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.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
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:
 |
| 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.
Monday, April 2, 2012
Showers of Happiness
Last weekend was chock full of maternity milestones! I took off on Friday and Monday, being that I have dozens of sick days left and if I don't return to work, they'll be gone forever, and also being that if I'm going to work up until the final hour, I feel like taking a day here or there to prepare as best I can is in order!
Friday began with getting maternity photos taken. I highly recommend getting maternity photos taken, if for no other reason than it's pretty awesome to get your picture taken without having to worry about sucking in. Under non-pregnant circumstances, if I had to stand in front of a camera for an hour, you'd better believe that I wouldn't be eating anything until after the shoot- at which time I'd stuff my face with any number of things. But in pregnant circumstances, I can stuff my face with any number of things beforehand! Hooray! Ivan and I went to one of his clients who owns a studio in Montclair. This husband and wife team was amazing. They were the sweetest people and you can tell that they more than knew what they were doing. They had a way of making me feel beautiful, even being as large as I am right now. Under the warm lights, I channeled my inner Tyra Banks and tried to employ the techniques I've honed over years of watching America's Next Top Model- particularly the "smize" (smiling with your eyes- it's intellectual stuff, I'll tell you). I was doing just fine- until the clothes started to come off.
Now, that's a bit of an exaggeration. I had come to the studio in a black tank top and jeans and the first round of photos was taken in that and I felt very comfortable. After awhile, though, they brought out these swaths of black fabric in varying sizes and they became my new attire. The large one was great- they wrapped it around my waist like a flowy skirt- totally fine. The other one was super-small and they twisted it around my top, creating a makeshift bandeau top. If you're doing the math, that leaves a lot of exposed, pregnant skin. Ivan could tell that I was teetering on the edge of my comfort level and politely said as much, but we wanted to be compliant, as they are Ivan's clients and they claim to have had much success with said swathes. So I bared the belly and finished the session. I cannot imagine that the photo we select will be one of the half-naked ones, but we'll see! We get to see the photos on Thursday, and we're so excited!
On Saturday, Ivan and I headed to St. Peter's for the third week in a row for Lamaze class, which, as you know, I had been really looking forward to. I'm so happy to say that I wasn't disappointed. The instructor for the class was hilarious and teeming with information on what to expect. We watched the videos of births which managed to have the effect of both scaring the crap out of me and reducing me to a blubbering mess as soon as the little baby was out. The men practiced massage techniques on their partners- score! We did the storied breathing exercises and even practiced while holding ice cubes in our hands as our husbands coached us through a "contraction." Not that holding an ice cube in your hand is actually comparable to a contraction, I'm sure, but it served the purpose of helping us to block out the thought of the pain. It was super helpful also, for Ivan and I to get on the same page as to what constitutes appropriate coaching. Read: If I am not amused by your silly faces and making light of the situation while I'm holding an ice cube in my hand, I probably won't be amused when a watermelon is forcing its way through, well... you know where.
The highlight of the day though, by far, was the tour of the maternity ward. The rooms are actually quite beautiful- both the labor/delivery and recovery. But... the newborn nursery. Don't even get me started. In no way am I exaggerating when I tell you that I stood in front of that window and sobbed as the nurses held up these hours-old babies-all pink and disoriented- for us to see. I mean... to think that one of them is going to be coming out of me in a few short weeks is so incredible. I can't stop thinking about them!
To top off this fabulous weekend, my baby shower was on Sunday. And it was the most beautiful shower that ever was. Honestly, the amount of work that my family (and of course I am including Ivan's family when I say "my family"!) did to throw this event is mind boggling. Many of you were there, so you know the exquisite details that made it so very special. It was tea party themed, complete with big hats, fine china, and the tastiest treats. It almost embarrasses me to think of the time and money spent to pull it off. I am tempted to itemized the tasks that each person took on to make the shower a reality, but I'm scared I'll leave something or someone out. So, I'll merely state that I was humbled and blown away by how elegant, thoughtful, and fun the event was
In addition to being blown away by the event itself, seeing so many of the gorgeous ladies I am blessed to have in my life was such an emotional experience. As I felt after my bridal shower: They say it takes a village to raise a child and it is over-whelming to see so much of your village gathered in one place. And if that's not enough to over-whelm, the generosity certainly will do the trick. Our house now looks like a baby bomb has exploded within it and I daresay that Baby H is pretty set! The nursery is looking adorable and he or she has outfits to get through the entire first year incredibly stylishly. I cannot accurately express how grateful I feel- I spent most of the shower and much of this week in a stupor. I don't think that anyone exists who deserves that kind of attention- least of all me. The only way I can justify it in my head is to think that it was for Baby H.
So, clearly, I am one lucky lady. Baby H and I are living a pretty charmed life and we're enjoying this last stretch of time as a bundled set. As I finish this post, it is Monday morning and we're officially, as of yesterday, at 37 weeks which is considered full-term. It's a great feeling to know that any day we could meet our little miracle and he or she would be ready to face the world. At the size of a watermelon, he or she should be! Yes, it is getting harder and harder to move and my bathroom trips have doubled in the past couple of weeks. My feet and hands are swelling to ridiculous proportions (more on that later). On top of that I have a cold, which, of course I can't take any medicine for, and I gave it to Ivan, who, by the way, can take medicine but prefers to lay on the couch and look at me with puppy-dog eyes that say, "No one has ever or will ever experience this kind of discomfort." I'm scrambling at work to make sure that everything is set up for my leave and also trying to prepare for the "last gig for awhile" for the second time. But I'm so happy and I feel as though a mug that I received at my amazing baby shower sums it up best:
New Mommy- Too Blessed To Be Stressed.
Friday began with getting maternity photos taken. I highly recommend getting maternity photos taken, if for no other reason than it's pretty awesome to get your picture taken without having to worry about sucking in. Under non-pregnant circumstances, if I had to stand in front of a camera for an hour, you'd better believe that I wouldn't be eating anything until after the shoot- at which time I'd stuff my face with any number of things. But in pregnant circumstances, I can stuff my face with any number of things beforehand! Hooray! Ivan and I went to one of his clients who owns a studio in Montclair. This husband and wife team was amazing. They were the sweetest people and you can tell that they more than knew what they were doing. They had a way of making me feel beautiful, even being as large as I am right now. Under the warm lights, I channeled my inner Tyra Banks and tried to employ the techniques I've honed over years of watching America's Next Top Model- particularly the "smize" (smiling with your eyes- it's intellectual stuff, I'll tell you). I was doing just fine- until the clothes started to come off.
Now, that's a bit of an exaggeration. I had come to the studio in a black tank top and jeans and the first round of photos was taken in that and I felt very comfortable. After awhile, though, they brought out these swaths of black fabric in varying sizes and they became my new attire. The large one was great- they wrapped it around my waist like a flowy skirt- totally fine. The other one was super-small and they twisted it around my top, creating a makeshift bandeau top. If you're doing the math, that leaves a lot of exposed, pregnant skin. Ivan could tell that I was teetering on the edge of my comfort level and politely said as much, but we wanted to be compliant, as they are Ivan's clients and they claim to have had much success with said swathes. So I bared the belly and finished the session. I cannot imagine that the photo we select will be one of the half-naked ones, but we'll see! We get to see the photos on Thursday, and we're so excited!
On Saturday, Ivan and I headed to St. Peter's for the third week in a row for Lamaze class, which, as you know, I had been really looking forward to. I'm so happy to say that I wasn't disappointed. The instructor for the class was hilarious and teeming with information on what to expect. We watched the videos of births which managed to have the effect of both scaring the crap out of me and reducing me to a blubbering mess as soon as the little baby was out. The men practiced massage techniques on their partners- score! We did the storied breathing exercises and even practiced while holding ice cubes in our hands as our husbands coached us through a "contraction." Not that holding an ice cube in your hand is actually comparable to a contraction, I'm sure, but it served the purpose of helping us to block out the thought of the pain. It was super helpful also, for Ivan and I to get on the same page as to what constitutes appropriate coaching. Read: If I am not amused by your silly faces and making light of the situation while I'm holding an ice cube in my hand, I probably won't be amused when a watermelon is forcing its way through, well... you know where.
The highlight of the day though, by far, was the tour of the maternity ward. The rooms are actually quite beautiful- both the labor/delivery and recovery. But... the newborn nursery. Don't even get me started. In no way am I exaggerating when I tell you that I stood in front of that window and sobbed as the nurses held up these hours-old babies-all pink and disoriented- for us to see. I mean... to think that one of them is going to be coming out of me in a few short weeks is so incredible. I can't stop thinking about them!
To top off this fabulous weekend, my baby shower was on Sunday. And it was the most beautiful shower that ever was. Honestly, the amount of work that my family (and of course I am including Ivan's family when I say "my family"!) did to throw this event is mind boggling. Many of you were there, so you know the exquisite details that made it so very special. It was tea party themed, complete with big hats, fine china, and the tastiest treats. It almost embarrasses me to think of the time and money spent to pull it off. I am tempted to itemized the tasks that each person took on to make the shower a reality, but I'm scared I'll leave something or someone out. So, I'll merely state that I was humbled and blown away by how elegant, thoughtful, and fun the event was
In addition to being blown away by the event itself, seeing so many of the gorgeous ladies I am blessed to have in my life was such an emotional experience. As I felt after my bridal shower: They say it takes a village to raise a child and it is over-whelming to see so much of your village gathered in one place. And if that's not enough to over-whelm, the generosity certainly will do the trick. Our house now looks like a baby bomb has exploded within it and I daresay that Baby H is pretty set! The nursery is looking adorable and he or she has outfits to get through the entire first year incredibly stylishly. I cannot accurately express how grateful I feel- I spent most of the shower and much of this week in a stupor. I don't think that anyone exists who deserves that kind of attention- least of all me. The only way I can justify it in my head is to think that it was for Baby H.
So, clearly, I am one lucky lady. Baby H and I are living a pretty charmed life and we're enjoying this last stretch of time as a bundled set. As I finish this post, it is Monday morning and we're officially, as of yesterday, at 37 weeks which is considered full-term. It's a great feeling to know that any day we could meet our little miracle and he or she would be ready to face the world. At the size of a watermelon, he or she should be! Yes, it is getting harder and harder to move and my bathroom trips have doubled in the past couple of weeks. My feet and hands are swelling to ridiculous proportions (more on that later). On top of that I have a cold, which, of course I can't take any medicine for, and I gave it to Ivan, who, by the way, can take medicine but prefers to lay on the couch and look at me with puppy-dog eyes that say, "No one has ever or will ever experience this kind of discomfort." I'm scrambling at work to make sure that everything is set up for my leave and also trying to prepare for the "last gig for awhile" for the second time. But I'm so happy and I feel as though a mug that I received at my amazing baby shower sums it up best:
New Mommy- Too Blessed To Be Stressed.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
A Touch of Class
Even though it is widely said that nothing can prepare you for parenthood, that doesn't stop us as a society from making every attempt to do just that. There are a ton of books (most of which I own), magazines (some of which I read), and websites (a lot of which I look at) out there that try to delude us into thinking that we have some kind of a handle on the situation. To that end, Ivan and I have been attending classes at St. Peter's Hospital (where Baby H will be born- as were my siblings and I, by the way!) the past two Saturdays. Two weeks ago was Breast Feeding, this past week was Baby Care, and we'll finish up this Saturday with Lamaze.
As I've mentioned before, we've been told by some people that the classes are completely unnecessary and that the process is the most natural thing in the world, but Ivan and I are of the mindset that the more information we can get our hands on, the better and we also feel that it's a bit of a right of passage. Recently, my mom had me cleaning out some memory boxes of mine that were still at her house. She and Poppy (my dad!) have completely re-done my brother's old bedroom to be a couples'/baby suite (complete with crib!) and with the renovation came the decree that we need to "get our crap outta here." (By the way, they totally put us to shame, completing their baby room when we were just getting starting on ours). While going through my baby box, I found all kinds of amazing things- a calendar on which my mom marked all of the important moments from my first year of life, the outfit they brought me home in, newspapers from the day I was born. Among the most endearing things, however, were the hand-written notes my dad had taken at the classes he and my mom took in preparation of my arrival.
They say that girls marry men who remind them of their dads. There have been many times when I have thought this to be true of myself (like when Ivan talks like Donald Duck- one of my dad's classics- or makes fun of me (teasing his children is my dad's favorite pastime). Luckily, though, the similarities don't end with their penchant for mockery. My dad has always been extremely "hands on" when it comes to fatherhood. Hmmm... that makes it sound like he beat us, which he did, but only in our nightly wrestling matches which to this day have a possibility of occurring, depending on the severity of the insult that is hurled in my dad's direction (usually by my brother). Actually, I can add "Haven't had a good fight with my dad or been able to jump in when he's tormenting Zandar or my brother" to my list of things that I've missed since becoming pregnant. Anyway, what I meant by "hands on" can best be illustrated by the assertion that both of my parents, after bringing me home from the hospital as a newborn, would literally race and stumble over each other to be the first to get to me when I cried. My dad has never shied away from anything parent-related, saying that it was my mom's territory or anything like that. On the contrary, he was involved in every aspect of our upbringing and I know that Ivan is going to be the same way. And for having both of these amazing men in my life, I know I am truly blessed.
All that being said, Ivan did balk just slightly on precipice of Breast Feeding class. About five minutes before we got in the car, he asked me, "Wait, should I bring my laptop, in case they won't let me in?" "Um, what?" I replied. "Well, do you think I'm going to be the only guy there? What if they don't let men in? I should bring it just in case." "What- exactly- do you think is going to happen in this class?" I asked, through slightly narrowed eyes. "I don't know- I'm just nervous, like if you all have your boobs out, where am I gonna look?"
(a pause so that can sink in.)
Me: We are NOT going to take our BOOBS out.
Ivan: Are you sure? What if you have to? And what if you had to go to a class where all of the men had to be exposed. Wouldn't you not know where to look?
Now, this conversation led me to believe that my husband of 2+ years does not know me in the slightest. Because a room full of exposed men sounds to me like the seventh circle of Hell and the only place I'd be looking would be at the door- longingly, planning my escape.
I wish I could say that I make these conversations up for your amusement, Ladies, but alas, this actually happened. It was one of those moments where I just couldn't muster up anything to say. I just wished desperately that there was a camera that I could turn to and give a blank stare, a la The Office.
I don't need to tell you that Breast Feeding class was far tamer than Ivan had imagined. In fact, it was taught by an elderly woman, which I found to be a little strange, but she obviously knew her lactation, and the class was only slightly scary. I could have done without the diagram of the compressed nipple in the baby's mouth, but what are you going to do? I don't know why I have so much anxiety surrounding the idea of breast feeding. It's weird, as I sit here now, it doesn't freak me out, but I know that I have this anxiety because of the dreams I constantly have about this activity. I know I've shared a couple of these dreams that plague me about 2 times a week.
There are few motherly issues that are as emotionally charged as breast feeding- whether or not you are able to or want to do it, how frequently to do so and for how long (duration of sessions and until the child is how old?). Because it is so emotionally charged and because I think it's another thing that comes down to the "you have to do what's right for you and your baby" philosophy, I'm not going to elaborate on the merits of different philosophies. All I will say about the class is that we got to play with baby dolls and Ivan had to tell me to stop cradling and caressing the doll as though it were real- I guess those instincts are starting to kick in!
Baby Care was also interesting. I have to say, I was the Hermione Granger of Baby Care class. For my non- Harry Potter fans (what is wrong with you?!) that means that I was kind of the teacher's pet. Every question the instructor quizzed us on, my hand was in the air. Now, it helps that I have a fabulous student teacher so I can sit at my desk and read a million baby books, soaking up information like a little mommy-to-be sponge. I'll be happy to pass along these books the next first time moms to be- and they'll be pre-highlighted for you! I'm sure the rest of the people in the baby care class were super-impressed, and by super-impressed, I mean probably annoyed by me. I didn't care though- some of the questions they were asking our instructor made me literally cringe in fear for their unborn children. We got to play with the dolls again- this time dressing them, diapering them, "bathing" them, and if you're Ivan, balancing them on one hand while looking at your wife expectantly for some kind of recognition.
I'm most interested in this Saturday's class though- Lamaze. I've been pushing (no pun intended) most thoughts of labor out of my mind for these past 8 months, thinking that if I can ignore it, maybe Baby H will will magically and painlessly appear on a magical puff of cloud, preferably pre-diapered. It could happen, right? Well, just in case it doesn't, it will be nice to get some kind of idea of what to expect. Of course I've seen hundreds of scenes of childbirth in movies and on TV, but we know that artistic license is taken with those. And there are the stories of others' experiences, but of course it's going to vary dramatically from woman to woman. So again, I guess there really is no way to prepare oneself, but if anyone has any good ideas, I'm open to them- send them along!
So, as I write this, it is March 22. Do you know what that is? If you guessed one month until my due date, you win the prize. In fact, the over-arching theme of the past week has been people telling me how close I am. When I called to make an interview appointment with a pediatrician (we are, admittedly, behind the eight ball on this) the receptionist squawked, "Five weeks?!" when she asked when the is baby due. The photographer for my maternity photos (being done tomorrow!) said, "We have to move very quickly," when he heard the response to the same question. I've had a couple of co-workers tell me that they don't think I'm making it to my due date. I hope they're wrong! As excited as we are to meet Baby H, there still seems to be a lot to do! Although, at a certain point, I guess we're going to have to stop reading the books, taking the classes, and trying to organize and just dive right in.
Ready or not.
As I've mentioned before, we've been told by some people that the classes are completely unnecessary and that the process is the most natural thing in the world, but Ivan and I are of the mindset that the more information we can get our hands on, the better and we also feel that it's a bit of a right of passage. Recently, my mom had me cleaning out some memory boxes of mine that were still at her house. She and Poppy (my dad!) have completely re-done my brother's old bedroom to be a couples'/baby suite (complete with crib!) and with the renovation came the decree that we need to "get our crap outta here." (By the way, they totally put us to shame, completing their baby room when we were just getting starting on ours). While going through my baby box, I found all kinds of amazing things- a calendar on which my mom marked all of the important moments from my first year of life, the outfit they brought me home in, newspapers from the day I was born. Among the most endearing things, however, were the hand-written notes my dad had taken at the classes he and my mom took in preparation of my arrival.
They say that girls marry men who remind them of their dads. There have been many times when I have thought this to be true of myself (like when Ivan talks like Donald Duck- one of my dad's classics- or makes fun of me (teasing his children is my dad's favorite pastime). Luckily, though, the similarities don't end with their penchant for mockery. My dad has always been extremely "hands on" when it comes to fatherhood. Hmmm... that makes it sound like he beat us, which he did, but only in our nightly wrestling matches which to this day have a possibility of occurring, depending on the severity of the insult that is hurled in my dad's direction (usually by my brother). Actually, I can add "Haven't had a good fight with my dad or been able to jump in when he's tormenting Zandar or my brother" to my list of things that I've missed since becoming pregnant. Anyway, what I meant by "hands on" can best be illustrated by the assertion that both of my parents, after bringing me home from the hospital as a newborn, would literally race and stumble over each other to be the first to get to me when I cried. My dad has never shied away from anything parent-related, saying that it was my mom's territory or anything like that. On the contrary, he was involved in every aspect of our upbringing and I know that Ivan is going to be the same way. And for having both of these amazing men in my life, I know I am truly blessed.
All that being said, Ivan did balk just slightly on precipice of Breast Feeding class. About five minutes before we got in the car, he asked me, "Wait, should I bring my laptop, in case they won't let me in?" "Um, what?" I replied. "Well, do you think I'm going to be the only guy there? What if they don't let men in? I should bring it just in case." "What- exactly- do you think is going to happen in this class?" I asked, through slightly narrowed eyes. "I don't know- I'm just nervous, like if you all have your boobs out, where am I gonna look?"
(a pause so that can sink in.)
Me: We are NOT going to take our BOOBS out.
Ivan: Are you sure? What if you have to? And what if you had to go to a class where all of the men had to be exposed. Wouldn't you not know where to look?
Now, this conversation led me to believe that my husband of 2+ years does not know me in the slightest. Because a room full of exposed men sounds to me like the seventh circle of Hell and the only place I'd be looking would be at the door- longingly, planning my escape.
I wish I could say that I make these conversations up for your amusement, Ladies, but alas, this actually happened. It was one of those moments where I just couldn't muster up anything to say. I just wished desperately that there was a camera that I could turn to and give a blank stare, a la The Office.
I don't need to tell you that Breast Feeding class was far tamer than Ivan had imagined. In fact, it was taught by an elderly woman, which I found to be a little strange, but she obviously knew her lactation, and the class was only slightly scary. I could have done without the diagram of the compressed nipple in the baby's mouth, but what are you going to do? I don't know why I have so much anxiety surrounding the idea of breast feeding. It's weird, as I sit here now, it doesn't freak me out, but I know that I have this anxiety because of the dreams I constantly have about this activity. I know I've shared a couple of these dreams that plague me about 2 times a week.
There are few motherly issues that are as emotionally charged as breast feeding- whether or not you are able to or want to do it, how frequently to do so and for how long (duration of sessions and until the child is how old?). Because it is so emotionally charged and because I think it's another thing that comes down to the "you have to do what's right for you and your baby" philosophy, I'm not going to elaborate on the merits of different philosophies. All I will say about the class is that we got to play with baby dolls and Ivan had to tell me to stop cradling and caressing the doll as though it were real- I guess those instincts are starting to kick in!
Baby Care was also interesting. I have to say, I was the Hermione Granger of Baby Care class. For my non- Harry Potter fans (what is wrong with you?!) that means that I was kind of the teacher's pet. Every question the instructor quizzed us on, my hand was in the air. Now, it helps that I have a fabulous student teacher so I can sit at my desk and read a million baby books, soaking up information like a little mommy-to-be sponge. I'll be happy to pass along these books the next first time moms to be- and they'll be pre-highlighted for you! I'm sure the rest of the people in the baby care class were super-impressed, and by super-impressed, I mean probably annoyed by me. I didn't care though- some of the questions they were asking our instructor made me literally cringe in fear for their unborn children. We got to play with the dolls again- this time dressing them, diapering them, "bathing" them, and if you're Ivan, balancing them on one hand while looking at your wife expectantly for some kind of recognition.
I'm most interested in this Saturday's class though- Lamaze. I've been pushing (no pun intended) most thoughts of labor out of my mind for these past 8 months, thinking that if I can ignore it, maybe Baby H will will magically and painlessly appear on a magical puff of cloud, preferably pre-diapered. It could happen, right? Well, just in case it doesn't, it will be nice to get some kind of idea of what to expect. Of course I've seen hundreds of scenes of childbirth in movies and on TV, but we know that artistic license is taken with those. And there are the stories of others' experiences, but of course it's going to vary dramatically from woman to woman. So again, I guess there really is no way to prepare oneself, but if anyone has any good ideas, I'm open to them- send them along!
So, as I write this, it is March 22. Do you know what that is? If you guessed one month until my due date, you win the prize. In fact, the over-arching theme of the past week has been people telling me how close I am. When I called to make an interview appointment with a pediatrician (we are, admittedly, behind the eight ball on this) the receptionist squawked, "Five weeks?!" when she asked when the is baby due. The photographer for my maternity photos (being done tomorrow!) said, "We have to move very quickly," when he heard the response to the same question. I've had a couple of co-workers tell me that they don't think I'm making it to my due date. I hope they're wrong! As excited as we are to meet Baby H, there still seems to be a lot to do! Although, at a certain point, I guess we're going to have to stop reading the books, taking the classes, and trying to organize and just dive right in.
Ready or not.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Good Day Sunshine
Well, there's nothing like Daylight Savings Time beginning, coupled with some super-early spring weather to give you a refreshed perspective. I mean, how beautiful has it been this week? In general, I am a much happier person once we have a little more warmth and sunlight, but to have it this early just seems like a gift. I'm glad that I only have 4 1/2 weeks of work left, because this weather makes it feels like there should only be 4 1/2 weeks of school left in general. If this keeps up, I cannot even begin to imagine how zany the kids are going to be come June- I'd want to kill them. As it is, it's a real blessing to have my student teacher right now, because the amount of sleep I'm getting (or not getting, as the case may be) would have me biting off my students' heads by now. But despite being super-sleepy, and in general, a little gross, when spring comes, I just can't be kept down. I mean, get your Frappuccino-making pants on, Starbucks, because Mama's hungry. On a related note, I was nearly late for my class at the gym on Tuesday because I was sitting in my car licking the caramel off of the inside of my Frapuccino lid. Ironic? Maybe. Delicious and worth it? Definitely.
Before I delve into the fabulous mood I've been in for the past few days, let me enlighten you to a couple of things that would seemingly be working against this mood. First, I am peeing. A lot. I'm running to the bathroom after every class, and as I filled you in on last week, at least 6 times throughout the night. Alas, though, the peeing does not end there. It started several weeks ago, when in Target, I sneezed and straight up peed my pants. We're not talking a little trickle here. We're talking a significant amount of liquid, enough to soak my jeans but, thankfully, not enough to reach the floor. Also thankfully, I was wearing my long winter coat, so the only person who had to be disgusted by me was me. And boy, was I disgusted. I had been on the way to my mom's house, so I did the only logical thing- abandoned whatever mission I was on, immediately walked to the candy aisle, picked out a ginormous box of chocolate that was on sale for $10 (score!), bought it, drove to mom's, put my pants and undies in the wash, and ate myself sick.
Then, on Monday, I was sitting on the couch at home, with my feet up at the suggestion of the doctor (my feet, along with my fingers have started to swell and I have to lay off the salt for the next few weeks- and I love salt) when I sneezed and subsequently left a huge pee mark on my skirt and couch. Ivan, of course, found this quite amusing, and I, of course, did not. This culminated with me running (well, the pregnant equivalent of running) upstairs to change yelling, "Shut up! Shut up!" in response to Ivan's laughter. My only source of comfort is the fact that I have it on good word that this is not the first time that this has happened on this couch. And no, I'm not telling which couch or cushion.
Despite all of this, I've really been trying to "savor" these last few weeks of pregnancy and soak up all of the good things that go with it. I will elaborate shortly, but a quick story to add to the not-so glamorous side of things:
This morning I was feeling pretty cute. With all of this warm weather, I've been breaking out some of the hand-me-down tops that friends have provided me with, as most of what I've bought is winter-y. Today, for the first time, I am wearing a peasant-y type top, empire waist- you know the kind that makes you look pregnant even when you're not, so I feel as though I might as well live it up. It's really pretty- it's got the red-orange color that I die over, as well as some blue, khaki, and yellow in the pattern. I put it on this morning with my "skinny" khaki pants and some jeweled gold flats and I was pretty pleased with how well everything went together. Some blue and gold earrings and a chunky yellow and orange ring from Zandar completed the whole look. I felt pretty darn good about myself.
Now, I was too lazy this morning to pour my usual cereal and milk that I bring to school with me everyday. I would have had to wash the container and that seemed like an insurmountable task and since I had gotten up early and worked out I rationalized that I had earned a morning trip to Starbucks for a decaf skinny cinnamon dolce latte and an oatmeal- yum! While on line for said treats, the door opened and in walked a girl that I and everyone else in the store had to do a double take towards in order to believe she existed. She, first of all, was an Amazon. It honestly seemed as though she were two heads taller than me. Not only that, but she was thin, nay, lithe. She was wearing a charcoal wrap-dress and knee length, black, leather, high-heeled boots. Her jewelry was perfect, her hair was long, glossy, and impeccably straight She was the type of girl who, I'm ashamed to say, I think, "It doesn't matter how smart this girl is or what crazy talents she may possess- the only thing she should be doing is modeling." How progressive of me. I know, I'm ashamed. I just know that if I looked like that, I'd be strutting around like crazy and I'd be getting paid for it. But instead, I was there, in my "cute" outfit and all I could do was (audibly) chuckle and think (not audibly), "I'm an oompa-loompa."
All of this being said, though, the weather has given me a renewed outlook and with it, a renewed appreciation for being pregnant. I cannot believe that we are only 5 1/2 weeks away now! And who knows- it could be less, (I hope not too much less!). In many ways, it feels like I've been pregnant forever. It takes a long time for that little baby to grow! I particularly feel this way when I think about the last time I had a glass of wine or a turkey sandwich. Or was able to shave my legs or bikini line easily. And yes, I am still shaving everyday. It's kind of my thing. I have been told by more than one friend or sister that I have shamed them into shaving as well. As in, if they know that we're going to hang out and they haven't shaved in something like 2 weeks, they will break down and do it, just so they don't have to hear me berate them. The way I see, it, I am doing their boyfriends/husbands/society in general an invaluable service. And it's for their own goods too- I mean, who doesn't love the feel of silky smooth legs? Crazy hippies, that's who. Now if only I could get my cousin to consistently pluck the eyebrow that hides under her bangs. Anyway, the point is that ridding myself of offensive body hair is important to me and I'll be a hairless monkey's uncle if I'm going to let pregnancy stop me from doing so. (I don't think that actually makes sense.) But the point also is that this chore is becoming increasingly difficult as my belly grows and some areas need to be done quite carefully, with just my hands and a prayer to guide me. But I digress. The point actually is that sometimes (like when having trouble shaving) it feels like pregnancy lasts forever.
Sometimes, though, it feels like it was just yesterday that I was shocking Ivan and then our families with the news and that this whole ordeal has really taken place in the blink of an eye. The fact of the matter is that I have been so blessed to have the opportunity to carry this child and all of the little complaints along the way (and let's face it, peeing aside, I've been pretty lucky) are so minuscule in the light of the privilege. And the "long time" that it takes to grow is really only 40 weeks. It is nothing short of miraculous that by 6 1/2 weeks (only a week after realizing I was pregnant) the baby had a beating heart and now, 27 weeks later- roughly the length of baseball season- that little clump of cells is a baby! How does that happen?
As I marvel at the craziness of it all, I'm trying to appreciate the process as much as possible. As I've mentioned before, pregnant ladies bring out the best in people. I absolutely love the smiles I receive, the questions, even the little rubs of the belly (in most cases). I try to take advantage of the perks- the doors being held open, the reserved parking at Babies R' Us, the extra free samples of chocolate that I've been offered because "the baby needs one too" (duh, no brainer!), the fact that I don't have to KILL myself at the gym and no one expects me to- I'm actually enjoying the low-impact versions of the dances in class, the foot and back rubs that have become a nightly occurrence, among other things. I have to remember that all too soon, they will end: doors will be slammed before I can reach out and grab them and I'll have to park with the rest of the minions at Babies R' Us (which, by the way, I can only imagine is a huge slap in the face to all of the new moms who registered for all of their stuff there. You just need to get a case of diapers and you have to struggle with a new baby and all of the equipment- from that very store- that comes along with the baby... you're juggling a million things and something that should take 7 minutes tops has turned into an all afternoon outing, but no love in the parking department. Real nice, Babies R' Us. Real nice.) Pretty soon I'll be getting the stink eye from the people offering chocolate samples. I know what their looks will be saying: "Do you really think you should be having that? Don't you have some baby weight to be losing?" The same thing will be happening at the gym- "If she thinks she's getting back to her pre-baby body with that form, she's got another think coming..." (Is it horrible that I assume that people think this way?) And surely Ivan and I will both be so wiped out by the end of the day that any requests for massages from either party may result in laughter, slapping, or some combination of the two.
I even have a renewed appreciation for my pregnant body. It helps that I've been pretty darn good about going to the gym lately, if I do say so myself, and that always helps with body image. Well, at least it does for me. My belly is so cute, and it's a home for a very special person! I've even been inspired to take some maternity photos to document this time in my life. At first I was a little self conscious, but I gave myself a little pep talk. remembered that "big is beautiful" and dove right in. So without further ado, I'm going to do the big reveal right here on my blog. Ready? Drum roll, please!
Hahahahahahahaha... sorry, I just couldn't resist. I mean, honestly. I just love the debate over whether this is appropriate or not and how society kind of forgets that it would be inappropriate even if she wasn't pregnant. In all honesty, I am planning on getting some photos done, but believe you me, there will be clothing. Just a personal preference.
In other news, Zandar accompanied me to a very successful doctor's appointment on Monday. The scale showed me at 6/10 of a pound below my "Do Not Exceed" goal for the entire pregnancy, so looks like that's not going to work out. Oh well! My belly is measuring just right at 34 weeks. I am not dilated at all yet- good!- but my cervix is thinning out- also good. Baby H is positioned just right- head down- and is moving around a ton! In fact, at both of my last appointments, my doctors were amused by how active he or she is. I've been having a bunch of Braxton Hicks contractions each day and it's incredible to feel just how hard my tummy gets! I can't imagine what the real thing is going to feel like, but I'll maintain the upbeat nature of this post and save my paralyzing fear of labor for a later date.
In conclusion, it's a good thing I get a beautiful little baby at the end of this whole ordeal, because I'm honestly going to be a little bummed to not be pregnant any longer. I'm sure that getting back into some of my old clothes, having the occasional cocktail or the frequent turkey sandwich, and a slightly less achy body will be of some consolation. But in the end, for all of my whining, pregnancy is not a sacrifice that is worth it all in the end, but a blessing and privilege in and of itself. And with any luck, the majority of the time it's pretty fun!
Before I delve into the fabulous mood I've been in for the past few days, let me enlighten you to a couple of things that would seemingly be working against this mood. First, I am peeing. A lot. I'm running to the bathroom after every class, and as I filled you in on last week, at least 6 times throughout the night. Alas, though, the peeing does not end there. It started several weeks ago, when in Target, I sneezed and straight up peed my pants. We're not talking a little trickle here. We're talking a significant amount of liquid, enough to soak my jeans but, thankfully, not enough to reach the floor. Also thankfully, I was wearing my long winter coat, so the only person who had to be disgusted by me was me. And boy, was I disgusted. I had been on the way to my mom's house, so I did the only logical thing- abandoned whatever mission I was on, immediately walked to the candy aisle, picked out a ginormous box of chocolate that was on sale for $10 (score!), bought it, drove to mom's, put my pants and undies in the wash, and ate myself sick.
Then, on Monday, I was sitting on the couch at home, with my feet up at the suggestion of the doctor (my feet, along with my fingers have started to swell and I have to lay off the salt for the next few weeks- and I love salt) when I sneezed and subsequently left a huge pee mark on my skirt and couch. Ivan, of course, found this quite amusing, and I, of course, did not. This culminated with me running (well, the pregnant equivalent of running) upstairs to change yelling, "Shut up! Shut up!" in response to Ivan's laughter. My only source of comfort is the fact that I have it on good word that this is not the first time that this has happened on this couch. And no, I'm not telling which couch or cushion.
Despite all of this, I've really been trying to "savor" these last few weeks of pregnancy and soak up all of the good things that go with it. I will elaborate shortly, but a quick story to add to the not-so glamorous side of things:
This morning I was feeling pretty cute. With all of this warm weather, I've been breaking out some of the hand-me-down tops that friends have provided me with, as most of what I've bought is winter-y. Today, for the first time, I am wearing a peasant-y type top, empire waist- you know the kind that makes you look pregnant even when you're not, so I feel as though I might as well live it up. It's really pretty- it's got the red-orange color that I die over, as well as some blue, khaki, and yellow in the pattern. I put it on this morning with my "skinny" khaki pants and some jeweled gold flats and I was pretty pleased with how well everything went together. Some blue and gold earrings and a chunky yellow and orange ring from Zandar completed the whole look. I felt pretty darn good about myself.
Now, I was too lazy this morning to pour my usual cereal and milk that I bring to school with me everyday. I would have had to wash the container and that seemed like an insurmountable task and since I had gotten up early and worked out I rationalized that I had earned a morning trip to Starbucks for a decaf skinny cinnamon dolce latte and an oatmeal- yum! While on line for said treats, the door opened and in walked a girl that I and everyone else in the store had to do a double take towards in order to believe she existed. She, first of all, was an Amazon. It honestly seemed as though she were two heads taller than me. Not only that, but she was thin, nay, lithe. She was wearing a charcoal wrap-dress and knee length, black, leather, high-heeled boots. Her jewelry was perfect, her hair was long, glossy, and impeccably straight She was the type of girl who, I'm ashamed to say, I think, "It doesn't matter how smart this girl is or what crazy talents she may possess- the only thing she should be doing is modeling." How progressive of me. I know, I'm ashamed. I just know that if I looked like that, I'd be strutting around like crazy and I'd be getting paid for it. But instead, I was there, in my "cute" outfit and all I could do was (audibly) chuckle and think (not audibly), "I'm an oompa-loompa."
All of this being said, though, the weather has given me a renewed outlook and with it, a renewed appreciation for being pregnant. I cannot believe that we are only 5 1/2 weeks away now! And who knows- it could be less, (I hope not too much less!). In many ways, it feels like I've been pregnant forever. It takes a long time for that little baby to grow! I particularly feel this way when I think about the last time I had a glass of wine or a turkey sandwich. Or was able to shave my legs or bikini line easily. And yes, I am still shaving everyday. It's kind of my thing. I have been told by more than one friend or sister that I have shamed them into shaving as well. As in, if they know that we're going to hang out and they haven't shaved in something like 2 weeks, they will break down and do it, just so they don't have to hear me berate them. The way I see, it, I am doing their boyfriends/husbands/society in general an invaluable service. And it's for their own goods too- I mean, who doesn't love the feel of silky smooth legs? Crazy hippies, that's who. Now if only I could get my cousin to consistently pluck the eyebrow that hides under her bangs. Anyway, the point is that ridding myself of offensive body hair is important to me and I'll be a hairless monkey's uncle if I'm going to let pregnancy stop me from doing so. (I don't think that actually makes sense.) But the point also is that this chore is becoming increasingly difficult as my belly grows and some areas need to be done quite carefully, with just my hands and a prayer to guide me. But I digress. The point actually is that sometimes (like when having trouble shaving) it feels like pregnancy lasts forever.
Sometimes, though, it feels like it was just yesterday that I was shocking Ivan and then our families with the news and that this whole ordeal has really taken place in the blink of an eye. The fact of the matter is that I have been so blessed to have the opportunity to carry this child and all of the little complaints along the way (and let's face it, peeing aside, I've been pretty lucky) are so minuscule in the light of the privilege. And the "long time" that it takes to grow is really only 40 weeks. It is nothing short of miraculous that by 6 1/2 weeks (only a week after realizing I was pregnant) the baby had a beating heart and now, 27 weeks later- roughly the length of baseball season- that little clump of cells is a baby! How does that happen?
As I marvel at the craziness of it all, I'm trying to appreciate the process as much as possible. As I've mentioned before, pregnant ladies bring out the best in people. I absolutely love the smiles I receive, the questions, even the little rubs of the belly (in most cases). I try to take advantage of the perks- the doors being held open, the reserved parking at Babies R' Us, the extra free samples of chocolate that I've been offered because "the baby needs one too" (duh, no brainer!), the fact that I don't have to KILL myself at the gym and no one expects me to- I'm actually enjoying the low-impact versions of the dances in class, the foot and back rubs that have become a nightly occurrence, among other things. I have to remember that all too soon, they will end: doors will be slammed before I can reach out and grab them and I'll have to park with the rest of the minions at Babies R' Us (which, by the way, I can only imagine is a huge slap in the face to all of the new moms who registered for all of their stuff there. You just need to get a case of diapers and you have to struggle with a new baby and all of the equipment- from that very store- that comes along with the baby... you're juggling a million things and something that should take 7 minutes tops has turned into an all afternoon outing, but no love in the parking department. Real nice, Babies R' Us. Real nice.) Pretty soon I'll be getting the stink eye from the people offering chocolate samples. I know what their looks will be saying: "Do you really think you should be having that? Don't you have some baby weight to be losing?" The same thing will be happening at the gym- "If she thinks she's getting back to her pre-baby body with that form, she's got another think coming..." (Is it horrible that I assume that people think this way?) And surely Ivan and I will both be so wiped out by the end of the day that any requests for massages from either party may result in laughter, slapping, or some combination of the two.
I even have a renewed appreciation for my pregnant body. It helps that I've been pretty darn good about going to the gym lately, if I do say so myself, and that always helps with body image. Well, at least it does for me. My belly is so cute, and it's a home for a very special person! I've even been inspired to take some maternity photos to document this time in my life. At first I was a little self conscious, but I gave myself a little pep talk. remembered that "big is beautiful" and dove right in. So without further ado, I'm going to do the big reveal right here on my blog. Ready? Drum roll, please!
Hahahahahahahaha... sorry, I just couldn't resist. I mean, honestly. I just love the debate over whether this is appropriate or not and how society kind of forgets that it would be inappropriate even if she wasn't pregnant. In all honesty, I am planning on getting some photos done, but believe you me, there will be clothing. Just a personal preference.
In other news, Zandar accompanied me to a very successful doctor's appointment on Monday. The scale showed me at 6/10 of a pound below my "Do Not Exceed" goal for the entire pregnancy, so looks like that's not going to work out. Oh well! My belly is measuring just right at 34 weeks. I am not dilated at all yet- good!- but my cervix is thinning out- also good. Baby H is positioned just right- head down- and is moving around a ton! In fact, at both of my last appointments, my doctors were amused by how active he or she is. I've been having a bunch of Braxton Hicks contractions each day and it's incredible to feel just how hard my tummy gets! I can't imagine what the real thing is going to feel like, but I'll maintain the upbeat nature of this post and save my paralyzing fear of labor for a later date.
In conclusion, it's a good thing I get a beautiful little baby at the end of this whole ordeal, because I'm honestly going to be a little bummed to not be pregnant any longer. I'm sure that getting back into some of my old clothes, having the occasional cocktail or the frequent turkey sandwich, and a slightly less achy body will be of some consolation. But in the end, for all of my whining, pregnancy is not a sacrifice that is worth it all in the end, but a blessing and privilege in and of itself. And with any luck, the majority of the time it's pretty fun!
Thursday, March 8, 2012
To Sleep, Perchance to Dream...
Ah, Sleep, my friend. I feel as though we may have parted ways for what will be a long time.
The explanation that women in their third trimester have difficulty sleeping because their bodies are preparing them to function on less sleep once the baby arrives may be true, but is in no way comforting. Getting a good night's sleep at this point in my pregnancy can be likened to a kind of obstacle course that would challenge even the most adept American Gladiator. Allow me to elaborate.
Starting Line:
I prepare for the obstacle course of sleep like a seasoned sleep athlete. I arrive to the starting line (my cozy bed) early- around 9:30pm- feeling completely ready for the challenge ahead, as I am usually exhausted. I am prepared with all of the necessary equipment: maternity pj's, fuzzy socks, a glass of water for my night stand, and a dark bedroom with television turned off. I go through my standard pre-race ritual: take my prenatal vitamin, slather anti-stretch mark lotion all over my belly, say my prayers, turn off the lights, and snuggle up. On your mark... get set... GO!
Obstacle No. 1: Gymnast Baby
Unfortunately, while I am well-acquainted with the significance of the pre-race rituals, Baby H is a little less informed. While the constant motion of everyday activities serves as somewhat of a rocking cradle, lulling Baby H to sleep, the welcome quiet of my body seems to mean just one thing to him or her: party time. Bedtime has become the witching hour. For anyone who has never tried to fall asleep with a tiny person doing somersaults in their belly, I'll save you the suspense- it is no easy feat. Sometimes the movements downright tickle, sometimes they feel strange, and almost all of the time they make me laugh and shake my head. At times, I picture the baby dancing in there the way that Elaine does on Seinfeld, with limbs flailing while singing, "I know you're trying to sleep, Mommy! La la la la!" It can take an hour for the baby to relax enough for me to relax, so right out of the gate, I am running behind.
Dream Land
Finish Line:
Needless to say, most days the alarm clock goes off at what is actually a reasonable hour and what feels like the dead of night. I have usually failed in my quest to get a decent night's sleep and the process of the day starts all over again. I hit snooze an unconscionable amount of times and push my limits of being able to get myself ready in time- which is starting to take a little longer, considering that the amount of time it takes to lift my leg to put it in a pair of pants has quadrupled in the past few weeks.
Experienced parents love to hear about the fact that I can't sleep and all have the same reaction: a good old, "Ha ha! You think you can't sleep now! Get used to it!" They evilly get so much joy out of the fact that someone else is joining the sleepless club and now gets to experience what it was that they went through. I'm going to try to remember this when I am a veteran parent and make every attempt to keep the glimmer of amusement out of my eye and try to sincerely empathize with any mom-to-be who is telling me of her struggles. What good does it do to try to scare a poor woman who is feeling a little loopy as it is? It doesn't. A pregnant woman's body may indeed be trying to prepare her for the exhaustion that lies ahead, but we certainly don't need to be reminded of that fact. Instead, it's helpful to reminisce with her about all of the really fun things about being pregnant (which, I'll admit, my posts as of late have been pretty cranky and we're due for one that's a little more upbeat, so stay tuned!). I've got to try to remember this as I join the mommy club- we must welcome our sleepy sisters with open arms.
The explanation that women in their third trimester have difficulty sleeping because their bodies are preparing them to function on less sleep once the baby arrives may be true, but is in no way comforting. Getting a good night's sleep at this point in my pregnancy can be likened to a kind of obstacle course that would challenge even the most adept American Gladiator. Allow me to elaborate.
Starting Line:
I prepare for the obstacle course of sleep like a seasoned sleep athlete. I arrive to the starting line (my cozy bed) early- around 9:30pm- feeling completely ready for the challenge ahead, as I am usually exhausted. I am prepared with all of the necessary equipment: maternity pj's, fuzzy socks, a glass of water for my night stand, and a dark bedroom with television turned off. I go through my standard pre-race ritual: take my prenatal vitamin, slather anti-stretch mark lotion all over my belly, say my prayers, turn off the lights, and snuggle up. On your mark... get set... GO!
Obstacle No. 1: Gymnast Baby
Unfortunately, while I am well-acquainted with the significance of the pre-race rituals, Baby H is a little less informed. While the constant motion of everyday activities serves as somewhat of a rocking cradle, lulling Baby H to sleep, the welcome quiet of my body seems to mean just one thing to him or her: party time. Bedtime has become the witching hour. For anyone who has never tried to fall asleep with a tiny person doing somersaults in their belly, I'll save you the suspense- it is no easy feat. Sometimes the movements downright tickle, sometimes they feel strange, and almost all of the time they make me laugh and shake my head. At times, I picture the baby dancing in there the way that Elaine does on Seinfeld, with limbs flailing while singing, "I know you're trying to sleep, Mommy! La la la la!" It can take an hour for the baby to relax enough for me to relax, so right out of the gate, I am running behind.
Obstacle No. 2: Heartburn/Reflux
When I do manage to drift off after Baby H settles down, it is not uncommon to wake up after an hour or so with a wretched burning reminiscent of whatever dinner was that night creeping up my throat. This is a sensation that I had never experienced pre-pregnancy and I hope to never experience post-pregnancy. The pain, caused by decreasing room inside my body and the relaxation of all of my muscles, including the one that's supposed to keep food from traveling back up the one-way street of my esophagus, is intolerable. It immediately sends me reaching for the water I have brought up to my room, but, alas, it seems to have the opposite of the intended effect. The more fluid I try to take in, the less room there is in there, and the more the heartburn persists. The problem is that the heartburn is usually accompanied by a case of dry mouth and I simply can't not drink something. The logic does not exactly work when you are so rudely awakened in the middle of the night. Tums has become my new BFF. I also try to prop myself to a semi-seated position to work against gravity. Some ladies have told me that this was the only thing that saved them during those last few months.
Obstacle No. 3: General Discomfort
This one is no big surprise- when you are carrying 40 extra pounds on a 5'2" frame, things start to hurt. I've taken to wearing a back brace for part of the day each day to get a little relief. During sleep, a giant belly can get in the way of optimal snuggly positions. Turning over from one side to the other becomes a cardiovascular activity.
Obstacle No. 4: Bathroom Visits
I get up to use the bathroom no less than 6 times a night. The dry mouth and subsequent chugging of water throughout the night does not help the situation. Again, the non-existent logic. In conjunction with obstacle number 3, the physical act of pulling myself out of bed and walking to the bathroom, a mere 5 paces from my side of the bed, has become the physical equivalent of the Iron Man. I audibly groan, as is my right as a preggo, just to make sure Ivan or any ghosts in the room know just how difficult everyday living has become for me. As though Ivan would even be conscious to acknowledge the sound, but I do it all the same.
Obstacle No. 5: Snoring Husband
This one is pretty straightforward. When Ivan is sawing wood at a volume that would wake the neighbors and I am desperately tossing and turning as I deal with obstacles 1-4, it throws me into a murderous rage. So as to add to the physical workout I'm receiving at all hours of the night, I begin trying to manipulate Ivan's position by any means necessary- pushing and shoving, kicking, poking, whining, it's all fair game. All I can say is that it's a good thing that we took down the decorative swords that used to hang in our music room next to our bedroom (Ivan got them all as awards from Cutco, he's not like a medieval culture hound or anything) because I fantasize about grabbing one of those suckers off of the wall and brandishing it, Joan of Arc-style, as I set off to slay the Great Snoring Dragon.
Obstacle No. 6: Weird Baby Dreams
When I do finally manage to drift off to Finish Line:
Needless to say, most days the alarm clock goes off at what is actually a reasonable hour and what feels like the dead of night. I have usually failed in my quest to get a decent night's sleep and the process of the day starts all over again. I hit snooze an unconscionable amount of times and push my limits of being able to get myself ready in time- which is starting to take a little longer, considering that the amount of time it takes to lift my leg to put it in a pair of pants has quadrupled in the past few weeks.
Experienced parents love to hear about the fact that I can't sleep and all have the same reaction: a good old, "Ha ha! You think you can't sleep now! Get used to it!" They evilly get so much joy out of the fact that someone else is joining the sleepless club and now gets to experience what it was that they went through. I'm going to try to remember this when I am a veteran parent and make every attempt to keep the glimmer of amusement out of my eye and try to sincerely empathize with any mom-to-be who is telling me of her struggles. What good does it do to try to scare a poor woman who is feeling a little loopy as it is? It doesn't. A pregnant woman's body may indeed be trying to prepare her for the exhaustion that lies ahead, but we certainly don't need to be reminded of that fact. Instead, it's helpful to reminisce with her about all of the really fun things about being pregnant (which, I'll admit, my posts as of late have been pretty cranky and we're due for one that's a little more upbeat, so stay tuned!). I've got to try to remember this as I join the mommy club- we must welcome our sleepy sisters with open arms.
Friday, March 2, 2012
Rockstar Mommy
As many of you know and some of you even saw, our band played out last Friday night as kind of a last hurrah before Baby H arrives and we will need to take some time off from our hardcore rock n' roll party lifestyle. We played at Butch Kowal's in Rahway, which can only be described as a dive bar, and that's putting it kindly. It really is a dump, but all in all a super fun place to play. It's one of my favorite venues, because unlike some of the other places we've performed, there is no stage- we're ground level, right there with the crowd, and the layout is conducive for people there to rock out but also have a conversation with friends, dance, whatever. No one is chained to a chair, sitting there and staring at you which not only makes me super nervous, but is also not the appropriate way to experience rock music, as far as I'm concerned.
I was particularly grateful for the setup at this gig, because unlike most former gigs where I would workout excessively for weeks beforehand, meticulously plan my outfit to look "casual rockstar but super hot", and spend an extra 20 minutes on make-up, I looked and felt truly busted for this performance. First of all, I was exhausted. I had attended the NJ music teacher's convention earlier in the day and the last session ended at 5:30 and as everyone knows, teachers cannot handle working past 3pm. (Please catch my sarcasm here!) By the time I made it back to Union, it was nearly 7pm. We didn't start playing until 9:45, so there was only one logical thing to do- nap. So I promptly passed out in bed until 9 and woke up to an egregious case of bed head and smudged eye make-up-not in a sexy way.
I had just enough time to try to flatten the cowlicks in my hair, pull on my skinny maternity jeans (there's an oxymoron if I've ever heard one!) and flat boots, and choose a plain, black 3/4 sleeve jersey shirt. The "wildest" thing about my outfit were the dangly earrings I had borrowed from Zandar. I don't know- I guess I felt like it was weird enough that I was there singing at a bar at all- no need to get all dressed up and pretend to be attractive. For once in my life I wanted to blend into the background. As I discussed in the previous post about our trip to AC, pregnant women in bars make people feel uncomfortable. If you don't entirely agree, take a look at this photo from our second most recent gig:
Before you get yourselves in a tizzy, let me point out that there was a fog machine creating the "smoke." It still makes you uncomfortable though, right? At least it makes me uncomfortable, and it is me. And consider that fact that my belly is 10x that size now. It was quite a (literal) stretch to get into that non-maternity zebra striped tank for that gig. This time around I opted for a much more, "Please ignore me," type look.
Even with my conservative dress, I still felt incredibly self-conscious. This feeling was not assuaged when Zandar told me, affectionately, that I looked like, "typical white trash." Granted, she was drunk, and granted she really deserved and needed to be drunk and I know she was just teasing me. Nevertheless, I wanted to get into my car and go straight home after that. Well, straight home after stopping for Chicken McNuggets and maybe a chocolate shake. If someone tells me that I'm white trash, I'm certainly going to eat like I am.
I made it through the gig pretty uneventfully. It wasn't my best singing and it wasn't my worst. It was probably my least energetic performance, but I really did try and I had a great time. My best friend since middle school drove up fromPennsylvania
I was particularly grateful for the setup at this gig, because unlike most former gigs where I would workout excessively for weeks beforehand, meticulously plan my outfit to look "casual rockstar but super hot", and spend an extra 20 minutes on make-up, I looked and felt truly busted for this performance. First of all, I was exhausted. I had attended the NJ music teacher's convention earlier in the day and the last session ended at 5:30 and as everyone knows, teachers cannot handle working past 3pm. (Please catch my sarcasm here!) By the time I made it back to Union, it was nearly 7pm. We didn't start playing until 9:45, so there was only one logical thing to do- nap. So I promptly passed out in bed until 9 and woke up to an egregious case of bed head and smudged eye make-up-not in a sexy way.
I had just enough time to try to flatten the cowlicks in my hair, pull on my skinny maternity jeans (there's an oxymoron if I've ever heard one!) and flat boots, and choose a plain, black 3/4 sleeve jersey shirt. The "wildest" thing about my outfit were the dangly earrings I had borrowed from Zandar. I don't know- I guess I felt like it was weird enough that I was there singing at a bar at all- no need to get all dressed up and pretend to be attractive. For once in my life I wanted to blend into the background. As I discussed in the previous post about our trip to AC, pregnant women in bars make people feel uncomfortable. If you don't entirely agree, take a look at this photo from our second most recent gig:
Before you get yourselves in a tizzy, let me point out that there was a fog machine creating the "smoke." It still makes you uncomfortable though, right? At least it makes me uncomfortable, and it is me. And consider that fact that my belly is 10x that size now. It was quite a (literal) stretch to get into that non-maternity zebra striped tank for that gig. This time around I opted for a much more, "Please ignore me," type look.
Even with my conservative dress, I still felt incredibly self-conscious. This feeling was not assuaged when Zandar told me, affectionately, that I looked like, "typical white trash." Granted, she was drunk, and granted she really deserved and needed to be drunk and I know she was just teasing me. Nevertheless, I wanted to get into my car and go straight home after that. Well, straight home after stopping for Chicken McNuggets and maybe a chocolate shake. If someone tells me that I'm white trash, I'm certainly going to eat like I am.
I made it through the gig pretty uneventfully. It wasn't my best singing and it wasn't my worst. It was probably my least energetic performance, but I really did try and I had a great time. My best friend since middle school drove up from
The end of the night presented a little drama- complete with some chair throwing, patrons that refused to leave, and the clean-up of the now slimy microphone cords covered with a mixture of spilled beer and whatever diseases were lurking on the floor of the bar. I didn't hang around for too long- my SIL walked me to my car and we avoided the crazy scene inside and I didn't even help with any of the breakdown of equipment (yet another pregnancy benefit). And I did stop for Chicken McNuggets- I couldn't help it. I usually end up craving them after gigs, probably out of relief. This time though, it was probably more related to stress-eating than anything else.
Why stress eating, you ask? Well, I'll tell you. Because at some point during the third set, my husband the "front man" started announcing to the crowd that they were really great and they should sign the email list because we'd be back there playing in April. I foolishly laughed. "Ha Ha!" I thought, "The baby is coming in April! What a funny joke." Alas, ladies, it was not a joke. As it turns out, the owner of the bar approached Ivan between the second and third sets and told him that they "Needed to have us back" because we were "awesome." More likely, the crowd, and therefore all of the money they were spending on beer was "awesome" and this guy saw dollar signs. Mind you, the reason the crowd we brought was so big was because it was advertised (to an obnoxious degree, by said front man) as the "last time for a long time" that we'd be playing out. And all of our friends, being trusting, believed him.
One of the things that I love about Ivan is how excited he gets. He loves playing music so much and he will jump at any opportunity to play out or sing in public (remember the karaoke?). He loves it so much that apparently it gives him temporary amnesia. Like about the fact that he is about to become a father in just a little more than 7 weeks- if all goes according to plan, which, let's face it, it usually doesn't. When I found out that he was serious, I was in shock.
Now, we had discussed some options for keeping the band together once Baby H arrives. We are both nervous that the band is going to completely fall apart during our parenting hiatus and we love playing and we love the guys we play with. We really want to try to stay together, but we know that is going to be a tall order with a newborn. Ivan is convinced that the only way to prevent the band's demise is to get someone to fill in for me for awhile. I have decided that the only person in the world that I would be okay with standing in for me is Zandar. Even then, I have a hard time wrapping my mind around it. I get depressed when I think of myself sitting at home, alone, ready to pop, while my band is out playing without me. It's something I'm willing to do, though, if it means the band can stay together and I can eventually sing with them again.
And of course it will only get more challenging once Baby H is here. I know my mom and some of my other mom friends are reading this, shaking their heads, saying, "Girl, you have no idea how your life is about to change. The only band you're going to know anything about is the Wiggles (or whatever is the rage at the time- clearly I'm going to have to familiarize myself with Yo Gabba Gabba I guess... yikes)." I know, I know- we have no idea what we're in for here. It's just another example of us trying to make sense of how our lives are going to change and figuring out if it's even possible to not completely forsake something that means a lot to us. Once again, our vision of the future is cloudy because we only know our current lives- it's so hard to picture what say, 10 weeks from not will look like. It's yet another thing that we will need to figure out on our own, in our time. Hopefully Ivan and I can get on the same page soon, and even more hopefully that page will be somewhere near reality. We will see!
Baby H is getting big- pineapple sized this week!- and is running out of room inside of me. I know because it feels like he or she is climbing into my rib cage half of the time! At my now bi-weekly doctor's appointment on Monday, upon listening to the heartbeat, the doctor remarked, "Woah! This kid is moving!" He or she is. The movement has felt crazy as of late- not so much kicking anymore- rolling, I guess, and changing positions, which can look pretty funny. Everything looks good and healthy- so far, so good! I can't believe that we are 7 weeks away from meeting him or her- we really can't wait. And hopefully when he or she gets here all of our fogginess will lift and answers will be crystal clear.
Baby H is getting big- pineapple sized this week!- and is running out of room inside of me. I know because it feels like he or she is climbing into my rib cage half of the time! At my now bi-weekly doctor's appointment on Monday, upon listening to the heartbeat, the doctor remarked, "Woah! This kid is moving!" He or she is. The movement has felt crazy as of late- not so much kicking anymore- rolling, I guess, and changing positions, which can look pretty funny. Everything looks good and healthy- so far, so good! I can't believe that we are 7 weeks away from meeting him or her- we really can't wait. And hopefully when he or she gets here all of our fogginess will lift and answers will be crystal clear.
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