I have a couple of girlfriends who either just had or or are about to have their first babies. Having just had my third, I feel compelled to add my voice to crazy chorus of voices giving the same advice to these new mommies. Is there a phrase that a new mom hears more often than, "Enjoy this time! They grow up so fast!" I still hear this phrase almost every day. Passersby at Target want to regale me with their stories of how many kids they have, what they each were like and how they are all grown up now, as I try to politely nod that I "get it" whilst wrangling my toddler who wants to stand in the cart and threatening that there will be no chocolate milk at the end of this trip if the behavior is not good (but knowing that there indeed, WILL be chocolate milk, because Mommy needs a latte - Curse AND bless you, Starbucks in Target). The thing is though, I totally get where everyone is coming from. And I can already see, even though my kids are all still "babies," that things change so quickly.
After my first baby, C, was born, I was in shock. There's no better way to describe it. Sleep deprivation is a scary thing and I quickly learned why it is used as a form of torture. Couple that with the sheer magnitude of the responsibility of being wholly in charge of another human life, a body that is healing from the trauma of childbirth and nursing, and an unfair expectation of myself to be a "natural" at this and you have a recipe for a Deer-In-The-Headlights Mommy. I think it took a full three months for me to return to ANY semblance of normalcy. I distinctly remember my brother coming over after many weeks and saying of Ivan and myself, "You guys are starting to look like you're doing better." We didn't realize that everyone else could see how badly shaken we were, but clearly they could.
Those first few months are etched so clearly in my memory. Each hour of each day was filled with new experiences and sensations... figuring out how to hook myself up to the breast pump (lovely) and using any means necessary to relieve my so sore boobs, setting up the Bobby pillow "just so" to nurse each time, those giant disposable underwear from the hospital, the song the Kick n' Play sputtered out each time C pressed her tiny feet against it. Every detail seemed epic.
Now, this might be a function of having babies so close together, and a mom who waited 5 years between each might not have the same experience as me, but with each of my babies the intensity of EVERYTHING wore off. Number 3, J, was born 3 months ago and do you know where the Boppy is? On the top shelf of the closet where it's been since we moved. I never touched it. I have an entire shelf in my linen closet devoted to the pains of breast feeding- lanolin, breast pads, shields, gel pads... I didn't have to use any of it this time. Not that I'm complaining... but I'm kind of complaining.
In the hospital they give you these plastic squirt bottles for the glamorous task of hosing your stitches down after you pee for the first few weeks. I didn't even need them for numbers 2 and 3 but brought them home anyway (when you see a bill for $35,000 for the hospital you take everything that's not nailed to the floor) and the girls use them as bath toys now. The tiniest part of me sees these squirt bottles and actually feels melancholy!
I have, like, 7 great pairs of nursing pajamas, a collection that has grown with each baby. Well J started sleeping through the night several weeks ago (yay!) and being that we don't plan on having any more babies, it dawned on me... I never have to wear nursing pajamas. Ever. Again. I might be welling up a little bit while I type this.
If you would have told me when C was a week old that I'd be just the tiniest bit sad that breast feeding was such a non-issue, that the recovery was so much easier, that I pretty much blinked and we were sleeping through the night by the time the third rolled around, I would have slapped my future self. In the trenches of those first few weeks, it felt like fight or flight to return to my former self. I just wanted to sleep, I wanted my body to feel better and be thin again, and I wanted to not feel like I was going to have a nervous breakdown three times a day. But in retrospect, I remember those days so fondly.
Why would anyone ever miss a period of time that can be downright horrifying? Because these are the experiences that initiate you into motherhood. These moments, these sensations are inextricably linked to the most earth-shattering change to your life: Becoming a Mommy. Much like a nostalgic frat boy who reminisces on his hazing days fondly, those first few weeks became burned in my soul as the most defining time in my life to date. And also like college, you can try going back for as many advanced degrees as your pocketbook will allow, but you can never recapture that magical undergrad experience. You have it for a time, and then it is gone. You will never feel the little things as acutely as you do with your first. And it all ends, the bad and the good. They say that the only constant in life is change and nowhere is that better exemplified than with babies.
Something I think about constantly is that I never know when something will happen for the last time. All three of my beautiful babies did the cutest stretch ever when you'd pick them up from sleeping. They would arch their backs, stick their tiny tushies out, bring their little fists up by their ears with elbows out wide and scrunch up their teeny faces. Whenever each of them would do it we'd say, "Oh! Biiiiigggg Stretch!" It was just the sweetest. And then, all of a sudden, they didn't do it anymore and we didn't even realize it until a few weeks had gone by. Certainly with C it came as a huge shock- like, "Wait- she's not going to do that forever?" I swear, I had to mourn the loss of that stretch! Jack is still doing it, but I can tell that any day now will be the last time. And that's it- I won't have anymore babies doing the Big Stretch.
It breaks my heart that this will keep happening over and over again in life. There is going to be a last time that I pick up my kids and place them in bed. I know that that is not for a long time, but I know that my mom doesn't pick me up anymore so I know that eventually I won't pick my kids up either. There will also come a time when they don't ask a zillion questions in the car or try to keep me in their rooms as long as they can get away with at bedtime, asking for water and one more book. So I try, hard as it is, to not wish the tough moments away.
Of course, growing up yields amazing things in the future. I constantly have to remind myself that even though we aren't planning on having any more babies, we'll be able to have so much fun with them as they grow. As they get older, traveling won't seem so daunting and we'll be able to do so much more when we don't have to worry about naps and me having to pump every four hours during the day. In the wise, wise words of Semisonic, "Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end."
So I truly do understand when people approach me out in public and tell me to enjoy every minute. And I really, really do try to appreciate this crazy magical time and I echo to my ladies who are just entering into this phase of life, "Soak it up! Enjoy every minute" knowing full-well that every minute won't be filled with joy, but that the minutes are fleeting but this time is divine.
Thursday, September 17, 2015
Wednesday, June 10, 2015
Dear 22 Year-Old Self, I Love You, You're Adorable, and I'm Not Trying to Impress You Anymore
Oh, hey there! It's only been, what? More than two years? In that time... nothing much... I had another baby, I am hopefully days away from delivering my third, I've delved into the awesome world of Mommy and Me classes, met some phenomenal new mommy friends, discovered Downton Abbey, Mad Men, and House of Cards and binge-watched all of them, my friends Cecelia, Ladybird, and B all had babies, Ivan and I sold our home and moved into a new one two days before Christmas and, of course, neurotically made every possible home improvement change within a span of three weeks, and as of yesterday... became the proud owner of a...
MINIVAN!!!
I know you think that I'm trying to be funny and sarcastic, but I assure you, I am not! I am OVER-JOYED to be joining the soccer-mom crowd and today, when I pulled into the Target parking lot and claimed my rightful place among the other Siennas, Odysseys, and Sedonas I had one thought:
I've Arrived.
Of course, my 22-year old self is screaming, "No! No! We swore we would never drive one of those!" and to that I say, "You ignorant, ignorant ditz. You have no idea what you're talking about. Let me enlighten you about wrangling a 3 year old and a 20 month old into a car, in the rain, with a giant pregnant belly, in a busy parking lot. A vehicle that is low enough to the ground that the kids can scramble in by themselves, with doors that open and close automatically is a chariot sent from God Himself."
In fact, I am finding that I am falling into a lot of the "Mom Habits" in which I vowed to not participate when I was a younger adult. Being 22 was a fun and funny time for me. I had just graduated college and started my career. I was living at home and had a little disposable income, planning a trip to Hawaii with Ladybird because, hey, we could! I went to the gym twice a day because INSANITY and was basically enjoying a lot of the freedom that making money provides without the any of the responsibilities of a mortgage, marriage, or kids. It was when I was 22 that I bought myself my "at the time" dream car- a 2003 Volkswagen Jetta. It was a big change from those cash-strapped college years (and hand-me-down family station wagon that didn't need a key in the ignition to start).
College is a really unique time of your life for many reasons, not the least of which is the fact that you are surrounded entirely by people (kids) your own age. For four years you don't see children or older people (save for your professors, and let's face it, those who choose to exist in the realm of academia aren't really the poster children for real world expertise- My voice professor once asked me who Journey was. Journey.) So, when you emerge as a young professional, once again surrounded by a standard variety of ages, you start to look around and see "moms" who don't look like your mom, but look like you- or at least someone who could be you sometime soon. And with that realization comes some scary thoughts of having to give up your sequined tank tops (or in my case, my shirt that was made out of a bandanna, I kid you not) and free-wheeling lifestyle and become, well, bland. As a self-righteous 22 year old I would see moms while out and about and in a desperate attempt to cling to the new found lifestyle I had, I would create obnoxious "When I'm a mom, I'm never going to..." statements.
"When I'm a mom, I'm never going to drive a mini-van."
"When I'm a mom, I'm never going to to wear leggings as pants."
"When I'm a mom, I'm never going to go out without make-up on."
"When I'm a mom, I'm never going to be in a store with my kids screaming."
"When I'm a mom, I'm never wearing sneakers with jeans."
I actually had the AUDACITY to PITY these young moms that I'd see and I'd get annoyed when my blissful, solitary trip to Target was interrupted by a toddler's whining. What I'm now realizing, is that more than this being disgustingly judgmental, it's also ridiculously presumptuous. Presumptuous in that these women- these hard-working, self-sacrificing women could give a crap about what some snot-nosed, know-it-all, brain-is-barely-developed punk thought about them. Now, having joined their ranks, I can tell you how much I just don't care what other people (least of all, a 22-year old childless tart) think about me.
At the risk of sounding incredibly trite, I love my life. I love shuttling my little girls to Gymboree and story time at Barnes and Noble. I actually get a thrill from setting up a finger-painting project for them. Some days I look pretty darn good- pulled together in that hip, cool-mom vibe. Other days, like when one of the kids is sick or I'm not feeling well, or I hit the 7 month mark of pregnancy, or hey, we just couldn't get it together today, I go out looking a wreck. It's not my favorite, but at the end of day, is my vanity worth missing an experience with my children? And sometimes, my comfort has to come before my vanity too. Like when I would take my girls for a walk in the double jogger shortly after my second was born, I would sport the dreaded jean and sneaker combination, because you know what? I didn't want my feet or back to hurt. Gasp! I get a sense of pride that used to be reserved for looking really good in my jeans after working out and starving myself for six weeks from getting dinner on the table for my family each night in a semi-timely manner. I make a bangin' turkey meatloaf. I don't know if people say "bangin'" anymore and I couldn't care less.
All this being said, I have no ill-feelings toward my 22-year old self, or any other young adult that might see me in Target and pity me. It's nice to have a point in your life when you are so delusional that you think you have it all figured out. There is a season for everything and I'll always be grateful that I had a stage in my life when my biggest challenge was making sure that I only drank cocktails that were red, white, or blue while down the shore for 4th of July weekend. And I think having had that season helps me be even more grateful for my current season. I wasn't ready for the life I have now when I was 22. And if I were still doing my 22 year old thing now, well, let's just say 34 year-olds shouldn't be running around in tops made from bandannas. So, 22 year old B, I do love you. Go on with your bad self dancing at Bar A to "Yeah" every weekend. Just know that there is another stage of life waiting for you where you don't have to worry so much about what others think of you and those things that make you cringe now will make you smile in just a few years. Nothing will make you appreciate a minivan more than wrestling a car seat in and out of the backseat of a Jetta.
MINIVAN!!!
I know you think that I'm trying to be funny and sarcastic, but I assure you, I am not! I am OVER-JOYED to be joining the soccer-mom crowd and today, when I pulled into the Target parking lot and claimed my rightful place among the other Siennas, Odysseys, and Sedonas I had one thought:
I've Arrived.
Of course, my 22-year old self is screaming, "No! No! We swore we would never drive one of those!" and to that I say, "You ignorant, ignorant ditz. You have no idea what you're talking about. Let me enlighten you about wrangling a 3 year old and a 20 month old into a car, in the rain, with a giant pregnant belly, in a busy parking lot. A vehicle that is low enough to the ground that the kids can scramble in by themselves, with doors that open and close automatically is a chariot sent from God Himself."
Why, yes, that IS an array of spring flowers, my groceries for the week, overnight bags for Nana's house and two children with room to spare, thanks for asking! :)
In fact, I am finding that I am falling into a lot of the "Mom Habits" in which I vowed to not participate when I was a younger adult. Being 22 was a fun and funny time for me. I had just graduated college and started my career. I was living at home and had a little disposable income, planning a trip to Hawaii with Ladybird because, hey, we could! I went to the gym twice a day because INSANITY and was basically enjoying a lot of the freedom that making money provides without the any of the responsibilities of a mortgage, marriage, or kids. It was when I was 22 that I bought myself my "at the time" dream car- a 2003 Volkswagen Jetta. It was a big change from those cash-strapped college years (and hand-me-down family station wagon that didn't need a key in the ignition to start).
College is a really unique time of your life for many reasons, not the least of which is the fact that you are surrounded entirely by people (kids) your own age. For four years you don't see children or older people (save for your professors, and let's face it, those who choose to exist in the realm of academia aren't really the poster children for real world expertise- My voice professor once asked me who Journey was. Journey.) So, when you emerge as a young professional, once again surrounded by a standard variety of ages, you start to look around and see "moms" who don't look like your mom, but look like you- or at least someone who could be you sometime soon. And with that realization comes some scary thoughts of having to give up your sequined tank tops (or in my case, my shirt that was made out of a bandanna, I kid you not) and free-wheeling lifestyle and become, well, bland. As a self-righteous 22 year old I would see moms while out and about and in a desperate attempt to cling to the new found lifestyle I had, I would create obnoxious "When I'm a mom, I'm never going to..." statements.
"When I'm a mom, I'm never going to drive a mini-van."
"When I'm a mom, I'm never going to to wear leggings as pants."
"When I'm a mom, I'm never going to go out without make-up on."
"When I'm a mom, I'm never going to be in a store with my kids screaming."
"When I'm a mom, I'm never wearing sneakers with jeans."
I actually had the AUDACITY to PITY these young moms that I'd see and I'd get annoyed when my blissful, solitary trip to Target was interrupted by a toddler's whining. What I'm now realizing, is that more than this being disgustingly judgmental, it's also ridiculously presumptuous. Presumptuous in that these women- these hard-working, self-sacrificing women could give a crap about what some snot-nosed, know-it-all, brain-is-barely-developed punk thought about them. Now, having joined their ranks, I can tell you how much I just don't care what other people (least of all, a 22-year old childless tart) think about me.
All this being said, I have no ill-feelings toward my 22-year old self, or any other young adult that might see me in Target and pity me. It's nice to have a point in your life when you are so delusional that you think you have it all figured out. There is a season for everything and I'll always be grateful that I had a stage in my life when my biggest challenge was making sure that I only drank cocktails that were red, white, or blue while down the shore for 4th of July weekend. And I think having had that season helps me be even more grateful for my current season. I wasn't ready for the life I have now when I was 22. And if I were still doing my 22 year old thing now, well, let's just say 34 year-olds shouldn't be running around in tops made from bandannas. So, 22 year old B, I do love you. Go on with your bad self dancing at Bar A to "Yeah" every weekend. Just know that there is another stage of life waiting for you where you don't have to worry so much about what others think of you and those things that make you cringe now will make you smile in just a few years. Nothing will make you appreciate a minivan more than wrestling a car seat in and out of the backseat of a Jetta.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
To Pee or Not to Pee... It's Not Even a Question
I had, a long time ago, resigned myself to the fact that after having a baby, I would never wear a bikini again. I just told myself, "Hey, you will have had your fun and now you can wear those one-pieces with the little skirts that you think are so cute." (This is not sarcastic. I am highly anticipating my first skirted one-piece. Judge if you'd like, I'm getting one.) Anyway, I had always thought that this was the way of the world and I had really prepared myself for it. The week after finding out I was pregnant, I happened to be spending the week at my awesome aunt's awesome shore house in Wildwood and I distinctly remember beginning to mourn the loss of the bikini wearing days as I let the news sink in. But then I got to thinking- I actually know quite a few ladies who have gotten themselves back into shape or into even better shape, post-babies.
Case No. 1: Last summer I went to the beach with one of my best friends, who has requested to be called LadyBird, and one of her childhood friends, whom I also consider my own friend after having many hilarious hang-outs with LadyBird. Well, Friend of LadyBird also brought her then 4 year old daughter. Now, Friend of LadyBird always looks great, but when she took off her coverup to show off her bangin' beach bod in a bikini, I began awkwardly staring at her as though I were some meat-head on the beach in Belmar in a muscle T instead of her friend on the beach in Long Branch in a bikini that didn't look nearly as good as hers did. I seriously was in awe. But. of course, Friend of LadyBird has always been the body anomaly. I had once marveled at her super-toned arms as she ate 4 homemade, deep-fried doughnuts covered in cinnamon-sugar. But then there's...
Case No. 2: I have a very dear friend from work. Let's call her Helena Bonham Carter. By all figuring, we shouldn't be friends... we differ drastically in religious and political views, our thoughts about scary movies (she loves them, I would sooner die), and our ideals of style. (Case in point, as she is reading this right now she is beside herself with thrill that I am equating her to Helena Bonham Carter, as this is probably the person in the world whom she would most like to be for a day, whereas, clearly, I'd be Gwen Stefani. But yet again I digress.) However, through 10 years of eating lunch together- the birth of her son, my wedding and C's birth, and countless commiserations on life, she has become one of my closest confidants and dearest girlfriends. She is the most empathetic person I know- sometimes she can't take listening to one of my stories because she starts to get heart palpitations for me... she's pretty awesome.
Anyway, a couple of summers ago, Zandar and I met HBC at the beach for a little Midsummer's Day Gossipfest. We were waiting for her on the boardwalk, scanning the crowd for someone in a huge, black, flowing caftan and maybe a matching black tattered parasol. You can imagine my utter shock when HBC hopped out of her car, in a rainbow-hued bikini top with matching cover-up, showing off her tanned skin and some of the best abs I've ever seen in person. Granted, at work HBC prefers to wear long skirts, flowy tops and her style undulates between "peasant-chic" and "goth girl" from day to day, so to see her in bright colors was shock enough, but she had also lost a ton of baby weight, and where she had never looked even close to big- she now looked supermodel fit. She is blushing reading this, but it's true.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized that women were bouncing back post-baby faster and better than I ever thought possible. Another one of my best friends, also a mom, B, rocked a half marathon and a bikini last year. My idol, the orchestra director from my school and close friend, runs 5 miles before school 4 days a week and she has 3 kids. She looks amazing. Other teachers have come back to school looking like, "Baby? What baby?" I began to think that I might be able to bounce back like they had, but I wasn't quite sure how I'd do it.
I distinctly remember asking my school friend idol from above how long she had waited to start exercising post-pregnancy. I had read that you should wait 6 weeks and to me that seemed crazy. "Six weeks, " she told me. "You're going to need six weeks." "I just know myself and I'm going to go crazy mentally if I don't work out for 6 weeks," I had said, stupidly. I had even printed out a daily schedule for myself and the baby for the first 8 weeks that included me waking up before the baby and doing Yoga. What a complete fool. (My mom had looked at the schedule, smiled, tilted her head to the side and said, "Well, it's nice to have goals.") As I told you in my Recovery post, there was no working out during those first 6 weeks. I was spending the majority of the time with an icepack down my pants wondering if I would ever sleep again. I took C on a few walks, but that was the extent of my "workout schedule."
However, as I healed up and C started sleeping more, I decided that I was ready to resume exercising. Six weeks had passed since I delivered and even though my checkup at the OBGYN wasn't until the next day, I decided that I would start my post-natal boot camp DVD workout the Monday after the 6 week mark. Things were going just fine- it actually was a relief to be moving my body without the weight of a huge bump in front of me- until I had to do jumping jacks. I began jumping and instantly something was wrong- down there. I gasped and thought, "Oh no! I must be bleeding! I ripped a stitch!" I ran to the bathroom to assess the damage and was perplexed to find not a drop of red anywhere to be found. As you've no doubt figured out, I had peed on myself. Significantly.
I wish I could tell you that this was a one-time occurrence. Sadly, it was not. As I pushed myself through the 12 weeks of post-natal bootcamp, I peed on myself Every. Single. Day. Now when I do Zumba, I have to wonder if the puddle around me is really all just sweat. For all of the Kegal exercises I did (hundreds a day!) pre-baby, I can't even find those muscles now. Sometimes I'm not even sure of what's happening. A few times this summer, standing in my mom's pool, I'd look at Zandar with a pathetic look on my face and say, "I think I might be peeing..." It's really horrifying.
The bottom line is that I did get back into a bikini by this past summer. My body is a product of several things, some of which I'd recommend and some that I wouldn't. Here is my prescription for getting beach-ready, post-baby.
1. Exercise during pregnancy if your doctor allows.
I must be quite clear though that I did NOTHING the entire first trimester. During that time, every book, magazine, and website I read was recommending 30 minutes of exercise every day for pregnant women. "What do you know?!?" I'd yell indignantly at the page, with my mouth full of cookies. I have never been as tired in my life than I was in that first trimester. It's just something about growing a person... it's hard work I guess. So, I say, give yourself a break that first trimester. There's always time to start up when you're (hopefully) feeling better. I was able to work out regularly for the 2nd and 3rd trimester and I truly think it helped with labor and I know it helped with the weight loss.
2. Exercise after pregnancy.
Really inspiring, right? But, sigh, it's true. Unfortunately, there's no magic pill. The good news is that if you work out through your pregnancy, it will be easy to start up again- and your body is used to supporting another human, so just little ol' you is no sweat!
3. Breastfeed.
Now, I would never, ever impose my breastfeeding thoughts on someone else. It is an extremely personal choice that has a lot of emotion tied up in it. Everyone should choose what is right for her. I'm just saying that when you're trying to lose weight, 500 calories a day burnt away just by feeding that baby is pretty sweet. (A word of warning- while breastfeeding, I could eat anything and not gain weight. It was like a super power. But this power only lasts as long as you breastfeed. When you stop breastfeeding right before the holidays and continue to eat like a manimal, you end up not being able to breathe in you previously loose jeans while you try to write your blog in January.)
4. Completely go into shock after having your baby and barely eat anything for 4 weeks.
Okay, this is the NOT recommended part. But it is kind of what happened to me. Now, you girls know me, and you know mama likes her food. Seriously, this girl likes to eat. But something dreadful happened those first few weeks home- I, for the first time in my life, had NO appetite. Everything tasted like cardboard to me. I ate because I knew I had to, especially since I was breastfeeding, but I didn't enjoy it. It was actually quite shocking to me. I distinctly remember Ladybird visiting in the first weeks, bringing over this exquisite lunch, complete with delicious cupcakes for dessert, and there I was- on the couch, with a heating pad on my boob because I had a clogged milk duct, fighting off a fever, trying to choke down this cupcake to be polite. I have never met a cupcake that I didn't like and this story still makes me sad. I want a do-over with that cupcake. Again, this step is not recommended.
5. Lower your expectations (just a little).
It's nice to have goals (as my mom said) but be realistic. I know I'll never look just like I did pre-C, nor would I want to. I wear my body like a badge of honor- she helped make it.
So, that's how I did it. I've had some random people tell me, "I saw your FB photo of you in the bikini. I hate you" or "You're so lucky." The truth is, it took hard work to get it to where it is (or, let's face it- was- before Thanksgiving. But I bet it would make those people feel better to imagine that sometime shortly before or after that photo was taken, I was peeing on myself. And they probably wouldn't be that far off. Everything comes with a price.
Case No. 1: Last summer I went to the beach with one of my best friends, who has requested to be called LadyBird, and one of her childhood friends, whom I also consider my own friend after having many hilarious hang-outs with LadyBird. Well, Friend of LadyBird also brought her then 4 year old daughter. Now, Friend of LadyBird always looks great, but when she took off her coverup to show off her bangin' beach bod in a bikini, I began awkwardly staring at her as though I were some meat-head on the beach in Belmar in a muscle T instead of her friend on the beach in Long Branch in a bikini that didn't look nearly as good as hers did. I seriously was in awe. But. of course, Friend of LadyBird has always been the body anomaly. I had once marveled at her super-toned arms as she ate 4 homemade, deep-fried doughnuts covered in cinnamon-sugar. But then there's...
Case No. 2: I have a very dear friend from work. Let's call her Helena Bonham Carter. By all figuring, we shouldn't be friends... we differ drastically in religious and political views, our thoughts about scary movies (she loves them, I would sooner die), and our ideals of style. (Case in point, as she is reading this right now she is beside herself with thrill that I am equating her to Helena Bonham Carter, as this is probably the person in the world whom she would most like to be for a day, whereas, clearly, I'd be Gwen Stefani. But yet again I digress.) However, through 10 years of eating lunch together- the birth of her son, my wedding and C's birth, and countless commiserations on life, she has become one of my closest confidants and dearest girlfriends. She is the most empathetic person I know- sometimes she can't take listening to one of my stories because she starts to get heart palpitations for me... she's pretty awesome.
Anyway, a couple of summers ago, Zandar and I met HBC at the beach for a little Midsummer's Day Gossipfest. We were waiting for her on the boardwalk, scanning the crowd for someone in a huge, black, flowing caftan and maybe a matching black tattered parasol. You can imagine my utter shock when HBC hopped out of her car, in a rainbow-hued bikini top with matching cover-up, showing off her tanned skin and some of the best abs I've ever seen in person. Granted, at work HBC prefers to wear long skirts, flowy tops and her style undulates between "peasant-chic" and "goth girl" from day to day, so to see her in bright colors was shock enough, but she had also lost a ton of baby weight, and where she had never looked even close to big- she now looked supermodel fit. She is blushing reading this, but it's true.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized that women were bouncing back post-baby faster and better than I ever thought possible. Another one of my best friends, also a mom, B, rocked a half marathon and a bikini last year. My idol, the orchestra director from my school and close friend, runs 5 miles before school 4 days a week and she has 3 kids. She looks amazing. Other teachers have come back to school looking like, "Baby? What baby?" I began to think that I might be able to bounce back like they had, but I wasn't quite sure how I'd do it.
I distinctly remember asking my school friend idol from above how long she had waited to start exercising post-pregnancy. I had read that you should wait 6 weeks and to me that seemed crazy. "Six weeks, " she told me. "You're going to need six weeks." "I just know myself and I'm going to go crazy mentally if I don't work out for 6 weeks," I had said, stupidly. I had even printed out a daily schedule for myself and the baby for the first 8 weeks that included me waking up before the baby and doing Yoga. What a complete fool. (My mom had looked at the schedule, smiled, tilted her head to the side and said, "Well, it's nice to have goals.") As I told you in my Recovery post, there was no working out during those first 6 weeks. I was spending the majority of the time with an icepack down my pants wondering if I would ever sleep again. I took C on a few walks, but that was the extent of my "workout schedule."
However, as I healed up and C started sleeping more, I decided that I was ready to resume exercising. Six weeks had passed since I delivered and even though my checkup at the OBGYN wasn't until the next day, I decided that I would start my post-natal boot camp DVD workout the Monday after the 6 week mark. Things were going just fine- it actually was a relief to be moving my body without the weight of a huge bump in front of me- until I had to do jumping jacks. I began jumping and instantly something was wrong- down there. I gasped and thought, "Oh no! I must be bleeding! I ripped a stitch!" I ran to the bathroom to assess the damage and was perplexed to find not a drop of red anywhere to be found. As you've no doubt figured out, I had peed on myself. Significantly.
I wish I could tell you that this was a one-time occurrence. Sadly, it was not. As I pushed myself through the 12 weeks of post-natal bootcamp, I peed on myself Every. Single. Day. Now when I do Zumba, I have to wonder if the puddle around me is really all just sweat. For all of the Kegal exercises I did (hundreds a day!) pre-baby, I can't even find those muscles now. Sometimes I'm not even sure of what's happening. A few times this summer, standing in my mom's pool, I'd look at Zandar with a pathetic look on my face and say, "I think I might be peeing..." It's really horrifying.
The bottom line is that I did get back into a bikini by this past summer. My body is a product of several things, some of which I'd recommend and some that I wouldn't. Here is my prescription for getting beach-ready, post-baby.
1. Exercise during pregnancy if your doctor allows.
I must be quite clear though that I did NOTHING the entire first trimester. During that time, every book, magazine, and website I read was recommending 30 minutes of exercise every day for pregnant women. "What do you know?!?" I'd yell indignantly at the page, with my mouth full of cookies. I have never been as tired in my life than I was in that first trimester. It's just something about growing a person... it's hard work I guess. So, I say, give yourself a break that first trimester. There's always time to start up when you're (hopefully) feeling better. I was able to work out regularly for the 2nd and 3rd trimester and I truly think it helped with labor and I know it helped with the weight loss.
2. Exercise after pregnancy.
Really inspiring, right? But, sigh, it's true. Unfortunately, there's no magic pill. The good news is that if you work out through your pregnancy, it will be easy to start up again- and your body is used to supporting another human, so just little ol' you is no sweat!
3. Breastfeed.
Now, I would never, ever impose my breastfeeding thoughts on someone else. It is an extremely personal choice that has a lot of emotion tied up in it. Everyone should choose what is right for her. I'm just saying that when you're trying to lose weight, 500 calories a day burnt away just by feeding that baby is pretty sweet. (A word of warning- while breastfeeding, I could eat anything and not gain weight. It was like a super power. But this power only lasts as long as you breastfeed. When you stop breastfeeding right before the holidays and continue to eat like a manimal, you end up not being able to breathe in you previously loose jeans while you try to write your blog in January.)
4. Completely go into shock after having your baby and barely eat anything for 4 weeks.
Okay, this is the NOT recommended part. But it is kind of what happened to me. Now, you girls know me, and you know mama likes her food. Seriously, this girl likes to eat. But something dreadful happened those first few weeks home- I, for the first time in my life, had NO appetite. Everything tasted like cardboard to me. I ate because I knew I had to, especially since I was breastfeeding, but I didn't enjoy it. It was actually quite shocking to me. I distinctly remember Ladybird visiting in the first weeks, bringing over this exquisite lunch, complete with delicious cupcakes for dessert, and there I was- on the couch, with a heating pad on my boob because I had a clogged milk duct, fighting off a fever, trying to choke down this cupcake to be polite. I have never met a cupcake that I didn't like and this story still makes me sad. I want a do-over with that cupcake. Again, this step is not recommended.
5. Lower your expectations (just a little).
It's nice to have goals (as my mom said) but be realistic. I know I'll never look just like I did pre-C, nor would I want to. I wear my body like a badge of honor- she helped make it.
So, that's how I did it. I've had some random people tell me, "I saw your FB photo of you in the bikini. I hate you" or "You're so lucky." The truth is, it took hard work to get it to where it is (or, let's face it- was- before Thanksgiving. But I bet it would make those people feel better to imagine that sometime shortly before or after that photo was taken, I was peeing on myself. And they probably wouldn't be that far off. Everything comes with a price.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Adventures in Breastfeeding
I thought it was so funny how, during the time I was trying to navigate the sometimes scary world of breastfeeding for the first time, there was a media explosion on the topic. I am finding that virtually all aspects of motherhood inspire emotionally charged opinions in both mothers and non-mothers alike, and on an intensity scale of those topics, breastfeeding is very near the top.
I started to feel this when I took the breastfeeding class at the hospital, pre-C. It quickly became quite clear that 1.) The hospital strongly believes in and encourages breastfeeding and 2.) The staff was going to do everything possible to make sure that you breastfed, falling just short (if you were lucky) of making you feel bad if you didn't/couldn't. In conjunction with this was the now infamous TIME magazine cover, as well as Mayor Bloomberg's (who I have actually met- he once ate a piece of pastrami off of my friend's sandwich at Katz's Deli, but that's a story for another day) initiative to have new mothers lectured about the benefits of breastfeeding each time a bottle of formula was requested. All in all, this past spring/summer, boobies were getting a lot of attention.
I arrived at the hospital for delivery armed with the good intention to attempt breastfeeding but also with the underlying anxiety produced by the sudden attention to this act. As a new mom who intended to breastfeed, I was encouraged to do so as soon as possible after birth. I had read, in Chicken Soup for the New Mom's Soul, a story of whose validity I came to question, detailing a woman who gave birth in the back of her van on the way to the hospital. A line from the story read like this, "I pant, catch my breath, relax between contractions. One more contraction, one more big push... and it's done. A gasp. A cry. I wilt... Elias hands our new baby to me, nestles him in my arms, and covers us with the quilt. He latches on, hungry, content."
First of all, this story sounds like it was written by a woman who is married to a man named Elias. That's first of all. Second of all, this is a far cry from my experience. Third of all, I want to punch this woman in the face.
She makes it sound so matter-of-fact... "He latches on, la la la..." Let me tell you- latching on was not "la la la" for C and me. No. Latching on came with a whole slew of problems, including but not limited to one nurse after another looking at my boobs and either clicking their tongues, shaking their heads, or looking at each other saying, "Oh yeah, see that... that's gonna make it difficult." Suddenly, my boobs, which had never been anything remarkable one way or the other and never stood out to me as very different from other girls' boobs except for being mini-sized, were identified as "problem boobs." Nothing inspires confidence in a new mother like people discussing her body as though they were picking it out of a dysfunctional parts line up before even attempting to feed her baby for the first time. Then, these same people began man-handling my already sore breasts, forcing them into little C's mouth. When that didn't work, the lactation consultant came in and poured sugar water onto my boobs, in an effort to entice Baby C to latch on. Ultimately, I had to use a horrifying suction cup-devise that HURT (imagine voluntarily giving yourself a purple nurple. On both sides. 10 times a day. In front of your husband.) to draw myself out enough for C to latch on.
I lost all sense of modesty very quickly. Everyone saw my boobs. I had conversations with doctors while hooked up to the breast pump. Zandar and Cecelia quickly had to find out that we were going to sit and talk while I was completely exposed, like it or not. To their credit, they took it all in stride as though it were no big deal, but I wouldn't be surprised if they were haunted by visions at night. Weeks after I was home, I'd find myself standing in the middle of the living room, changing C's diaper, with both of my boobs just hanging out, like some kind of Amazon woman. I'd look down and think, "What have I become?" Again, though, I'm getting ahead of myself.
Things seemed to be going well by the second day in the hospital- I thought we had it down. That is, until the lactation consultant came to visit again. We were all set to go home when she came to check in because she had marked down on her clip board that C and I were apparently a problem breastfeeding couple. When she weighed C, it turned out that she had lost a little too much weight- I guess she wasn't getting as much as I thought she was. I was devastated. Nothing like feeling like you are starving your brand new baby. We were instructed on how to use a pump, told to buy one on the way home, and sent home with 20 bottles of formula just in case, along with strict orders to visit the pediatrician the next day.
Happily, when we saw the doctor the next day, C had gained 3 ounces and by her 8 day appointment had regained her birth weight. And now, certainly, no one could argue that she is not getting enough to eat. She is in the 95% of weight and height (doesn't she know women in our family are shrimps?) and she has the most bite-able thighs and cheeks. She and I figured it out, I'm convinced, despite of, not due to, the phone calls from the lactation consultant every 3 hours, the nurses refusing to give me a pacifier in the hospital, and the over-whelming pressure to breastfeed at any cost.
I wish I had been able to better listen to my mom. After I had given birth and the whole family went to watch Ivan and the nurse check out C in the nursery, my mom stayed behind to tell me not to stress about the whole breastfeeding thing. To try to relax about it. It was hard to do when I felt surrounded by a breastfeeding panic from the staff. But she was, as she always is, right. We figured it out. C was exclusively breastfed for 5 months. We never became very elegant at it- especially in public. She likes to move around a bunch and under my cape it looked as though there was an alien trying to escape from my abdomen. But she clearly was happy and healthy, so it didn't really bother me. She was, however, able to drink from a bottle and take a pacifier without being "confused" as the hospital staff threatened that she would be.
The whole breastfeeding culture is strange to me. When I go onto new mom forums online, the women have written under their screen names "Bronze Boobies" or "Platinum Boobies" to show how long they've breastfed. I guess bronze is 3 months, etc. I'm perplexed at the idea of awarding yourself a medal for this. I was also perplexed by the email I received from one of these websites urging me to go out and breastfeed in public on August 15 to raise awareness. Awareness of what? Do people really care if you're breastfeeding in public? In my experience the answer to the question is "no." And the people that do care are so few and far between and sick in the head that I can't justify creating a day to educate them. I, like I think most breastfeeding moms do, would prefer do be in private but sometimes it's just not possible. I'm proud to say that I breastfed- not in some crazy, cult-like, better than formula feeding moms sense, but in a sense that C and I made it through the first of many challenges that will face us in our lives together.
It's poignant and poetic that I'm writing this as C is weaning. We are down to nursing just one time a day, in the morning, and I am planning that Sunday will be the last time. It's bothering me a lot more than it's bothering her. She takes a bottle well (she got one of expressed milk every night from Ivan since day 3 so that I could go to bed earlier) and as long as she's getting food, she's a happy girl. I, on the other hand, am sad to be losing this bond with her. I know that many women on the mommy websites would judge me for stopping after 6 months. But just as I don't think we need a day for breastfeeding awareness, I don't think we need to create more reasons for women to judge each other. If our babies are happy and healthy, who are we to judge if a baby gets breast milk or formula and from what age? I'm weaning C for personal reasons and I feel comfortable with my choice, but I am sad nonetheless and I'm sure there will be some tears from mommy on Sunday morning. That is until those chunky cheeks make me laugh, as they do each day.
With the next baby, God willing, I will breastfeed on my own terms from the start. I will be able to send the nurses and consultants away when I'm feeling over-whelmed. I won't stand for my boobs being judged. They have served me well throughout my life- the Little Boobies That Could. I won't approach the entire process with fear (to the point of having nightmares- after all, there are plenty of other things to have nightmares about, like poop- another topic). And you'd better believe I'm bringing a pacifier to the hospital.
I started to feel this when I took the breastfeeding class at the hospital, pre-C. It quickly became quite clear that 1.) The hospital strongly believes in and encourages breastfeeding and 2.) The staff was going to do everything possible to make sure that you breastfed, falling just short (if you were lucky) of making you feel bad if you didn't/couldn't. In conjunction with this was the now infamous TIME magazine cover, as well as Mayor Bloomberg's (who I have actually met- he once ate a piece of pastrami off of my friend's sandwich at Katz's Deli, but that's a story for another day) initiative to have new mothers lectured about the benefits of breastfeeding each time a bottle of formula was requested. All in all, this past spring/summer, boobies were getting a lot of attention.
I arrived at the hospital for delivery armed with the good intention to attempt breastfeeding but also with the underlying anxiety produced by the sudden attention to this act. As a new mom who intended to breastfeed, I was encouraged to do so as soon as possible after birth. I had read, in Chicken Soup for the New Mom's Soul, a story of whose validity I came to question, detailing a woman who gave birth in the back of her van on the way to the hospital. A line from the story read like this, "I pant, catch my breath, relax between contractions. One more contraction, one more big push... and it's done. A gasp. A cry. I wilt... Elias hands our new baby to me, nestles him in my arms, and covers us with the quilt. He latches on, hungry, content."
First of all, this story sounds like it was written by a woman who is married to a man named Elias. That's first of all. Second of all, this is a far cry from my experience. Third of all, I want to punch this woman in the face.
She makes it sound so matter-of-fact... "He latches on, la la la..." Let me tell you- latching on was not "la la la" for C and me. No. Latching on came with a whole slew of problems, including but not limited to one nurse after another looking at my boobs and either clicking their tongues, shaking their heads, or looking at each other saying, "Oh yeah, see that... that's gonna make it difficult." Suddenly, my boobs, which had never been anything remarkable one way or the other and never stood out to me as very different from other girls' boobs except for being mini-sized, were identified as "problem boobs." Nothing inspires confidence in a new mother like people discussing her body as though they were picking it out of a dysfunctional parts line up before even attempting to feed her baby for the first time. Then, these same people began man-handling my already sore breasts, forcing them into little C's mouth. When that didn't work, the lactation consultant came in and poured sugar water onto my boobs, in an effort to entice Baby C to latch on. Ultimately, I had to use a horrifying suction cup-devise that HURT (imagine voluntarily giving yourself a purple nurple. On both sides. 10 times a day. In front of your husband.) to draw myself out enough for C to latch on.
I lost all sense of modesty very quickly. Everyone saw my boobs. I had conversations with doctors while hooked up to the breast pump. Zandar and Cecelia quickly had to find out that we were going to sit and talk while I was completely exposed, like it or not. To their credit, they took it all in stride as though it were no big deal, but I wouldn't be surprised if they were haunted by visions at night. Weeks after I was home, I'd find myself standing in the middle of the living room, changing C's diaper, with both of my boobs just hanging out, like some kind of Amazon woman. I'd look down and think, "What have I become?" Again, though, I'm getting ahead of myself.
Things seemed to be going well by the second day in the hospital- I thought we had it down. That is, until the lactation consultant came to visit again. We were all set to go home when she came to check in because she had marked down on her clip board that C and I were apparently a problem breastfeeding couple. When she weighed C, it turned out that she had lost a little too much weight- I guess she wasn't getting as much as I thought she was. I was devastated. Nothing like feeling like you are starving your brand new baby. We were instructed on how to use a pump, told to buy one on the way home, and sent home with 20 bottles of formula just in case, along with strict orders to visit the pediatrician the next day.
Happily, when we saw the doctor the next day, C had gained 3 ounces and by her 8 day appointment had regained her birth weight. And now, certainly, no one could argue that she is not getting enough to eat. She is in the 95% of weight and height (doesn't she know women in our family are shrimps?) and she has the most bite-able thighs and cheeks. She and I figured it out, I'm convinced, despite of, not due to, the phone calls from the lactation consultant every 3 hours, the nurses refusing to give me a pacifier in the hospital, and the over-whelming pressure to breastfeed at any cost.
I wish I had been able to better listen to my mom. After I had given birth and the whole family went to watch Ivan and the nurse check out C in the nursery, my mom stayed behind to tell me not to stress about the whole breastfeeding thing. To try to relax about it. It was hard to do when I felt surrounded by a breastfeeding panic from the staff. But she was, as she always is, right. We figured it out. C was exclusively breastfed for 5 months. We never became very elegant at it- especially in public. She likes to move around a bunch and under my cape it looked as though there was an alien trying to escape from my abdomen. But she clearly was happy and healthy, so it didn't really bother me. She was, however, able to drink from a bottle and take a pacifier without being "confused" as the hospital staff threatened that she would be.
The whole breastfeeding culture is strange to me. When I go onto new mom forums online, the women have written under their screen names "Bronze Boobies" or "Platinum Boobies" to show how long they've breastfed. I guess bronze is 3 months, etc. I'm perplexed at the idea of awarding yourself a medal for this. I was also perplexed by the email I received from one of these websites urging me to go out and breastfeed in public on August 15 to raise awareness. Awareness of what? Do people really care if you're breastfeeding in public? In my experience the answer to the question is "no." And the people that do care are so few and far between and sick in the head that I can't justify creating a day to educate them. I, like I think most breastfeeding moms do, would prefer do be in private but sometimes it's just not possible. I'm proud to say that I breastfed- not in some crazy, cult-like, better than formula feeding moms sense, but in a sense that C and I made it through the first of many challenges that will face us in our lives together.
It's poignant and poetic that I'm writing this as C is weaning. We are down to nursing just one time a day, in the morning, and I am planning that Sunday will be the last time. It's bothering me a lot more than it's bothering her. She takes a bottle well (she got one of expressed milk every night from Ivan since day 3 so that I could go to bed earlier) and as long as she's getting food, she's a happy girl. I, on the other hand, am sad to be losing this bond with her. I know that many women on the mommy websites would judge me for stopping after 6 months. But just as I don't think we need a day for breastfeeding awareness, I don't think we need to create more reasons for women to judge each other. If our babies are happy and healthy, who are we to judge if a baby gets breast milk or formula and from what age? I'm weaning C for personal reasons and I feel comfortable with my choice, but I am sad nonetheless and I'm sure there will be some tears from mommy on Sunday morning. That is until those chunky cheeks make me laugh, as they do each day.
With the next baby, God willing, I will breastfeed on my own terms from the start. I will be able to send the nurses and consultants away when I'm feeling over-whelmed. I won't stand for my boobs being judged. They have served me well throughout my life- the Little Boobies That Could. I won't approach the entire process with fear (to the point of having nightmares- after all, there are plenty of other things to have nightmares about, like poop- another topic). And you'd better believe I'm bringing a pacifier to the hospital.
Friday, September 28, 2012
Recovery
So... it would be challenging enough to learn how to take care of this tiny, helpless, sweet little baby with absolutely no experience in parenting. To try to familiarize yourself with her cries, her needs, her little idiosyncracies, with a non-stop flow of visitors streaming into your hospital room and then your home. This would be an accomplishment whilst feeling 100%. But. You have to do it whilst feeling like a train has run you over, or at the very least, run through your, well, you know.
In all of the movies and TV shows you see a dramatic portrayal of actual childbirth, complete with screaming, sweating, and the husband passing out. But as soon as the baby is out, the pain is over, everyone's noses are powdered and all are back at home feeling cozy and comfortable. I guess that's because no one is really interested in watching a movie about a mother's challenge of figuring out how she will only use the stairs in her 2-story house twice a day. It's like a modern-day word problem in math: If B must sleep upstairs but spend the day with visitors in the living room, but nurse upstairs for privacy, and baby eats 6 times a day, how many stitches will B tear in the first week of being home from the hospital? But I'm getting ahead of myself.
First, I want to be clear that the actual pain of labor IS over immediately after the baby is out, for those of you who haven't done it. At least in my experience. As soon as the baby enters the world, the pain is a distant, distant memory and I was left with the feeling of, "Yeah, I could do that again." To say "It's all worth it," is a cliched understatement.
That being said, there is a certain level of discomfort that comes with healing from the trauma of childbirth. Now, I can only attest to my own type of delivery, of course, and I know that a C-section comes with a completely different set of recovery issues, so in no way do I mean to be complaining while others are thinking that I had it easy. I can only relate my experience and if you think I'm a wimp, well I guess I can live with that. :)
A funny thing happened after I gave birth. Remember how I told you that I was borderline obsessed with Law and Order? I haven't been able to watch it since C was born. Once I got home, I distinctly remember snuggling down on the couch, and flipping through the channel guide on TV. But when I saw the little white letters spelling out my formerly favorite show, conspicuously missing was the little jolt of excitement that I used to get all the time (because, let's face it, Law and Order is on ALL THE TIME). It wasn't a conscious decision, I just couldn't watch it any longer- unfortunate considering I now had a lot more TV time! But again, I digress.
The point is that because I had such a sick obsession with this show, I know what a good crime scene looks like. And that's why I was able to recognize one after each time I used the bathroom in the hospital. Picture this- you can't possibly hold it anymore, though you have all day because you are scared of the pain of logistics of going. You slowly ease out of bed and hobble to the bathroom while simultaneously 1) dragging your IV pole and tube behind you and 2) trying to hold your hospital gown closed so your friends' husbands who are visiting don't see your butt. In a diaper.
You finally make it in and you find that the fun has only just begun because 1) You have to go into a container attached to the toilet so the nurse can see how much you went. 2) You have to clean your stitches with a squirt bottle, pat dry, then spray yourself with numbing spray 3) You have to change the 2, yes, 2 phonebook sized maxi pads that are attached to your lovely, stretchy, hospital-provided granny panties 4) You have to clean up the floor and toilet seat so that even if no one else uses the bathroom, if they enter they don't start frantically looking for a body 5) After washing your hands you must change the get pads in your bra which you desperately need for relief because your new little miracle is trying to learn how to eat and, in the process, is chewing on your boobs like a Milk Dud that gets caught in your teeth when you're eating 5 at a time in the movies (c'mon, no one eats Milk Duds one at a time.) Side note- Milk Dud! No pun intended! Just a happy coincidence that it is the most annoying but delicious chewy candy I could think of! :)
Anyway- you have to do all this and oh yeah, YOU STILL HAVE YOUR IV IN! I mean... COME ON! Forget the labor, I want to be knocked out for the recovery! I don't tell you all of this to be gross or over-dramatic. I just want you to know why, if you came to visit me in the hospital, it took me no less than 27 minutes to go. You have no idea how angry all of this made me. I don't know who I was mad at- the nurses for expecting this of me, my mom and all other mothers for not warning me, Ivan for not helping me, even though there is NO WAY I would have let him in the bathroom, but I was mad all the same. I can't accurately explain how annoyed I was by this whole process. It was like I was standing there looking around for SOMEONE to understand, like "Wha...? I... Seriously...?" I'm telling you, I was writing this blog post in my head the whole time I was in the hospital. And if the details are this fresh 5 1/2 months later, you can only imagine my attitude then. Honestly, I'm having heart palpitations as I write this.
But then there is that blessed first shower. You finally get clearance to get your IV out (because you've done such a good job of filling up that bathroom container) and you can go stand under some hot running water and rinse some of the crime scene evidence off of your body. Some of my girlfriends, Zandar especially, will be pleased to know that I didn't shave my legs. Not that it didn't occur to me- I had packed a razor, but it was just not going to happen. So see, there are some occasions for which I don't shave. :)
So you get out of the shower and you're starting to feel slightly human again. You're smelling better, you're feeling a little more relaxed... and then you look in the mirror. And staring back at you, is a Sneech in a diaper.
What is a Sneech, you ask? First of all, I feel terrible that you are not familiar with this most amazing Dr. Seuss character. You really should check out the book or video, but in the meantime, to hold you over, voila:
The post-delivery tummy really is a sight. Like a deflated helium balloon, it kind of just hangs there. It makes you think, upon seeing yourself with no clothes on, "What. Have.I.Done?" Of course you only think this because your baby is on the other side of the door, but for how you're feeling about what is staring back at you from that mirror, that door may as well be the Great Wall of China, because that is how far removed you feel from anything else in world beside your saggy balloon stomach. At that moment, you don't know that it's going to get better and you are racking your brain to figure out the best way to accessorize a spare tire- a skinny belt? A drapey vest? A burlap sack?
Of course it all does get better. The pain downstairs turned to itching and then went away completely. The breastfeeding pain disappeared as C and I both got better at it. And my Sneech belly is gone. I am at once back to myself and changed forever. I still can't watch Law and Order SVU. I no longer get nervous to sing with my band- I guess that I feel like I've made it through childbirth and recovery, so I can handle a lot more than I thought I could, and I also realize what's really important now- as in: Keeping my baby safe- important. Forgetting the words to "Hit Me With Your Best Shot"- not as much. I am back to shaving every day. I also work out 5-6 days a week, just like before C arrived. Is my body the same? No. Can I do Zumba without peeing? No. Was it worth it? Duh. :) Would I do it again? In a heartbeat.
In all of the movies and TV shows you see a dramatic portrayal of actual childbirth, complete with screaming, sweating, and the husband passing out. But as soon as the baby is out, the pain is over, everyone's noses are powdered and all are back at home feeling cozy and comfortable. I guess that's because no one is really interested in watching a movie about a mother's challenge of figuring out how she will only use the stairs in her 2-story house twice a day. It's like a modern-day word problem in math: If B must sleep upstairs but spend the day with visitors in the living room, but nurse upstairs for privacy, and baby eats 6 times a day, how many stitches will B tear in the first week of being home from the hospital? But I'm getting ahead of myself.
First, I want to be clear that the actual pain of labor IS over immediately after the baby is out, for those of you who haven't done it. At least in my experience. As soon as the baby enters the world, the pain is a distant, distant memory and I was left with the feeling of, "Yeah, I could do that again." To say "It's all worth it," is a cliched understatement.
That being said, there is a certain level of discomfort that comes with healing from the trauma of childbirth. Now, I can only attest to my own type of delivery, of course, and I know that a C-section comes with a completely different set of recovery issues, so in no way do I mean to be complaining while others are thinking that I had it easy. I can only relate my experience and if you think I'm a wimp, well I guess I can live with that. :)
A funny thing happened after I gave birth. Remember how I told you that I was borderline obsessed with Law and Order? I haven't been able to watch it since C was born. Once I got home, I distinctly remember snuggling down on the couch, and flipping through the channel guide on TV. But when I saw the little white letters spelling out my formerly favorite show, conspicuously missing was the little jolt of excitement that I used to get all the time (because, let's face it, Law and Order is on ALL THE TIME). It wasn't a conscious decision, I just couldn't watch it any longer- unfortunate considering I now had a lot more TV time! But again, I digress.
The point is that because I had such a sick obsession with this show, I know what a good crime scene looks like. And that's why I was able to recognize one after each time I used the bathroom in the hospital. Picture this- you can't possibly hold it anymore, though you have all day because you are scared of the pain of logistics of going. You slowly ease out of bed and hobble to the bathroom while simultaneously 1) dragging your IV pole and tube behind you and 2) trying to hold your hospital gown closed so your friends' husbands who are visiting don't see your butt. In a diaper.
You finally make it in and you find that the fun has only just begun because 1) You have to go into a container attached to the toilet so the nurse can see how much you went. 2) You have to clean your stitches with a squirt bottle, pat dry, then spray yourself with numbing spray 3) You have to change the 2, yes, 2 phonebook sized maxi pads that are attached to your lovely, stretchy, hospital-provided granny panties 4) You have to clean up the floor and toilet seat so that even if no one else uses the bathroom, if they enter they don't start frantically looking for a body 5) After washing your hands you must change the get pads in your bra which you desperately need for relief because your new little miracle is trying to learn how to eat and, in the process, is chewing on your boobs like a Milk Dud that gets caught in your teeth when you're eating 5 at a time in the movies (c'mon, no one eats Milk Duds one at a time.) Side note- Milk Dud! No pun intended! Just a happy coincidence that it is the most annoying but delicious chewy candy I could think of! :)
Anyway- you have to do all this and oh yeah, YOU STILL HAVE YOUR IV IN! I mean... COME ON! Forget the labor, I want to be knocked out for the recovery! I don't tell you all of this to be gross or over-dramatic. I just want you to know why, if you came to visit me in the hospital, it took me no less than 27 minutes to go. You have no idea how angry all of this made me. I don't know who I was mad at- the nurses for expecting this of me, my mom and all other mothers for not warning me, Ivan for not helping me, even though there is NO WAY I would have let him in the bathroom, but I was mad all the same. I can't accurately explain how annoyed I was by this whole process. It was like I was standing there looking around for SOMEONE to understand, like "Wha...? I... Seriously...?" I'm telling you, I was writing this blog post in my head the whole time I was in the hospital. And if the details are this fresh 5 1/2 months later, you can only imagine my attitude then. Honestly, I'm having heart palpitations as I write this.
So you get out of the shower and you're starting to feel slightly human again. You're smelling better, you're feeling a little more relaxed... and then you look in the mirror. And staring back at you, is a Sneech in a diaper.
What is a Sneech, you ask? First of all, I feel terrible that you are not familiar with this most amazing Dr. Seuss character. You really should check out the book or video, but in the meantime, to hold you over, voila:
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| The one on the right is what I looked like after the shower, only in a diaper. |
The post-delivery tummy really is a sight. Like a deflated helium balloon, it kind of just hangs there. It makes you think, upon seeing yourself with no clothes on, "What. Have.I.Done?" Of course you only think this because your baby is on the other side of the door, but for how you're feeling about what is staring back at you from that mirror, that door may as well be the Great Wall of China, because that is how far removed you feel from anything else in world beside your saggy balloon stomach. At that moment, you don't know that it's going to get better and you are racking your brain to figure out the best way to accessorize a spare tire- a skinny belt? A drapey vest? A burlap sack?
Of course it all does get better. The pain downstairs turned to itching and then went away completely. The breastfeeding pain disappeared as C and I both got better at it. And my Sneech belly is gone. I am at once back to myself and changed forever. I still can't watch Law and Order SVU. I no longer get nervous to sing with my band- I guess that I feel like I've made it through childbirth and recovery, so I can handle a lot more than I thought I could, and I also realize what's really important now- as in: Keeping my baby safe- important. Forgetting the words to "Hit Me With Your Best Shot"- not as much. I am back to shaving every day. I also work out 5-6 days a week, just like before C arrived. Is my body the same? No. Can I do Zumba without peeing? No. Was it worth it? Duh. :) Would I do it again? In a heartbeat.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
The Artist Formerly Known as Baby H
Hello Ladies!
If I had known that the previous post would be the last before I gave birth, I would have written something a little more poetic- and I don't mean an ode to my cankles- something more along the lines of a nice sum up of the pregnancy and my hopes and dreams for the delivery and beyond. But as fate would have it, just four days after my last post, my world changed forever and the days of blogging leisurely during my prep period at work came to a sudden halt.
Some of you have asked if I will continue blogging now that C is here. I hope that the answer will be "yes," even though I started this post 3 months ago and am just now finishing it! But now that the fall is here, and Mom and Zandar, along with all of my teacher friends are back at work, I feel like I am now officially beginning my journey as a stay-at-home mom. And I think that I will be able to keep writing- if not the long rants as in the pre-baby days, at least little vignettes into the life of a new mommy. I hope that I'll be able to keep you laughing, though I'm not sure that life will be quite as entertaining. As it is, when I talk to friends and family who fill me in on their exciting lives, I eagerly and wistfully listen and then proceed to fill them in on MY exciting goings on. It usually goes something like this, "Well, C woke up a little early for her 10 o'clock feeding so we fed her a little early but luckily she went right to sleep after that and then made it until 2:15, when she had a giant poop..." Seriously. It is amazing just how quickly you become "that person." It is pretty much instantaneous and unavoidable. These are the events that make up your every waking moment (and let's face it, there aren't too many moments that aren't "waking" anymore) and you somehow lose sight of the fact that the bowel movements of your newborn aren't quite as interesting to everyone else as they are to you. It doesn't matter that you swore you'd never be "like that."
So even though I think that my future posts will most likely be short and sweet, I feel that I have to bring some closure to the pregnancy saga and put into words just how C came to be. Since the secondary purpose of this blog was to have something to show Baby H when he or she was old enough, and now that we know that Baby H is a girl and might actually be interested, here goes:
On Good Friday, April 7, our band had a gig. At this horrible dive bar. Ivan and I had gotten into several arguments about the fact that he booked a gig- without consulting me- a mere 2 weeks before our baby was due. Ivan was convinced that I was going to go late (we had learned in Lamaze class that 65% of women do) and that all would be fine, though we did ask Zandar to sing one of the sets as my stamina was not so great at almost 38 weeks. As it was, I sang the first set, not without some strange looks from the bar's staff and patrons. One of the owners assured me that I could deliver on the pinball machine if need be. Zandar rocked out the second set and then my entire family booked it out of there, leaving Ivan to fend for himself for the third set because, as my dad put it, "My grandchild is NOT gonna be born here."
The next day, Zandar and I treated ourselves to Spring Break Celebratory Manicures and Pedicures. I strayed from my typical coral color selection and instead chose a pastel pink that read "Easter" to me called VanGogh'd, also appropriate because we were eating at a nearby restaurant that night called Van Gogh's Ear. We were celebrating my dad's 60th birthday, first with dying Easter eggs, then dinner, cake, and a concert- a Queen tribute band to which Cecelia and my bro had gotten the family tickets for Christmas. During cake time at our house, we premiered a movie we had made for the occasion, called, "Stuff Our Dad Says" that us "kids" had filmed the previous Sunday. Without delving too far into it, we basically took turns "playing" our dad in some of his finest and most repetitive moments. The entire family was in hysterics and our dad fell off of the couch from laughing so hard. He contends that it was the laughter that sent me into labor later that night.
We set off for the concert which we all thoroughly enjoyed, though maybe no one more that Baby H. Throughout the night, the baby was kicking up a storm. The family took turns with their hands on my belly, feeling the crazy in-utero dance moves and shaking their heads with laughter.
Ivan and I were in bed by midnight, poised to wake up to hear Zandar sing 7:30 Mass the next morning. But Baby H had other plans. Around 2:00 am, a contraction much more intense than the Braxton Hicks versions I had been experiencing for months woke me up out of a dead sleep. "Hmm... that was weird," I thought and went back to sleep. About an hour later, the same thing happened. "Okay, I'm going to keep track of this, just in case." I made a note on my phone and tried to return to sleep, but couldn't as the contractions started to come more and more frequently. My heart rate quickened as I thought, "Oh my gosh- I'm having this baby soon!" I didn't wake Ivan, as I knew he would become a nut just as soon as he knew and I thought that at least one of us should get some sleep, so I waited until 6 am when he stirred to fill him in.
As expected, the moment he knew, Ivan sprang into action. I asked him to make me a cup of tea, knowing that labor takes a long time and that you are supposed to do as much of it as possible at home. I had envisioned staying in bed for awhile, trying to stay comfortable, and taking advantage of Ivan waiting on me, though I knew I was only allowed to have clear liquids and maybe some Jell-o. When that cup of tea took 20 minutes to arrive to my bedside, Ivan explained that he had filled up the teapot to the brim, and when he couldn't figure out why it was taking so long to boil, he realized what he had done. I called my mom to let her know that I was in labor and that I planned to relax in bed for awhile. She told me, "B, don't wait too long- I would get in the shower and start getting ready." I listened to her, even though I was sure I had plenty of time. I had called to let the doctor know I was in labor and was basically told to come in in a week. Not really, but when the contractions were 5 minutes apart, which, at 12 minutes apart, seems like a week away.
I got in the shower, and washed my big belly for the last time. However, I didn't have a contraction for 20 minutes and I started to think the whole thing was a false alarm- embarrassing, considering I had already texted my siblings and Ivan had let his family know. Post-shower, I laid back down in bed in my robe and towel wrapped around my head. Suddenly, I felt a pain, the likes of which I had never experienced. The sensation was a cramping, gripping pain that made me arch my back involuntarily, as it came on strong and grew unbearable. I turned to Ivan and said, "Oooookay, not a false alarm." I got up and started to get ready, putting on my Easter dress (far be it for me to not put a new outfit to use), putting on makeup and drying my hair, more to distract myself from the contractions, now coming at quicker intervals than for vanity.
By the time we were dressed and ready, the contractions were coming steadily every 5 minutes. I eagerly called the doctor again, and was told to call back when they were 5 minutes apart for an hour. Discouraged, we headed downstairs and Ivan put on old episodes of The Office in an attempt to take my mind off of my pain, but even the funniest moments (Dwight giving himself a concussion) could only bring a tight-lipped smile to my face. We continued to time the contractions, and after 45 minutes, they were about 3 1/2 minutes apart. Ivan decided that we were going and that we'd call from the car. Of course, we had no gas. So there we were, stopping on the parkway for 10 dollars worth of gas, with me doing my Lamaze breathing like some bad movie cliche.
We arrived at St. Peter's and were placed in a room after some paperwork (I thought the point of pre-registration was so you don't have to sit across a desk and sign things while you are in the process of delivering a child!). The labor and delivery nurse got me all set up and our doctor can in to check my progress. Of all of the doctors in my group, this doctor was probably our least favorite. From her assessment though, it would seem that she might not even be on duty when I delivered, because she put me at 2 centimeters and proceeded to show me a chart and explained that the whole process would most likely take all day and night, complete with hours of pushing. On the chart, 2 centimeters looked like a pinpoint and 10 centimeters looked like a black hole (at least it did due to the circumstances) and the amount of pain I was in did not seem to bode well for the medication-free delivery I had envisioned. I felt like it would be impossible to keep my strength and spirits up for 15 hours. The doctor scurried out, leaving me blinking at the door as if to say, "Wait... that's it? Aren't you going to hang out in here, maybe tell the baby to come out?"
In the meantime, unbeknownst to us, our families had arrived downstairs. My mother quickly worked her magic, schmoozing with the person behind the desk to allow any 2 people to come up to the room to see us, so long as they rotated. She was the first to come up. It was so good to see her- there is just something about seeing your mommy, especially when you are not feeling well, or in this case, when you feel like a boa constrictor has wrapped around your middle and is relentlessly squeezing, that just makes you feel instantly better. I don't remember much about what she said to me, but I know that I felt comforted knowing that she was there.
She left the room and my dad and Zandar came in. I remember my dad kissing me on my head and holding my hand. I remember reading Zandar's face and seeing that she was having a hard time seeing me in this much pain. Everyone was watching the screen behind my head and could see when the next contraction was coming. Though they tried to hide it from me, I could tell when it was going to be bad. I wasn't much a a conversationalist at this point and I began to think of all of the TV episodes and movies we had planned to watch during the labor and the book I had packed... what an idiot.
By the time Dad and Zandar switched out with my MIL's, I don't think I could manage more than a couple of words. I remember them being very respectful of my pain, giving me kisses and hanging in the background. My MIL's left, but as my brother and Cecelia were about to take their turn, I felt a warm gush and I cried out, "Oh! My water just broke!" They were not allowed in, as the nurse had to change my bedding and also inform me that my contractions will now become painful. Ummm... what? I told Ivan that there was no way that I could continue like this for 15 hours (I don't know why I got that number in my head, but I did) without help. He told me that of course that I should do whatever I needed to do. At that point, though, my nurse checked my progress and in astonishment told me that I was at 6 centimeters.
I'm not going to lie- I felt a little bit vindicated. All this time the nurse clearly thought I was either a wimp or a drama queen (She had actually said, "Well, they call it labor, not fun.") and I had been progressing through the stages of labor way faster than she had thought. She called for the doctor.
At this point, things get a little fuzzy in my memory. What I know is: that the baby's heartrate dropped when my water broke. The doctor came in and checked me and said I was at 10 centimeters. The big door that they open just before delivery openned. I was given oxygen and asked to spell my name and I almost gave my maiden name. The anethesiologist came in and was sent away. The doctor was filling out paperwork for banking the cord blood when I yelled out, "I feel like I need to push!!!" The sensation was incredible- like my body was going to push without my mind's consent- this baby was coming!!!
With Ivan holding my leg and encouraging me, I was told to push, and push I did. The doctor, who we had been dissappointed would be delivering our baby suddenly became the best cheerleader in the world, yelling, "Come on, B! Come on B!" The pushing was actually a relief from the pain and three contractions with three pushes each, we had a baby! I heard them using feminine pronouns for what I had become convinced from the assertions of others due to the way I was carrying, was my baby boy. When someone said, "It's a girl!" I felt the world spin. I was in complete shock. I hadn't told anyone other than my mom and Ivan, but at our 20 week ultrasound when we did not find out the gender, the technician had referred to the baby as "he." I thought that she had blown it, though I didn't question her on it. I had bonded with what I thought was our little boy in my belly and here, lying on my now floppy stomach, staring at me with big, blue eyes, was a little girl! She was 7 lbs. 5oz, 19 1/2 inches long and absolutely perfect. She had loads of thick black hair, just like her mom and dad both had when they were born. (On a side note, when she was still inside and the doctor was feeling around to check her out, she remarked, "I think it's gonna be a baldy!" I don't know what she was feeling, but it clearly wasn't this child's head!)
While the baby got a wrapped up and I got stitched up, Ivan informed my mom and Cecelia, who had been waiting in the hall and were completely concerned and confused when they heard a baby cry so much earlier than expected, that we had a baby girl and all was well. When Ivan returned to me and our baby was placed in our arms, we looked down at our little angel and discussed what to call her. There were two options on the table, and to that point I thought that I was leaning away from Cadence Faith. I told Ivan that he could choose and I was surprised to find that I was dissappointed when he first chose the other option. "Are you sure?" I asked. "No," he said, "You are Cadence." And being born on Easter Sunday (mass was being played on the television as she was born), how could we not go with Faith as the middle name?
Mom and Zandar were the first to come in the room, with tears in their eyes, and they were quickly followed by the rest of our families. What a blessing that everyone could be there to share in our joy and excitement. The clan followed Ivan and C to the newborn nursery to watch her get cleaned up and I got some much needed one on one time with my own mommy, after becoming a mommy myself.
The party continued through the next two days at the hospital. Never have I felt so surrounded by love. So many friends and family came and held C and welcomed her into our lives. A lot of them brought junk food too, which was so appreciated. :) God truly blessed us beyond anything I could imagine or deserve. When all was said and done, we got to the hospital at 11:00 am and she was out at 12:39. The doctors and nurses were almost in as much shock as we were. They told me to be sure to remind them of this for the next delivery- I certainly don't want to have the next one on the Parkway, or worse, at some horrible dive bar while belting out "You Oughtta Know." I really didn't even have a chance to mess up my hair or make-up, which I know made many facebook onlookers quite unhappy. And my unorthodox pink nails suddenly seemed like a premonition.
Of course the party had only just begun. I can't wait to tell you about the adventures we've been on these last five months. I can guarantee that my hair, make-up, and nails have not been perfect and at times have been downright disgusting. The first few weeks I was definitely in shock and are really a bit of a blur. But as I start to re-emerge, a new person, with a new career, and a whole new set of priorities, I can think of no better time to start to remember, reflect, and record this journey, because I'm already learning that it goes WAY too fast. And I'm so grateful to have you along for the ride.
If I had known that the previous post would be the last before I gave birth, I would have written something a little more poetic- and I don't mean an ode to my cankles- something more along the lines of a nice sum up of the pregnancy and my hopes and dreams for the delivery and beyond. But as fate would have it, just four days after my last post, my world changed forever and the days of blogging leisurely during my prep period at work came to a sudden halt.
Some of you have asked if I will continue blogging now that C is here. I hope that the answer will be "yes," even though I started this post 3 months ago and am just now finishing it! But now that the fall is here, and Mom and Zandar, along with all of my teacher friends are back at work, I feel like I am now officially beginning my journey as a stay-at-home mom. And I think that I will be able to keep writing- if not the long rants as in the pre-baby days, at least little vignettes into the life of a new mommy. I hope that I'll be able to keep you laughing, though I'm not sure that life will be quite as entertaining. As it is, when I talk to friends and family who fill me in on their exciting lives, I eagerly and wistfully listen and then proceed to fill them in on MY exciting goings on. It usually goes something like this, "Well, C woke up a little early for her 10 o'clock feeding so we fed her a little early but luckily she went right to sleep after that and then made it until 2:15, when she had a giant poop..." Seriously. It is amazing just how quickly you become "that person." It is pretty much instantaneous and unavoidable. These are the events that make up your every waking moment (and let's face it, there aren't too many moments that aren't "waking" anymore) and you somehow lose sight of the fact that the bowel movements of your newborn aren't quite as interesting to everyone else as they are to you. It doesn't matter that you swore you'd never be "like that."
So even though I think that my future posts will most likely be short and sweet, I feel that I have to bring some closure to the pregnancy saga and put into words just how C came to be. Since the secondary purpose of this blog was to have something to show Baby H when he or she was old enough, and now that we know that Baby H is a girl and might actually be interested, here goes:
On Good Friday, April 7, our band had a gig. At this horrible dive bar. Ivan and I had gotten into several arguments about the fact that he booked a gig- without consulting me- a mere 2 weeks before our baby was due. Ivan was convinced that I was going to go late (we had learned in Lamaze class that 65% of women do) and that all would be fine, though we did ask Zandar to sing one of the sets as my stamina was not so great at almost 38 weeks. As it was, I sang the first set, not without some strange looks from the bar's staff and patrons. One of the owners assured me that I could deliver on the pinball machine if need be. Zandar rocked out the second set and then my entire family booked it out of there, leaving Ivan to fend for himself for the third set because, as my dad put it, "My grandchild is NOT gonna be born here."
The next day, Zandar and I treated ourselves to Spring Break Celebratory Manicures and Pedicures. I strayed from my typical coral color selection and instead chose a pastel pink that read "Easter" to me called VanGogh'd, also appropriate because we were eating at a nearby restaurant that night called Van Gogh's Ear. We were celebrating my dad's 60th birthday, first with dying Easter eggs, then dinner, cake, and a concert- a Queen tribute band to which Cecelia and my bro had gotten the family tickets for Christmas. During cake time at our house, we premiered a movie we had made for the occasion, called, "Stuff Our Dad Says" that us "kids" had filmed the previous Sunday. Without delving too far into it, we basically took turns "playing" our dad in some of his finest and most repetitive moments. The entire family was in hysterics and our dad fell off of the couch from laughing so hard. He contends that it was the laughter that sent me into labor later that night.
We set off for the concert which we all thoroughly enjoyed, though maybe no one more that Baby H. Throughout the night, the baby was kicking up a storm. The family took turns with their hands on my belly, feeling the crazy in-utero dance moves and shaking their heads with laughter.
Ivan and I were in bed by midnight, poised to wake up to hear Zandar sing 7:30 Mass the next morning. But Baby H had other plans. Around 2:00 am, a contraction much more intense than the Braxton Hicks versions I had been experiencing for months woke me up out of a dead sleep. "Hmm... that was weird," I thought and went back to sleep. About an hour later, the same thing happened. "Okay, I'm going to keep track of this, just in case." I made a note on my phone and tried to return to sleep, but couldn't as the contractions started to come more and more frequently. My heart rate quickened as I thought, "Oh my gosh- I'm having this baby soon!" I didn't wake Ivan, as I knew he would become a nut just as soon as he knew and I thought that at least one of us should get some sleep, so I waited until 6 am when he stirred to fill him in.
As expected, the moment he knew, Ivan sprang into action. I asked him to make me a cup of tea, knowing that labor takes a long time and that you are supposed to do as much of it as possible at home. I had envisioned staying in bed for awhile, trying to stay comfortable, and taking advantage of Ivan waiting on me, though I knew I was only allowed to have clear liquids and maybe some Jell-o. When that cup of tea took 20 minutes to arrive to my bedside, Ivan explained that he had filled up the teapot to the brim, and when he couldn't figure out why it was taking so long to boil, he realized what he had done. I called my mom to let her know that I was in labor and that I planned to relax in bed for awhile. She told me, "B, don't wait too long- I would get in the shower and start getting ready." I listened to her, even though I was sure I had plenty of time. I had called to let the doctor know I was in labor and was basically told to come in in a week. Not really, but when the contractions were 5 minutes apart, which, at 12 minutes apart, seems like a week away.
I got in the shower, and washed my big belly for the last time. However, I didn't have a contraction for 20 minutes and I started to think the whole thing was a false alarm- embarrassing, considering I had already texted my siblings and Ivan had let his family know. Post-shower, I laid back down in bed in my robe and towel wrapped around my head. Suddenly, I felt a pain, the likes of which I had never experienced. The sensation was a cramping, gripping pain that made me arch my back involuntarily, as it came on strong and grew unbearable. I turned to Ivan and said, "Oooookay, not a false alarm." I got up and started to get ready, putting on my Easter dress (far be it for me to not put a new outfit to use), putting on makeup and drying my hair, more to distract myself from the contractions, now coming at quicker intervals than for vanity.
By the time we were dressed and ready, the contractions were coming steadily every 5 minutes. I eagerly called the doctor again, and was told to call back when they were 5 minutes apart for an hour. Discouraged, we headed downstairs and Ivan put on old episodes of The Office in an attempt to take my mind off of my pain, but even the funniest moments (Dwight giving himself a concussion) could only bring a tight-lipped smile to my face. We continued to time the contractions, and after 45 minutes, they were about 3 1/2 minutes apart. Ivan decided that we were going and that we'd call from the car. Of course, we had no gas. So there we were, stopping on the parkway for 10 dollars worth of gas, with me doing my Lamaze breathing like some bad movie cliche.
We arrived at St. Peter's and were placed in a room after some paperwork (I thought the point of pre-registration was so you don't have to sit across a desk and sign things while you are in the process of delivering a child!). The labor and delivery nurse got me all set up and our doctor can in to check my progress. Of all of the doctors in my group, this doctor was probably our least favorite. From her assessment though, it would seem that she might not even be on duty when I delivered, because she put me at 2 centimeters and proceeded to show me a chart and explained that the whole process would most likely take all day and night, complete with hours of pushing. On the chart, 2 centimeters looked like a pinpoint and 10 centimeters looked like a black hole (at least it did due to the circumstances) and the amount of pain I was in did not seem to bode well for the medication-free delivery I had envisioned. I felt like it would be impossible to keep my strength and spirits up for 15 hours. The doctor scurried out, leaving me blinking at the door as if to say, "Wait... that's it? Aren't you going to hang out in here, maybe tell the baby to come out?"
In the meantime, unbeknownst to us, our families had arrived downstairs. My mother quickly worked her magic, schmoozing with the person behind the desk to allow any 2 people to come up to the room to see us, so long as they rotated. She was the first to come up. It was so good to see her- there is just something about seeing your mommy, especially when you are not feeling well, or in this case, when you feel like a boa constrictor has wrapped around your middle and is relentlessly squeezing, that just makes you feel instantly better. I don't remember much about what she said to me, but I know that I felt comforted knowing that she was there.
She left the room and my dad and Zandar came in. I remember my dad kissing me on my head and holding my hand. I remember reading Zandar's face and seeing that she was having a hard time seeing me in this much pain. Everyone was watching the screen behind my head and could see when the next contraction was coming. Though they tried to hide it from me, I could tell when it was going to be bad. I wasn't much a a conversationalist at this point and I began to think of all of the TV episodes and movies we had planned to watch during the labor and the book I had packed... what an idiot.
By the time Dad and Zandar switched out with my MIL's, I don't think I could manage more than a couple of words. I remember them being very respectful of my pain, giving me kisses and hanging in the background. My MIL's left, but as my brother and Cecelia were about to take their turn, I felt a warm gush and I cried out, "Oh! My water just broke!" They were not allowed in, as the nurse had to change my bedding and also inform me that my contractions will now become painful. Ummm... what? I told Ivan that there was no way that I could continue like this for 15 hours (I don't know why I got that number in my head, but I did) without help. He told me that of course that I should do whatever I needed to do. At that point, though, my nurse checked my progress and in astonishment told me that I was at 6 centimeters.
I'm not going to lie- I felt a little bit vindicated. All this time the nurse clearly thought I was either a wimp or a drama queen (She had actually said, "Well, they call it labor, not fun.") and I had been progressing through the stages of labor way faster than she had thought. She called for the doctor.
At this point, things get a little fuzzy in my memory. What I know is: that the baby's heartrate dropped when my water broke. The doctor came in and checked me and said I was at 10 centimeters. The big door that they open just before delivery openned. I was given oxygen and asked to spell my name and I almost gave my maiden name. The anethesiologist came in and was sent away. The doctor was filling out paperwork for banking the cord blood when I yelled out, "I feel like I need to push!!!" The sensation was incredible- like my body was going to push without my mind's consent- this baby was coming!!!
With Ivan holding my leg and encouraging me, I was told to push, and push I did. The doctor, who we had been dissappointed would be delivering our baby suddenly became the best cheerleader in the world, yelling, "Come on, B! Come on B!" The pushing was actually a relief from the pain and three contractions with three pushes each, we had a baby! I heard them using feminine pronouns for what I had become convinced from the assertions of others due to the way I was carrying, was my baby boy. When someone said, "It's a girl!" I felt the world spin. I was in complete shock. I hadn't told anyone other than my mom and Ivan, but at our 20 week ultrasound when we did not find out the gender, the technician had referred to the baby as "he." I thought that she had blown it, though I didn't question her on it. I had bonded with what I thought was our little boy in my belly and here, lying on my now floppy stomach, staring at me with big, blue eyes, was a little girl! She was 7 lbs. 5oz, 19 1/2 inches long and absolutely perfect. She had loads of thick black hair, just like her mom and dad both had when they were born. (On a side note, when she was still inside and the doctor was feeling around to check her out, she remarked, "I think it's gonna be a baldy!" I don't know what she was feeling, but it clearly wasn't this child's head!)
While the baby got a wrapped up and I got stitched up, Ivan informed my mom and Cecelia, who had been waiting in the hall and were completely concerned and confused when they heard a baby cry so much earlier than expected, that we had a baby girl and all was well. When Ivan returned to me and our baby was placed in our arms, we looked down at our little angel and discussed what to call her. There were two options on the table, and to that point I thought that I was leaning away from Cadence Faith. I told Ivan that he could choose and I was surprised to find that I was dissappointed when he first chose the other option. "Are you sure?" I asked. "No," he said, "You are Cadence." And being born on Easter Sunday (mass was being played on the television as she was born), how could we not go with Faith as the middle name?
Mom and Zandar were the first to come in the room, with tears in their eyes, and they were quickly followed by the rest of our families. What a blessing that everyone could be there to share in our joy and excitement. The clan followed Ivan and C to the newborn nursery to watch her get cleaned up and I got some much needed one on one time with my own mommy, after becoming a mommy myself.
The party continued through the next two days at the hospital. Never have I felt so surrounded by love. So many friends and family came and held C and welcomed her into our lives. A lot of them brought junk food too, which was so appreciated. :) God truly blessed us beyond anything I could imagine or deserve. When all was said and done, we got to the hospital at 11:00 am and she was out at 12:39. The doctors and nurses were almost in as much shock as we were. They told me to be sure to remind them of this for the next delivery- I certainly don't want to have the next one on the Parkway, or worse, at some horrible dive bar while belting out "You Oughtta Know." I really didn't even have a chance to mess up my hair or make-up, which I know made many facebook onlookers quite unhappy. And my unorthodox pink nails suddenly seemed like a premonition.
Of course the party had only just begun. I can't wait to tell you about the adventures we've been on these last five months. I can guarantee that my hair, make-up, and nails have not been perfect and at times have been downright disgusting. The first few weeks I was definitely in shock and are really a bit of a blur. But as I start to re-emerge, a new person, with a new career, and a whole new set of priorities, I can think of no better time to start to remember, reflect, and record this journey, because I'm already learning that it goes WAY too fast. And I'm so grateful to have you along for the ride.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
An Ode
I should have seen this coming
But I was blind.
I never appreciated you when you were there for me,
For the more than thirty-one years you served me.
Faithfully
Silently
Overlooked
You held me up throughout my days
I ignored you through my nights
Never understanding your power
Until now-
Now that you are gone.
You served your purpose beautifully,
Delicately
Together we saw many highs.
You never shared in the glory
But always took a back seat to others
Never coming first, second, third, or fourth
In my mind.
And now I am left bewildered
Stunned
Betrayed
Wallowing in the the realization that I deserve this.
You have deserted me-
Left me to my self-absorbed ways;
To rely on the others who have let me down
Time and time again
And are in no condition to be of any help to me now.
And so good-bye,
Sweet Friend.
If you return to me,
Know it will be different.
Know I will appreciate you,
Admire you,
See you for the contribution you are to me.
Until then,
Believe I miss you.
Believe I feel this vacancy
In my heart.
Or more accurately,
On my legs.
Between my feet
And my calves.
My missing friend-
My ankles.
Other highlights of this week have been the removal of all rings, save for my wedding band. Not that the wedding band fits either, but I refuse to have anyone, say, on line at Target wondering about the paternity of this baby. I’m considering buying an obnoxiously large cubic zirconium ring in my swollen finger size to go in the complete opposite direction- people can wonder which lucky celebrity got to make me his bride. I have to find things to keep myself amused these days, as regular activities are becoming tougher and tougher.
Working out has been HARD this week. Stuff that felt borderline easy last week now feels like the final summit of Everest. On Monday I actually had to stop swimming mid-lap to catch my breath. And I came very close to having to use the stairs to get out of the pool- unheard of! It took two tries to hoist myself up and over the edge of the pool, beached whale-style. It must have been quite a sight. Even walking has become a bit of a challenge. I’m developing a waddle, more from the strange pains in my groin area than anything else.
At the gym this morning, some ladies were making conversation about my pregnancy. I was being told how April is such a nice time of year to give birth- you can take the baby out for a walk, you don't have to worry about extreme weather, etc. One of the ladies added that it's wonderful that I won't have to carry during the summer. I started to add what my mom had told me- that I would have been swollen far longer had I been in the third trimester during the summer. I got the words out, "Yes, I just started to swell and-" when she interrupted and said, "Yes, I noticed that your face just started swelling."
Are you kidding me? Who says that? I wasn't talking about my FACE! I couldn't even respond to her. I kind of just stood there with my (apparently bloated and puffy) mouth hanging open. This exchange has inspired me to create a list of "Things You Should Never Say To A Pregnant Woman," to be debuted next week. And that's gonna be at the top of the list.
But I was blind.
I never appreciated you when you were there for me,
For the more than thirty-one years you served me.
Faithfully
Silently
Overlooked
You held me up throughout my days
I ignored you through my nights
Never understanding your power
Until now-
Now that you are gone.
You served your purpose beautifully,
Delicately
Together we saw many highs.
You never shared in the glory
But always took a back seat to others
Never coming first, second, third, or fourth
In my mind.
And now I am left bewildered
Stunned
Betrayed
Wallowing in the the realization that I deserve this.
You have deserted me-
Left me to my self-absorbed ways;
To rely on the others who have let me down
Time and time again
And are in no condition to be of any help to me now.
And so good-bye,
Sweet Friend.
If you return to me,
Know it will be different.
Know I will appreciate you,
Admire you,
See you for the contribution you are to me.
Until then,
Believe I miss you.
Believe I feel this vacancy
In my heart.
Or more accurately,
On my legs.
Between my feet
And my calves.
My missing friend-
My ankles.
So that was my attempt to be clever as I inform you that I have entered the world of Cankledom. Yes, friends, it has come to this. I am told that I should consider myself lucky that I made it this far without the horrors of swelling body parts- that had I been pregnant during a hot summer it would have been far worse. But it is hard to find consolation in those thoughts when you are sitting on the toilet, peeing for what is the 37th time that day and you look down and see that the bottom portions of your legs are unrecognizable. Well, maybe that’s not quite true- you DO recognize them- they belong to your elementary school lunch lady. So how did they end up residing beneath your knees? It is one of the great Mysteries of Motherhood.
On a related note, Ivan and I attended a wedding this past weekend (it was actually post-rehearsal dinner that I noticed aforementioned cankles). We stayed over at a Courtyard Marriott and to our complete amusement, the room was identical to the one in which Baby H came to be. (Is that an overshare? Sorry!) Ivan thought that it would be so poetic if I went into labor while we were staying at the hotel. I, on the other hand, had no grand visions of Courtyard Marriotts playing any more of a role in our child's existence than they already had. And besides, I was grumpy from my massive ankles. To make matters worse, the next morning, when I tried on my shoes for the wedding, I discovered that lo and behold, my feet had joined the party and expanded past any hope of squeezing into my beloved shoes. And so to the mall we went, to find some larger, more practical wedges.
Now, if there's anything more discouraging than being forced to buy shoes that are 1.) not nearly as high as you'd like them to be 2.) not nearly as sexy a style as you'd like them to be 3.) not the color you want them to be, because old lady shoes only come in a few, mundane shades it's not being able to bend down and fasten the clasps without rocking back and forth on the chair, looking like a life-sized Weeble. Just sayin'.
This is me trying on shoes.
Other highlights of this week have been the removal of all rings, save for my wedding band. Not that the wedding band fits either, but I refuse to have anyone, say, on line at Target wondering about the paternity of this baby. I’m considering buying an obnoxiously large cubic zirconium ring in my swollen finger size to go in the complete opposite direction- people can wonder which lucky celebrity got to make me his bride. I have to find things to keep myself amused these days, as regular activities are becoming tougher and tougher.
Working out has been HARD this week. Stuff that felt borderline easy last week now feels like the final summit of Everest. On Monday I actually had to stop swimming mid-lap to catch my breath. And I came very close to having to use the stairs to get out of the pool- unheard of! It took two tries to hoist myself up and over the edge of the pool, beached whale-style. It must have been quite a sight. Even walking has become a bit of a challenge. I’m developing a waddle, more from the strange pains in my groin area than anything else.
This is me trying to get out of the pool.
At the gym this morning, some ladies were making conversation about my pregnancy. I was being told how April is such a nice time of year to give birth- you can take the baby out for a walk, you don't have to worry about extreme weather, etc. One of the ladies added that it's wonderful that I won't have to carry during the summer. I started to add what my mom had told me- that I would have been swollen far longer had I been in the third trimester during the summer. I got the words out, "Yes, I just started to swell and-" when she interrupted and said, "Yes, I noticed that your face just started swelling."
Are you kidding me? Who says that? I wasn't talking about my FACE! I couldn't even respond to her. I kind of just stood there with my (apparently bloated and puffy) mouth hanging open. This exchange has inspired me to create a list of "Things You Should Never Say To A Pregnant Woman," to be debuted next week. And that's gonna be at the top of the list.
Speaking of pains… this last stretch has been chock-full of interesting sensations. As Baby H runs out of room in my belly, the kicks are taking on a different feeling- and we can definitely feel the tiny little feet from the outside! Ivan and I lay on the couch at night and crack up at the waves of movement that course across my abdomen- it’s alien-esque. Ivan tries to convince the baby to come out early, which, at this point wouldn’t really be early at all.
I keep teetering back and forth on when I want Baby H to make his or her grand debut (because you know I have so much say in the matter!). I find myself thinking, “What if the baby came tomorrow? That would be great!” and in the next moment I am in a panic, thinking, “No! I didn’t mean that! The nursery isn’t completely ready yet! I still have so much organizing to do at work before I leave! What about Easter?” The truth is, we’d be just fine if today was the day. But my OCD side has comprised a “Wish List” of Things That I’d Ideally Like To Have Done Before My Life Changes Forever. So we’ll see what happens. Statistically speaking, chances are good that Baby H will be later rather than sooner. Whether I use the extra time to my advantage by working on the house or squander it by curling up on the couch with a large bowl of fruit (a craving has finally materialized!) and a full line up of trash tv is yet to be determined.
In actuality, the nesting has been full force since the baby shower. There is something so fun about assembling baby things and arranging them cutely. I’m hoping to have some photos of the completed nursery to post next time. It’s looking pretty adorable, I must say! It is bright and cheery and Baby H is going to be very comfortable and content there- I just know it.
I'm going to the doctor weekly now. On Monday, she told me that everything is still looking good and that now we're just waiting for labor, but that of course there is no way to predict when that will be. (Which didn't stop me from organizing a baby pool for my students!) I asked if she could tell anything about my size and my ability to deliver naturally. She asked my height and shoe size (I gave her my normal size, not the bloated, have to buy shoes for a wedding at the last minute size) and when she heard the answers she said that nothing is screaming to her that I wouldn't be okay.
I know that no matter what happens, the only thing that matters is getting a healthy Baby H out safely, by any means necessary. But when you have a student teacher and therefore a lot of time to daydream, you can't help but play out a number of scenarios in your mind of what labor and delivery might be like. One of my favorite options is:
I go in for my 40 week check-up and am given an internal exam. The doctor says, "Oh Honey, you're at 9 and 1/2 centimeters already. How did you do that? You're amazing and you look great too." We go to the hospital and out pops Baby H after 2 pushes. I barely break a sweat (just enough to look all glowy) and Baby H and I become legendary for our amazing delivery skills and cuteness as a mom/baby pair.
This fantasy is second only to:
Ivan and I go to our favorite restaurant. We have an incredible meal. We've just finished dessert and I'm sipping on my tea when the waiter brings over our leftovers all packaged up. Then, almost like an afterthought, he says, "Oh yes, and your baby," and hands me a perfectly bundled Baby H.
Sigh. A girl can dream. What better way is there to pass the time during this waiting game? I have to rely on my brain these days- clearly my ankles can't be trusted.
I know that no matter what happens, the only thing that matters is getting a healthy Baby H out safely, by any means necessary. But when you have a student teacher and therefore a lot of time to daydream, you can't help but play out a number of scenarios in your mind of what labor and delivery might be like. One of my favorite options is:
I go in for my 40 week check-up and am given an internal exam. The doctor says, "Oh Honey, you're at 9 and 1/2 centimeters already. How did you do that? You're amazing and you look great too." We go to the hospital and out pops Baby H after 2 pushes. I barely break a sweat (just enough to look all glowy) and Baby H and I become legendary for our amazing delivery skills and cuteness as a mom/baby pair.
This fantasy is second only to:
Ivan and I go to our favorite restaurant. We have an incredible meal. We've just finished dessert and I'm sipping on my tea when the waiter brings over our leftovers all packaged up. Then, almost like an afterthought, he says, "Oh yes, and your baby," and hands me a perfectly bundled Baby H.
Sigh. A girl can dream. What better way is there to pass the time during this waiting game? I have to rely on my brain these days- clearly my ankles can't be trusted.
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