in fact you probably won’t. You’re famous. Everyone was talking about it. It’s even in your notes all capitalized.”

I laughed. I wanted to be a famous writer… apparently my claim to fame is getting a kid out of me because it was the only way to stop the pain. I’ll take it though. Obviously I ignored the whole “not telling anyone” thing, because honestly it just makes a funny story. Or gives me something to brag about. I don’t get much to brag about but how awesome my sons and husband are. This achievement.. this one is mine. I should feel sad that this is my accomplishment, but I made a friend with the labor nurse who said to call her next time.

The real lesson here is no matter what you do, you take pride in it. Whether it’s mastering making one son breakfast while holding an infant and making his bottle and feeding him after while making your son his cold lunch for school. These may seem minor, but minor victories are all the rage. Even the littlest of them to others are huge moments for you. Embrace them. No matter how boring or meaningless they seem to everyone else.

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And It’s Been 10 Years.

The announcement of my 10 year reunion should’ve shocked me. Has it really been 10 years? I was prepared though, as my oldest son was born a few months after graduation. I’ll show this in a hilariously funny conversation my son, my father, and I had when my son finished the third grade and was about to start his summer vacation.

“Can you believe I graduated Kindergarten only a few years ago? Man I’m getting old.” My son looked down as if he were remembering an ancient memory.

“Can you believe this time 40 years ago I graduated high school?” My father said.

“Well this was a long time ago for someone my age, Pop.” My son rolled his eyes as if to say “Oh silly Pop”. My father laughed.

“What do you mean? That we’re old?” I looked at my son, pretending to be angry. He looked stunned and started to stutter something to backtrack his statement. I decided to join in the conversation. “Can you believe this time 10 years ago, I graduated high school?”

My son looked at me, and he goes “10 years ago? Wait.. I’m going to be 10….” He looked at me confused. I changed the subject.

This made me realize the timing of my pregnancy was terrible. If I had gone to my reunion pregnant, there would be an excuse for my size. They’d touch my belly, making me wish I could drink to forget them all touching me, and be done with it. Then they would mock the other skinny girls from high school that seemed to double in size since graduation and we’d all feel better about ourselves. Don’t worry about the girls being mocked, it’s an open bar and they’d probably already be half in the bag.

Except this reunion I’m not the skinny girl from high school. I’m the “just had a baby and look awkwardly big” stage of post-pregnancy. I figure I have about a month after my doctor gives me the thumbs up to get back to working out to get into some sort of decent shape before I become the girl who was scrutinized. At least I have the advantage of basically being invisible and not so memorable.. maybe. The calendar is giving me hives considering this, but I’m stubborn… I mean, I’m determined.

So dear weight loss gods, just give me 20lbs and I’ll be happy. Either that or replace the 20lbs from my lower half and redistribute it up top. If they’re bigger, people won’t pay attention to the baby weight. Yep, I’ll be happy either way but I would prefer losing it. I might be vain for thinking this, I probably am. But I’m definitely not the only person in history that wants to look at least semi-decent for their reunions. I’m sure gyms split their money up from people getting in shape for reunions and people getting in shape for their weddings.

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Shames and Small Victories

Prior to this pregnancy, I had a pair of jeans I’d refer to as “my fat jeans”. I know I’m not the only one who has them. They’re the pair of jeans you can always count on to fit on your most uncomfortable days when you want a little more freedom, but otherwise wore a belt that barely helped keep them up. I’m not ashamed to admit that every day since coming home from the hospital that I try on this trustworthy pair of jeans just to see if today will be the day. So far, none has been “the day”.

I still use my maternity pillow, that lovely little “comma” shaped Boppy that helped me sleep when I was at my fattest point. I haven’t decided if I’m ever going to stop cuddling with that thing at nighttime, it’s incredibly comfortable. Admitting that is less embarrassing than my next point. One month later, I’m still wearing my maternity pants. Not the ones from the early pregnancy, but the one pair that fit me at the end when I was incredibly huge. I’m not wearing them because they’re more comfortable than any other pair I own. No, I’m wearing them because they are the only ones I can squeeze over my “still recovering” body. (Somehow that sounds better than saying “fat”.)

Then a few days ago I did have a small victory. I pulled out a pair of maternity pants from earlier in the pregnancy. (It should be noted, I was in them very early in the pregnancy. So early that it was really embarrassing.) This pair came from around the middle of it, and as sad as it seems this was a huge moment for me. So huge, I texted my husband saying “I was able to squeeze my postpartum butt in my skinnier pregger jeans. I’m moving up in the world”. It’s the little things that matter. Maybe next I can try squeezing myself in one of my pre-pregnancy shirts, because I’m still wearing my maternity shirts too. I even managed to look slimmer in a picture taken this weekend of me, my husband and the eldest boy out pumpkin picking with friends. These are my small victories that make me happy.

We’re not all celebrities that can buy all the best healthy foods and have personal trainers that can make us a twig again a week after giving birth. Most of us are looking at ourselves a month later going “really? I still look this big?” while comparing ourselves to Jessica Alba after her children. I do still try on those fat pants every day hoping, and I admit shamefully that every centimeter I manage to pull them up further from the previous week feels like a Super Bowl win to me. When you spend your day covered in godknowswhatevercamefromsomebodypartofthebaby, with tousled hair tossed up in the best ponytail you can manage with one hand since a visit to get it cut seems so far away, you take these small victories.

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And Like That, He Appeared.

Last week, I was in the hospital doing the baby thing. As a result, my normal blog week didn’t exist. Then again, neither did sleep or the privacy of my anatomy. Welcome to childbirth.

As I discussed in my last post, I was scheduled to go into the hospital to be induced. I was started with my medicine an hour later. Much to everyone’s surprise, I didn’t need a second dose of the Cervadil, nor did I need to get the Pitocin. The best part was not needing the C-Section the midwife told me to get to accepting I’d need this done. My water broke on its own and twenty minutes after that, there was a poor bruised faced little newborn. Ok, he was almost 8 pounds so he wasn’t that little as far as newborns go. Aside from cosmetic issues, he is in perfect health. That’s all any parent wants to hear. (Though one bit of cosmetic malformation actually requires a surgery to fix, which is sending me to a pediatric surgeon in the close future.)

Giving birth wasn’t the problem; for being induced, I had it pretty easy especially since I only spent roughly around 20 minutes pushing. The problems came after, when it was time to start feeding my newly born son. The hospital was an avidly breastfeeding only environment. I had more people than I’d care to remember poking at my bare chest trying to get something to work that obviously wasn’t. Finally, one night while my poor chest was cracked, swollen, and sore and both my son and I were beyond tired and frustrated, I begged for formula. The nurse charged in, making me sign “The Paper of Shame” for pleading for something to make him not hungry and crying. I don’t like to give up, so the next 2 days I tried everything they suggested while being in so much pain, I cried. Finally, the lactation consultant on my discharge day made a realization that no one bothered to make: it wasn’t my fault and sometimes babies just can’t. I felt relieved. It’s bad enough on your esteem as a parent when you can’t do something that everyone tells you that you should, it’s even worse when people make you feel ashamed that you couldn’t.

I didn’t give up on the idea that my son should get the best nutrition. After renting a double pump there, I realized that this was the best compromise. I don’t care that he gets the breast milk from the bottle, just that he gets it. Even that is a side concern, as long as he eats and thrives I’ll be perfectly happy. My first son turned out perfectly and he was formula fed. Breastfeeding doesn’t make you a better mother no more than natural childbirth does. It’s a personal choice people make, and we need realize that as long as the child is growing up healthy that it doesn’t matter how it happens. There are too many comparisons that do nothing more than make one person feel less like a mother than they should.

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Eviction Day

My husband and I declared today “Eviction Day” for our little fetus that just doesn’t want to be born. Maybe he had it too nice here, because we all know how difficult it will be for him outside his current home. I feel bad he gets to be fed on command, his poop cleaned, and to sleep whenever he wants for how long he wants.
Today he’ll be induced, so he’s coming whether he likes it or not. I learned some things about inductions during this process. There are definitely perks, like being able to make sure you’re 100% packed and ready to head to the hospital rather than rushing around last minute praying you didn’t forget something. Then you can get to the hospital with the expectation you’re going to have a baby, rather than the frustration of being sent home. Of course, you get to pass on the fears of “I hope we make it on time”.
It wasn’t until today I learned the biggest negative of the induction: you get to over think it. You get to spend the whole week until the big day reading every bit of information you can about the process. You read the negative experiences and the positives and worry. When you go in on your own, or at least my first time, I was more focused on the pain than worrying about what was about to happen. There’s also that pesky clock watching, counting down until the appointment time. For the record, we’re at the 5 hour mark.
Either way, within the next day or two, there will be a baby boy causing quite the commotion in our lives to add in our little testosterone overloaded family. My life will be overrun with men, but they’ll be my men. All that matters is if we’re all in good health.

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The Direct Correlation

In life, there are events that correlate in an often horrible but hilarious way. For instance, take a man who opposes helmet laws for motorcyclists. In order to promote his cause, said man goes out on his bike without a helmet. Said man gets in an accident where his helmet-less head gets smashed and dies. The lack of helmet when his dumb head hit the ground correlates directly with his death. In turn, we laugh at the stupidity of said man. Well, maybe most people won’t laugh but I definitely did. This argument can also be proven by an intelligent person rowing his boat into the ocean during a hurricane, resulting in his boat sinking and no one being able to help him. That said man died as well.

Then there are situations when people make up these correlations in their often bigoted or presumptuous minds. Like Obama tanked our economy to ruin us from the inside in a Muslim plot to take down America. This says that Obama because of his name and race that he is a Muslim, and all Muslims naturally want to take down America. Sure this is an extreme situation but it helps prove my point and fill 189 words before I get to the main story.

At the beginning of the week, I had to get an ultrasound done as part of my testing to decide when to induce the labor. I get to the waiting room, and I pull out my phone to put it on silent and read the news. This lovely elderly gentleman decided to inform me that the sign clearly states “no cell phone use” and that I should be respectful and turn off my phone. I looked up and decided I wasn’t in the mood to say a word back so I turned off my phone to appease the man and put it back in my purse. Then, the presumptuous correlations occurred. “What do I expect? If people are sinful enough to have children out-of-wedlock and flaunt it, of course they wouldn’t know how to read a sign and turn off their cell phone. These kids are growing up to be disrespectful sinners and it’s a result of the godless and liberal society we’ve allowed to occur here. These kids need to learn to read classics and not cell phones or vampire series.”

He didn’t say it to me, though I’m not dumb enough to think that this wasn’t directly aimed at me. Of course his assumptions are wrong on 2 levels: I am married, not that there’s anything wrong with children out-of-wedlock as long as they are loved and cared for; and I graduated college with a B.A. in English, with a focus on literature. All that aside, this man felt that without knowing me that he could tell me all about my life and take two of his pet peeves he might have and take it out on me. Correlations are fine, when you start reaching negative correlations based on discriminatory beliefs. Next time, that old man will get my full wrath, but I did learn that I should probably be more aware of wearing my wedding band “necklace”.

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That House Guest That Stayed Too Long

I hope everyone enjoyed their Labor Day, or as I call it “the last day of noise”. My son the following day an hour before his bus even came, was dressed and ready to start the fourth grade. He’s completely different yet to be born little brother, who seemed to not have gotten the memo that he was due almost 2 weeks ago now. I opted to skip writing the blog on Labor Day so I could focus on one last day with the little man before he went off to school and I was left without his running commentary on life. You never really appreciate the constant chatter until you don’t have it. Also, there is a blog for Friday already written up and will be about an incident with a man lecturing me about my pregnancy.

My due date came and went, and still nothing. Still dilated the same amount, no change. Nothing. Finally after two days of tests and no relief in sight for my misery, the little stubborn house guest is still very healthy. It’s a comfort to hear that your child is healthy, but you couldn’t help but to hope that there was a minor problem or concern that would convince the doctor’s to rush me to the hospital and induce me on the spot. Not this little guy, he’s too perfect and healthy. The midwife, in her perky little demeanor raved on how amazing he is. She failed to mention stubborn in her comments on the baby.

Disheartened, I asked when I should schedule my next check up. At some point you cross the point of happiness of being pregnant to exhausted with it. I hit exhaustion with it weeks ago, I’m onto the “miserable and frustrated” stage now. Then I got at least my first bit of good news of the month: “I think we should talk about induction”. I’m not sure how many people get comforted by that sentence, but I wanted to hug this woman in front of me and tell her I loved her. She proceeded to say “when’s a good time for you? Any preference.” I responded with “a good time was 2 weeks ago, but I’ll stick with as soon as you possibly can.” And there it was, instructions in my hand for next Monday on my admission to the hospital and induction.

I’m pretty sure no one goes into a pregnancy saying “I can’t wait until I’m induced”. Induction doesn’t scare me, the idea of a c-section does. In fact, the actual c-section doesn’t scare me, it’s the being awake for it. At some point, I just hit a moment of not caring. Whatever gets the baby out of my body and into my arms is my focus now. I can’t say I’ll complain if he decides to come before then, that would be a fantastic thing. I’m mentally prepared for whatever is going to happen though, I think the mistake is to deny it. Acceptance is key in most things, especially when it means you have to give up control and anything you had planned. Our health, the baby’s and mine, is far more important than how and when he gets here. He’ll be worth the wait.

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#awkwardthingssaidatthedoctors

Sure, that hashtag is longer than most tweets. It’s the most fitting title I could come up with. You’ll be forewarned that I will at least mention sex in this post, and maybe something else graphic. We’ll see where I end up, as I write these blogs from the top of my head with only a main point. Where that point takes me? I guess we’ll all find out after.

Today I found myself again in the doctor’s office. I went in with hopes of change, with hopes that maybe just maybe I would get sent to the hospital to finally end this pregnancy. Of course, that didn’t happen. No change. I sat there in the room with the midwife, a new midwife to my doctor’s office, and a student looking at me with looks of consolation. I don’t want consolation, I want to end the madness. My due date isn’t until tomorrow, and I half wonder if I’m just that lucky to have children on their exact due date. I wouldn’t say lucky though, because tomorrow is a whole day of cramping and being too sore to function.

As I was leaving, I was called into her office like a student passing by in the halls who just happened to do something wrong in front of the office. She told me to schedule a fetal stress test for next week before my next scheduled appointment. Then if I’m unfortunate enough to still be pregnant by then, I get to sit for an hour twiddling my thumbs while I’m monitored to make sure everything’s ok and discuss being induced. I might turn to religion if it’ll get this child out of me before it gets cut out of me forcibly. It’s one thing to go into the hospital and “oops, guess you need a c-section” so you don’t have time to psych yourself out. It’s a completely different story when you have to schedule it and over think your insides being cut up and pushed aside while you’re awake and watching the shadows while they do the surgery. I’ll buy this kid whatever he wants if he comes out now.

Before I finally left for good, in a completely crappy mood. No, crappy doesn’t cover it. I would actually use “shitty” to describe my mood at the moment, I had a bright moment when the midwife loudly said “until then, have lots of sex”. I looked up with a raised eyebrow and completely embarrassed. I can’t say that the first thing on my mind at that moment was what got me into this situation to begin with. Much to my horror she continued on, and it may have been my imagination but she said it louder this time. “Seriously, it would really help your situation. Enjoy yourself! Well, you don’t have to enjoy yourself, just as long as he does.” Yeah, that really happened.

In the end, I think I’ve officially hit a wall of frustration and being emotional. I can’t even begin to describe everything on my mind at this moment, and I definitely have no words for how I’m feeling. I definitely think I’m just going to spend the day wallowing in my bed maybe to catch up on all the sleep I’ve been missing due to my lack of comfort. I probably won’t though; wallowing isn’t my style. Commence jumping jacks, spicy food, and castor oil?